Opinion
By Panayiotis Kaparis
Saturday night, and Eleftheria Square in Nicosia was bursting with life, migrants from every corner of the globe soaking up the freedom of the “modern” square. A young mother laughed as she ran around with her baby, while others lounged on the futuristic benches, enjoying the cool night air, snacks in one hand, and drinks in the other. Some cuddled with their partners. Many were glued to their phones, chatting in languages foreign to the ear, keeping ties with far-off homelands. Others strolled, laughing and talking, painting a lively, chaotic picture that felt like the “revenge of the poor” in an otherwise pricey square, just as Manolis Rasoulis and friends immortalized in 1978.
Just a few meters away, the scene was entirely different. In Nicosia’s flashy, exclusive bars and restaurants, the crowd was smaller, younger, and impeccably dressed, or scantily, depending on your taste. Lines of eager clubgoers stretched outside, checked carefully by stern doormen. Inside, music blared, waiters hustled, and “high society” sipped expensive wine, sampled artfully plated dishes, and whispered about cosmetic surgeons and personal trainers, the modern alchemists of beauty. Nearby, a migrant woman with striking curves caught eyes, accompanied by a local man whose charm was… rustic.
Elsewhere, groups of young women were glued to their phones, photographing food, drinks, and themselves, ever mindful of social media. When they spoke, it was loud, clipped, and far from romantic, like truckers with cigarettes dangling from their lips. Yet their makeup and outfits were perfect. But style cannot replace substance; lost in the performance was the quiet allure of femininity and the mystery that sparks desire.
Older generations remember discotheques with dimmed lights, where lovers communicated through touch and whispered words. Today, with glaring lights and phones everywhere, how do young people fall in love?
And then there’s the cost. For less affluent youths, a night out could equal a day’s wage, theirs or their parents’. Many left hungry, because “gourmet” food often feeds only the eyes, not the stomach. Where did the simple joys go...a souvlaki shared, a drink enjoyed, a laugh, a clever tease?
It’s hard not to recall the words of the 1990s song by Agamoi Thites, about a migrant longing for connection with his family in Albania: loneliness exists under both socialism and capitalism. And as Thanasis Veggos said, true happiness is simple: “Two hands… the ones that will hug you, hold you, put you to sleep, care for you, cook for you, caress you, and finally close your eyes. Too many hands just annoy you.”
Saturday night in Nicosia is a city of contrast, of wealth and struggle, of screens and laughter, of performance and real connection. And somewhere between the glow of the square and the glare of the clubs, perhaps that is the question for our times: what do we really value when the night is ours?
