Fire

by Sebastian Junger

  In at least one sphere of the museum competition, however, the Turkish Cypriots have achieved hegemony. Located on Mehmet Akif Boulevard, the Museum of Barbarism is a single-story whitewashed building set in an unruly yard of flowers and fruit trees and surrounded by much newer and taller structures: chrome and glass auto dealerships; five-story office buildings. The particular acts of Greek barbarism it is dedicated to are those of 1963, and the curators have clearly opted for the scared-straight approach. Lining the walls of the foyer are a dozen ghastly black-and-white photographs of Turkish Cypriots of all ages lying dead in fields, in morgues, being exhumed from burial pits, their bodies bullet-riddled, knife-slashed, decomposed.

  The Museum of Barbarism stays on its theme. In each of its several small side rooms, each lit with a bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling, is an unbroken line of similarly grotesque photographs mounted at eye level. Some of the captions identify the victims and detail the circumstances of death, but others are more general: “Another innocent victim of the brutal Greek campaign to exterminate the Turkish population.”

  In the museum’s largest room, one comes to an ominous display, a glass sarcophagus filled with bath towels and baby shoes. Instead of murder photos, two walls of this room are lined with the personal snapshots of a young family. One shows a young boy at a table crowded with other young boys, staring at a large cake set before him. “Murat, pensive on his seventh birthday,” the caption reads. “With his left hand on his cheek, he tries to guess what the future has in store for him on this happy occasion, not knowing of course that he has few days left to live.”

  As it turns out, in 1963 this little house on Mehmet Akif Boulevard was the home of an army doctor, Major Nihat Ilhan; his wife, Muruvet; and their three young sons, including seven-year-old Murat. The major happened to be away when EOKA gunmen attacked on the night of December 24, but they found his family huddled for safety in the bathtub; the next morning, a photographer dutifully recorded the grisly scene. That photograph—Muruvet Ilhan lying dead in the bathtub, her three dead boys clutched to her chest, the bathroom walls and floor sprayed with blood—is now such an iconic image in Turkish Cyprus that the museum curators have hung several large copies of it, along with two paintings that seek to replicate the scene faithfully, as if only repetition can convey its awfulness.

  But it is more than just an image, for beyond the sarcophagus of bath towels is the bathroom itself, untouched for thirty-six years. Beneath a coat of dust, a white bottle of liquid soap still stands on the edge of the bathroom sink, and the tub and walls bear the same cracks and bullet holes as in the photograph. “The marks on the ceiling,” a small sign above the tub reads, “are brain pieces and blood spots belonging to the murdered.”

  Sebastian Junger

  REPUBLIC OF CYPRUS

  Posted at the Ledra Street viewpoint—alongside photos of Greek refugees and buildings pancaked by Turkish bombs—is a list of what the Turks gained by invading Cyprus. According to the Cyprus government, the Turks gained 70 percent of the island’s gross output, 65 percent of the tourist accommodations, 83 percent of the general cargo capacity, and 48 percent of the agricultural exports. Those are just numbers, though; Greek Cypriots generally don’t grab you in bars and complain about their loss of cargo capacity. They grab you and complain about the city of Famagusta.

  Famagusta lies near the center of a long scallop of bay on the eastern shore of the island, facing Syria. In the thirteenth century it was the wealthiest port in the Mediterranean, and before 1974 its Varosha district, now a Turkish military base, was the most fashionable beach resort on the islands, flooded every spring by English and Scandinavian tourists. Like Nicosia, it is surrounded by massive stone walls that were reinforced in the sixteenth century by Venetian military engineers bracing for the arrival of the Ottomans. The invasion finally came in 1570. As any Greek Cypriot can recount, fifty thousand Turks came ashore in the withering heat of midsummer, led by a sadist named Lala Mustafa. After sacking Nicosia and killing twenty thousand of its inhabitants, Mustafa led his forces against Famagusta, which was defended by a garrison of Venetian soldiers.

  The Turks hammered the thick stone walls with an estimated hundred thousand cannonballs until the Venetian commander, Marcantonio Bragadino, finally ran out of supplies. Bragadino arranged for peaceful terms of surrender, but the Turks, enraged by the losses they had suffered while taking the city, started torturing and killing Bragadino’s soldiers. When Bragadino objected, Mustafa ordered that his ears and nose be cut off and that he be skinned alive. The skin was stuffed with straw and mounted on a wagon, and legend has it that Bragadino lived long enough to behold his own gruesome double paraded through the streets of Famagusta with a parasol stuck in its arms.

  Four hundred years later the Turkish Army walked back into the city. It was August 1974, “phase two” of the Turkish invasion, and Famagusta’s Greek Cypriot inhabitants had grabbed whatever they could and fled south to the small farming town of Dherinia. From a gently sloping hill they could look down on the beautiful beaches and now-empty hotels that had been their home just hours before. It almost certainly didn’t occur to them that the situation was permanent; it almost certainly didn’t occur to them—late in the twentieth century—that upper-middle-class Europeans could be driven out of their beach homes by a modern army without the rest of the world intervening. They were wrong.

  Now the closest they can get to Famagusta is a hillside several miles away where they can look out at the city. Two “viewpoint” cafés have sprung up, each boasting Turkish-atrocity photos and a rooftop viewing platform. I stop at the one called Annita’s because it also overlooks a spot where two Greek Cypriots were killed by TRNC forces in 1996. Annita’s is a three-story apartment building on the edge of a desolate swath of Dherinia suburb that abuts the buffer zone. Across the street are a roll of razor wire and then several hundred yards of untended fields and then more razor wire. A flagpole flying the TRNC flag—a red sickle moon and star against a white background—marks the beginning of “the pseudo-state.”

  I climb three flights of stairs to the café, sit down at a table, and order a coffee. It arrives with a pair of binoculars. On the wall of the café is a stop-action sequence of a young Greek Cypriot named Tassos Isaak getting beaten to death in a field; the field is the one I can see out the window. Next to the photos is a placard: “On the 11th of August, 1996, the barbarian Turkish settlers brutally murdered in cold blood and in full view of the UNFICYP, Austrian contingent, a peace-loving 24-year-old Cypriot. They used truncheons and metal bars to crush the spirit of freedom.”

  The events that led to Isaak’s death were set in motion when the European Federation of Motorcyclists organized a ride to protest the Turkish occupation of Cyprus. One hundred and twenty riders left the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin on August 2, 1996, and proceeded on a one-week tour of Europe. They wound up in Cyprus on August 10, and, after joining forces with some seven thousand bikers from the Cyprus Motorcycle Federation, promptly declared their intention to crash the cease-fire line. After pressure from the UN, Cypriot President Glafcos Clerides finally forced the bikers to change their plans, but thousands of protesters gathered in the Dherinia area anyway. The Cyprus police were deployed along the cease-fire line near what is now Annita’s but had left the checkpoint unmanned, and by midafternoon the protesters had pushed their way into the buffer zone and started screaming at the Turkish troops. They were quickly confronted by a rough crowd of a thousand Turkish Cypriots who had been bused in by the Turkish military. The Turkish counterdemonstrators were predominantly civilians but carried bats and iron bars, and some were members of a vicious nationalistic group called the Grey Wolves, who had come from Turkey to deliver—in their words—“a special surprise package” to the motorcyclists.

  Watching all this was Rauf Denktash, president of the TRNC, recording the events with a camera and telephoto lens. A melee broke out in the buffer zone, and as Turkish troops started firing into the
crowd, four Greek Cypriots—including Isaak—got hopelessly tangled up in razor wire. UNFICYP policemen managed to pull three of them free, but Isaak fell to the ground and was quickly surrounded by an ugly knot of Grey Wolves. Photographs taken from the Greek Cypriot side show him desperately trying to ward off the blows while Grey Wolves and Turkish police officers in riot gear take turns beating him on the head with truncheons and iron bars. By the time UNFICYP peacekeepers managed to get to him, Isaak was dead.

  A wall-mounted television at Annita’s café plays, in a continuous loop, news footage of Isaak’s death, as well as footage of the next death three days later. On the afternoon of August 14, immediately after Isaak’s funeral, a few hundred motorcyclists returned to the same spot outside Annita’s and again managed to get past the Greek Cypriot police into the buffer zone. Among them was Isaak’s cousin, twenty-six-year-old Solomos Solomou. Footage of the second protest shows Solomou dodging past two UNFICYP soldiers and slipping through a gap in the fence that separates the buffer zone from Turkish territory. Waiting for him were a line of Turkish troops, machine guns at the ready, and a cluster of state security officers on the balcony of a nearby building. Solomou managed to cross the Turkish cease-fire line and make it to a large white pole that was flying the TRNC flag. While security officers leveled their weapons at him and UNFICYP soldiers looked on in amazement, Solomou started shinnying up the pole.

  He made it about a quarter of the way up before a red splotch blossomed on his neck and he slid back down to the ground. A total of five bullets hit him in the stomach, neck, and face. News photographs clearly show two security officers—later identified by the Greek Cypriot police as Kenan Akin, now a TRNC member of parliament, and Erdal Emanet, chief of the TRNC special forces—firing pistols from the building, quickly followed by Turkish troops kneeling and firing into the crowd of protesters. Two UNFICYP soldiers and seven Greek Cypriots were wounded, including a fifty-nine-year-old woman who had shown up to try to convince her son to come home.

  I scan the buffer zone with the binoculars that came with my coffee, but it just looks like every other weeded-over field I’ve ever seen. The windows of the two-story building that the Turkish security forces fired from have been bricked in, with slits left for machine-gun barrels, and the TRNC flag still flies on the pole that Solomou tried to climb. I watch the video loop of the killings several times and then get back in my car and drive around until I find the cemetery where Isaak and Solomou are buried. It’s a small plot of stone crypts surrounded by a concrete wall, tucked behind the town’s soccer stadium. Isaak’s grave is crowded with flowers, and several plastic-coated photographs of his own murder are propped against the gravestone. Solomou’s gravestone is fancier. It depicts, in poured concrete, Solomou on the flagpole as Turkish soldiers level their guns to kill him. In a war with few casualties, along a front line with almost no gunfire, his tomb serves to remind people that there’s still an enemy out there.

  “The tragedy of Cyprus is that there is no tragedy,” goes a sarcastic bit of local wisdom. The idea that there hasn’t been enough suffering to merit world intervention is blasphemy, of course, but there are still a few Greek Cypriots who believe this. They just have to be quiet about it. Later, after returning to Nicosia, I ask a longtime European diplomat what he thinks of the idea.

  “Both sides revel in this sort of victimology,” the diplomat says, asking not to be identified. “It’s what we call a double-minority problem, where both sides feel like they’re the oppressed minority. The Turkish Cypriots say that their security is threatened because they are a minority on the island. The Greek Cypriots argue that they’re a minority if you take Turkey and Cyprus together…. And neither sidewill stand up to its obligations as an equal player in this dispute, so both sides wait for the other to take the first step.”

  The diplomat works in an ultra-high-security office near the Ledra Palace checkpoint. Out his window I can see a huge Turkish Cypriot flag marked out in stones on a distant hillside. Turkish troops supposedly went up there day after day and painted the design on the undersides of the stones. When they were done, they waited until nightfall and then turned all the rocks over. The next morning, the Greek Cypriots awoke to find a huge Turkish Cypriot flag emblazoned across the flanks of the Kyrenia Range.

  “Is there a solution?”

  “The problem could be solved if you had cooperation between Greece and Turkey,” says the diplomat. “Which is not on the horizon. If you look at Northern Ireland—I don’t like drawing parallels, but this is quite a good one, actually—up until 1984 Britain and Ireland were at loggerheads, and the communities in Northern Ireland exploited this difference to ensure that the conflict just raged on. Then the British and Irish governments agreed to a joint policy on Northern Ireland and stuck to it, firmly. The two communities could not see any light between the policies of the two governments, and in the end they just had to come to terms with each other. If you had that kind of cooperation between the motherlands, the Cyprus problem could be solved pretty easily.”

  At the end of the interview the diplomat takes me up to the roof for a look at Nicosia. The sun is setting behind the Troodos Mountains, and we can hear the Muslim call to prayer drifting over from the north side of town. The buffer zone runs like an awkward scar through it all, and beyond it are the massive earthen berms of the Turkish defenses, dug in with tanks and artillery. The diplomat points out the slapdash Greek defenses on our side and then traces the course of the buffer zone as it extends west. “It’s filled with songbirds and wild animals,” he says. “Hunters have killed everything else on the island, and it’s the one place they can’t go.”

  Scott Anderson

  THE TURKISH REPUBLIC OF NORTHERN CYPRUS

  Rauf Denktash, the president of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, doesn’t much look the part. A short, portly man of seventy-five who bears a striking resemblance to Homer Simpson, he speaks English with just a trace of a British inflection—a result of his legal training in London in the 1940s—and is most often photographed in baggy sweat suits. On this day, sitting in his office in the heavily guarded Presidential Compound in downtown Lefkosa, he wears a business suit. The office is spacious and sunlit, and he shares it with a large aquarium of tropical fish and three very noisy parakeets, in a cage beside his massive desk.

  For over four decades Denktash has been the dominant political figure in the Turkish community of Cyprus. One of the chief organizers of the outlawed Turkish Defense Organization back in the 1950s—and twice expelled from Cyprus for his violent militancy—he has been president of the TRNC since its founding. Obviously, such a man knows how to parry journalists, and the evening before our meeting I’d asked a local reporter the best way to handle him.

  “Above all, don’t ask him anything historical,” the journalist urged. “As soon as you give him the chance to mention the constitution of 1960, you’re doomed; you’re going to get the Denktash history lesson for the next half hour.”

  Well, forewarned is forearmed. Sitting across from the president at the couch and coffee table arrangement in one corner of his office, I ask my first, carefully designed question.

  “I’m already quite familiar with the history of Cyprus and because I know you’re a very busy man, I’d like to concentrate on what is happening today, on what you feel is most important for Americans to know about the TRNC and the current situation in Cyprus.”

  The president nods. “What I would like Americans to know is that Cyprus has two owners, Greek Cypriots and Turkish Cypriots, and these two owners had agreed to form a partnership republic in 1960.”

  As the journalist suggested the previous night, “doomed.” With never a pause, Denktash begins his discourse on the island’s modern history from the Turkish viewpoint: the rise of the EOKA terrorists in the 1950s; the 1960 London Agreement, which the Greeks immediately sabotaged; the terror that existed in the Turkish enclaves throughout the 1960s; how the 1974 Turkish Peace Operation undoubtedl
y saved them all from EOKA annihilation; the political stasis that has existed ever since.

  “And what do you see as the ultimate solution to the Cyprus problem?” I finally manage, because even the most energetic seventy-five-year-old has to pause sometime.

  “A bicommunal confederation,” Denktash says. “That’s it. The Greek Cypriots must recognize our legitimacy and our right to govern ourselves. We’ve never made any claim on them—we’ve never called Cyprus a Turkish island, we have always recognized that we share this small island with them—and they must view and treat us the same way. I have said this to the Greek Cypriots many times, and they have always refused to hear it.”

  Underlying Denktash’s comments is a deep resentment of the Republic of Cyprus’s ability to keep his domain isolated from the rest of the world. Since Turkey is the only country in the world that officially recognizes the TRNC, it means that international flights do not land there, all diplomatic missions are kept at the “interests section” level, and all incoming mail is routed through a drop box on the Turkish mainland. On the flip side, the isolation gives offshore companies in the TRNC an enormous advantage over companies that have to adhere to international standards and helps fortify Denktash’s state of siege message to his people.

  In the Greek Cypriot worldview, Rauf Denktash is either the consummate political opportunist, his power dependent on his ability to keep the island divided, or a puppet of mainland Turkey and its “occupation” forces. In reality, Denktash appears to be enormously popular across the political and social strata of the TRNC. With a repetition that is at first quaint, then becomes tedious, his countrymen have the habit of calling him “the father of our nation” and make frequent comparisons to Kemal Atatürk, the founder of modern Turkey. At times it seems that almost everyone in the country, whether expatriates along the north coast or farmers in the most remote and impoverished mountain village, has had some surprise personal encounter with the president. Usually these involve Denktash, a serious photography hobbyist, tramping through the countryside in his baggy sweat suit with a camera around his neck, his small security detail following at a discreet distance. And although there certainly are those who feel that he is getting too old for the post, his political power hasn’t diminished; in each of the five presidential elections he has stood for, Denktash has emerged triumphant.