Paris Demetriades
In the Greek Cypriot consciousness and narrative, the words “Kyrenia harbour” bring to mind the idyllic, picturesque horseshoe-shaped harbor, with its fishing boats and castle in the background, the image that appeared on our school notebooks for decades.
But today’s occupied city of Kyrenia has another port, built about a decade after the invasion and located several kilometers east of the old fishing harbor.
In stifling heat and humidity, the relatives of those still missing gather beside the port gate under canopies apparently erected after the tragedy.
It is there that scenes resembling an ancient tragedy have unfolded since the deadly sinking of the catamaran: families waiting for news of their missing loved ones, their grief captured in images that have travelled around the world.
It was at the gate of this “new” Kyrenia port that we found ourselves Thursday, just days after the shocking shipwreck.
As we entered Kyrenia and encountered the usual traffic on its streets, the feeling was undoubtedly an awkward one.
To be honest, I experience that uneasiness and a mixture of numb, conflicting emotions almost every time I visit the occupied areas, even though more than 20 years have passed since the crossing points opened.
This time, however, the discomfort was different. It was not about the strangeness of being in a homeland I know, yet do not know. It came from the chilling reality that people had drowned in our island’s waters after a shipwreck.
On the way to the port, we passed the occupied city’s courthouse, an imposing colonial-era building dating from before the war. Although we did not get out of the car, the tension surrounding the site was immediately apparent.
Another act in this unfolding drama was taking place there. The captain of the doomed catamaran and 15 other people were facing charges brought by the authorities of the breakaway regime, which, according to reports, included “causing death through negligence.”
The traffic jam outside the otherwise impressive court complex somehow appeared heavier than usual.
A short while later, we arrived at the port.
In stifling heat and humidity, the relatives of those still missing were gathered beside the gate, under canopies apparently erected after the tragedy.
Large fans had been set up, powered through makeshift extension leads, in an attempt to offer a little cool air and relief to people enduring an unimaginable ordeal.
Colleagues told us that the families were literally spending their days and nights at the site.
A few meters farther south, journalists waited beneath another canopy.
The instruction, our Turkish Cypriot colleagues told us, was clear: out of respect for the families’ grief, journalists must not approach them for statements unless invited.
Military helicopters and aircraft flew constantly overhead, taking part in the desperate search for those still missing.
Then two of the shipwreck’s most heartbreaking figures passed before us: the parents of the two young children who remain unaccounted for.
Their anguished statements in recent days have been reported by journalists across the world.
They walked with others supporting them, despair written plainly across their faces and in their eyes. They have experienced horror in its most extreme form.
As they have repeatedly said, shouting, pleading, and crying all at once, their children literally slipped from their hands.
Politicians and other officials came and went, shaking the relatives’ hands and making their presence known, with or without self-serving motives, who can say?
The tragedy is surely far too great for pettiness.
The entire scene felt like a war unfolding in peacetime.
Our fellow journalists offered us lahmajun and ayran, using the few Greek words they knew. As they did, I found myself wondering what proportion of our society is represented by the unspeakable lack of humanity displayed in recent days through gloating posts online.
