Paris Demetriades
It is clearly no coincidence that Cyprus' administrative capital has been located inland for so many centuries, nor is it accidental that, as the island's native inhabitants, we have historically had such a limited relationship with the sea. Perhaps the clearest symptom of this somewhat uneasy relationship with the sea, which, after all, surrounds us, is our traditional cuisine. Fresh fish and seafood are strikingly absent, while meats produced inland have become our national dishes. Just think of souvla, souvlakia, sheftalia, koupepia, ofto kleftiko, and the list goes on.
There were, of course, good reasons why we distanced ourselves from the sea, chief among them the vulnerability of our coastlines for centuries to pirate raids and other hostile invasions. In modern history, particularly after the establishment of the independent Republic, our relationship with the sea began to recover, first through the remarkable tourism boom in Famagusta and later through the development of other coastal cities, which today have, in many ways, overtaken Nicosia.
...we are loud, expressive... Yet, on the other hand, we rarely open ourselves sincerely and warmly to what is different or, in many quotation marks, ''foreign.''
Even so, the native, traditionally Cypriot population continues to be concentrated in the island's interior, while the coastal areas have become increasingly multicultural with each passing year. Perhaps only Larnaca has managed to retain more of its traditional identity among the coastal cities, although even that is gradually changing.
The inward-looking mindset that once drove us inland and perhaps made us wary of the vastness of the sea can, I believe, still be found in other aspects of our national character. On the one hand, we are loud, expressive, and, at times, generous in the way we behave and communicate, much like most of the people of our region. Yet, on the other hand, we rarely open ourselves sincerely and warmly to what is different or, in many quotation marks, "foreign." This is despite the fact that our society is already deeply multicultural and that we ourselves are the product of countless peoples and traditions that have lived on or passed through this island over the centuries.
We also possess another characteristic that counterbalances the above, though not always in a positive way, and which has long been found among other peoples of the Levant. I am referring to our Franko-Levantine relationship with money: another complicated relationship, which on the one hand pushes us toward bold and progressive choices, transforming our introversion into extroversion, yet on the other often leads us to cross moral boundaries that we supposedly hold sacred, only to bury our heads in the sand afterwards.
A quick look around us vividly illustrates how firmly rooted this Levantine tradition remains. It is a "tradition" that may well have survived as a means of survival from ancient times right up to the present day.
Take the issue of property ownership alone. On the one hand, we elevate demographic change into a supposedly decisive issue whenever the Cyprus problem is discussed. On the other, without hesitation, we sell vast tracts of some of the most strategically important land in the areas controlled by the Republic to foreign nationals, simply because there is money to be made. Never mind that this amounts to a peculiar form of economic conquest, in which the local population gradually becomes secondary in its own homeland.
For now, at least, we have managed to keep the island's interior under our own control.
Just as, I think, we have managed to preserve this peculiar inward-looking nature of ours.
Historically, a Franko-Levantine was a person of Western European origin, mainly Italian or French, who lived in the Levant or the Ottoman Empire, usually as a merchant or craftsman. Over time, the term acquired a pejorative meaning, referring to someone who has lost their identity and lacks a firm national or moral compass.
