The Icon Hunter

by Tasoula Georgiou Hadjitofi

FAMAGUSTA, JULY 15, 1974

  Monday, eight-thirty A.M., the day begins like every other. The Georgiou family, which includes my older and younger sisters and baby brother, is sitting around our large round wooden kitchen table having a typical breakfast while listening to the radio. My brother Andreas loudly sings along to his favorite song, To Poukamiso To Thalassi (The Blue Shirt) by George Dalaras. My sisters and I moan and groan at his off-key singing.

  “I cannot stand one more minute of listening to this,” my younger sister, Yiola, says. “Please, Mom, make him stop.”

  “Andreas,” Mama says, “you are going to break the radio. Give it a rest.”

  The song stops abruptly followed by our simultaneous laughter and welcome relief.

  “You see, you did break the radio!” laughs Yiola.

  The national hymns of war play for a few minutes before we hear the sound of an announcer say, “The national guards are in control . . . The national guards intervened this morning to save this land and put an end to the ‘brother to brother’ fratricide killings. The national guards have the situation under control and Makarios is dead. Makarios is dead. Remain inside your homes and stay tuned for further instruction.”1, 2

  By the end of the day, we learn the radio report is incorrect when we hear Makarios address us from a small local radio station before escaping from the island via a British military base. As a young teenager, I don’t appreciate the gravity of my circumstances. Greece, the United Kingdom, and Turkey became guarantors of Cyprus as it gained its independence for the first time in 1960. Greek Cypriots, though, were unhappy with the power allocated to Turkish Cypriots: this Moslem minority made up only 18 percent of the population, but the new constitution awarded them 30 percent of the seats in the legislature with veto power.

  The government under the presidency of Archbishop Makarios III included Turkish Cypriots in parlimentary cabinet who began to feel their positions inconsequential, and by 1964 they abandoned their posts in protest. Extremist groups on both sides reverted to fighting and disrupting the peace.

  I know that my parents support Makarios, but politics is rarely discussed in our presence at home. My mother, Andriani, is a devoutly religious Greek Orthodox woman who despises conflict, and my father, Leonidas, has befriended many Turkish Cypriots working at the seaport while loading fabric onto his truck to deliver to customers. His Turkish Cypriot friends are welcome in our home, and we play with their children when they come to visit, but we are not permitted to enter their enclaves. Centuries of injustice make it difficult for Greek and Turkish Cypriots to trust each other completely. No other place has endured as many conquerors as Cyprus, and through it all Greek Cypriots have managed to maintain their Orthodox faith and language.

  Post-independence, fighting also breaks out between pro-enosis (a movement of Greeks, wanting political union with mainland Greece), who become bitter nationalists, and those who want Cyprus to remain independent. On July 15th, a coup d’état led by Greek junta officers who called themselves “national guards” on the radio come to overthrow Makarios. Five days later, the Turkish army invades Cyprus in retaliation, using the excuse that they must protect the Turkish Cypriot minority.

  FAMAGUSTA, JULY 20, 1974

  It’s six A.M. when sirens ring out across Famagusta. Turkish planes fly low over the island doing their reconnaissance missions. Mother turns on the radio to hear the announcer call for all men over eighteen to report to the nearest police checkpoint. She lines a small clay pot with olive leaves atop burning embers of charcoal. From a nearby cabinet where precious items from Holy Week are stored, she removes a vial of holy water, an Easter candle, and the consecrated flowers, which are used to decorate the Epitaphios during Easter. Placing the lavender and citrus flowers on top of the olive leaves, she performs a ritual to keep my father safe. Holding the pot over his head, she makes the sign of the cross three times. She dabs a piece of cotton wool into the holy water that was given to her by Vasilios from the Saint Barnabas Monastery and uses it to anoint my father. It dawns on me at this point that as much as she is preparing the ritual for my father to stay alive, she is also blessing him and preparing him in case of his death. She places the bottle of holy water in his hand.

  “To keep you and the soldiers out of harm’s way,” she says. My siblings and I follow her outdoors to say good-bye to my father.

  I did not understand the seriousness of the moment. In my eyes, my father was indestructible; after all, he is named Leonidas after the king of Sparta, a warrior who held the Persians at Thermopylae during one of the most famous battles in history.

  Given the island’s turbulent history of war and conquerors, having an underground shelter was as common as having a garage.

  “You will be safe in there,” my father tells her. “They will aim their bombs toward taller buildings.”

  He hugs each of us tenderly, bending down lastly to face my young brother, he says, “You are the man in charge now.” As we watch his truck drive out of sight, the ground beneath us starts to tremble. I feel the vibration of the fighter jet before it comes into view. A Turkish plane on reconnaissance to mark bombing targets flies so low in the sky I can see the pilot waving to me from the cockpit just as he turns the plane around to head back out to sea. That night it was eerily quiet across the island except for the faint sound of my mother praying before the icons.

  The raids begin early the next morning. After the first bomb hits and the dust and debris get stuck in my throat, I am sure I will not survive. As I gasp for air, my mother comes to my rescue.

  “It will be all right. Cover your face . . . look down,” she yells.

  As the sound of a bomb exploding on my neighbor’s home shakes the foundation of ours, she ushers my siblings and me out of the shelter and back into the house, into our bathroom, which is equipped with a double ceiling. In her mind the double ceiling will provide added protection from the bomb, but in truth it is merely a storage area to house our dowries, which she had been collecting since our birth.

  Mother’s petite frame is no measure of the size of her courage as she is left to defend her four children against the Turkish air force’s bombs. The fact that we are unable to see what is going on around us makes the situation that much more frightening.

  The Turkish planes drop Napalm bombs, which generates temperatures between 1,500 and 2,200 degrees Fahrenheit, so surviving an attack could be a fate worse than death. Particles of dust, the smell of gunpowder, and burning flesh suffocate the air.

  Mother is just outside the bathroom kneeling on a makeshift altar she created in order to pray with Apostle Andreas while keeping an eye on us children. We are all huddled together in the bathtub. The sacred Easter candle, the light of resurrection, is lit, to protect us. We ration our food and water supplies and for three days. I watch my mother sacrifice sleep to pray relentlessly before the icons.

  As a fourteen-year-old girl, I wonder, where is the powerful Hellenic army that I read about in my history books? Where are the United Nations soldiers who have had a presence in Cyprus since 1964 to prevent intercommunal violence? Even the Americans, who save the world in the Hollywood movies I love to watch, are nowhere to be found. When I realize that no one will be coming to save us, any remaining sense of security is shattered. Everything I’ve learned about my history and my faith feels like a complete lie.

  A knock on the shuttered window causes Mother to hold her finger to her lips, signaling us to remain silent. She trained us to resist capture should the Turkish soldiers enter our home. My religious mother has placed knives in strategic locations around the house, and every electrical socket has been opened to expose the wiring. My siblings and I are trembling.

  “He tan he epi tas,” she says in Greek, meaning, “Either with us or upon this.” It is a battle cry that Spartan women would yell out to their husbands and sons as they left for war. Come back with your shield or die, as to return shieldless meant that you ran away and were a traitor. What she was telling
us is that if a Turkish soldier comes through that window and you don’t kill him, you must kill yourself.

  “They will rape and torture you before they will kill you. If you must die, let it be with honor,” she says. Hearing these words come out of her mouth is horrifying. Taking each of us by the hand, she carefully demonstrates how to short-circuit the electrical socket with a knife to secure a quick death. The shock of hearing my Orthodox mother instructing us to commit suicide and murder rather than face capture traumatizes me. I assumed my father to be the strong one in the family, but observing how my mother handles this crisis in his absence changes my perspective of her.

  As the knocking continues, mother rises from her kneeling position before the icons. With knife in hand, she motions for us to take our positions and places herself to the side of the window ready to defend us from the soldiers. Each of us stands by an exposed electrical outlet. I pick up the knife; my hand trembles uncontrollably as I prepare for the possibility of death.

  There is a moment of unbearable horror, seconds that seem like hours, during which our hearts pound, unaware of what will happen next.

  “Aunt Andriani,” we hear the voice of my cousin Savvas Kyriacou from Mandres. “Open the window. It’s okay, there is a cease-fire.” She opens the window. Seeing the face of my cousin brings welcome relief.

  “I’m picking up medicines to deliver to clinics and to the Hotel Markos, where there is a staging area for the wounded.” His voice cracks. “So many men are wounded.”

  When young men graduate high school in Cyprus, they are required to serve two years in the military. Savvas has had the unfortunate luck of experiencing war on the very first day of his conscription.

  “There is still fighting going on, so be careful,” he says, making eye contact with each of us. “On my way here . . . I stopped at the beach . . . the hotels are badly damaged. The Aspelia . . .” His voice cracks again. “A dead boy’s body hangs upside down trapped between floors.”

  Mother hands him watermelon slices, Halloumi cheese, and bread wrapped up in a soft cloth for him to share with other soldiers.

  “Did you see my dad?” I ask.

  “No,” he replies. “I reported for duty with my father and brother, and that’s the last I saw of them. I really have to go now. Be safe,” he says as we watch him run down the road to a waiting car.

  The airborne debris filters into the house from the open window, and the smell of gasoline fills my lungs. Stepping outside, I see a gaping hole in my neighbor’s house where the bomb exploded. On our way to check for survivors, we must step over the corpses of our rabbits and chickens, which are scattered about in the yard. All of our cats are missing.

  Under the bloodred sky that remains after the bombing, we salvage whatever fruits and figs we can from our garden as the stench of gunpowder replaces the familiar aromas of jasmine and lavender. While Mother is busy taking inventory of our provisions, we sneak down to the Hotel Markos, now a makeshift hospital, in search of my father.

  It is a scene out of Armageddon. We see hundreds of fatally injured, as well as family members frantically calling out the names of loved ones. What used to be a modern resort is now a sea of people grieving for the dead and badly wounded. Bloodcurdling screams force me to cover my ears. Men lie on stretchers with missing limbs, some have gaping holes in their bodies, and then there are the dead, whose open eyes tell the story of the terror they endured. As more and more people enter the lobby, my sisters and I get pushed farther into the room and separated from each other.

  Yiola panics and runs toward the exit door screaming. The more I try to make my way through the crowd to reach her, the farther I am pushed back into the chaos. The unbearable impact of war rips at my innocence. I set my sights for the exit once more, pushing past the mob of people with determined strength, until I am reunited with my sisters. Thankfully, we learn my father is not among the wounded or the dead. We run all the way home without uttering a word to each other or Mother about where we have been.

  A few hours later we hear the welcome sound of my father’s truck approaching, awakening a hope that our lives might regain some normalcy. Mother instructs us to pray in gratitude for his safe return, but one glance at my father tells me that he is not the same man who left the house three days ago. His smile is weighted with pain. His deadened eyes seem to look right through us.

  Seeing our father in this condition is frightening. Mother waves her hand signaling us to leave so that she may be alone with him. I linger behind, out of view just behind the doorframe, determined to know what has happened to him. Through the slightly opened door of my parents’ bedroom I see him holding his face in his hands, crying. I strain to hear what he is saying in between the sobs.

  “They bombed the home for the handicapped! I was transporting the injured. The bodies were everywhere, young children badly burned, screaming . . . the look of terror on their faces was worse than their cries.” He presses his hands harder into his face as if this will somehow erase what he has witnessed.

  “I can’t get the images out my head. I tried to save as many as I could.” The rest of his words I can’t make out. Mother gently comforts him, listening without commenting.

  My world is turned upside down by the sight of my father’s tears. I am so disappointed and angry with him and my schoolteachers for brainwashing me into believing the Greeks were superior soldiers with the mightiest army—all a lie! It was the moment I realized that no one could save me from this war.

  The next day, my father piles us all into his bullet-riddled truck, and we drive to his sister’s house in Paralimni, a village next to Ayia Napa, which is in close proximity to the British base, which will most likely not have been bombed. The conditions are not optimum as there were many others seeking shelter as well, but we gratefully sleep on the floor. No one has any idea of what is to come, so after a few days we return home to Famagusta and do our best to continue our daily routine despite the uncertainty of our future.

  We continue to pick figs and fruits from my mother’s garden to sell door-to-door to expatriates. By the end of July the internationals living and working in Cyprus were being evacuated from the country, the tourists stopped coming, and the beaches were empty. Famagusta was becoming a ghost town.

  Our Lebanese neighbor Mr. Mafoutas and his wife are leaving the country.

  “When will you return?” my father asks.

  “When the fighting is over for good,” he says. “Andreas, I will give you ten pounds if you water my garden while I’m gone.” My brother is thrilled to have the job.

  “It will be my honor to do it for free, sir,” Andreas says. My father smiles with pride as Andreas demonstrates how we were raised. Mr. Mafoutas insists on paying my brother.

  As the NATO countries attempt to bring the conflict under control around the negotiating table, it becomes clear that Turkey has no intention of negotiating. The United Kingdom and Greece, both “guarantor powers” (along with Turkey) with the right to intervene if the terms of the Cypriot independence agreement are violated, have motives of self-interest to remain uninvolved.

  The Americans and the British warn Greece to stand down, blaming the ordeal on the coup d’état. The coup d’état is rumored to have had the backing of American secretary of state Henry Kissinger.3 There are some who wish to see President Makarios replaced with a pro-Western government.

  In early August the Turkish planes return. Gunfire can be heard in the distance. The negotiations to end the fighting break down, and Father decides to move us to Paralimni, as he fears a second invasion is imminent. Holding up a suitcase, he says, “We have one bag between us. Take only one change of clothing. We will return in a few days.” As we file into the truck, my father is yelling for my brother Andreas, who is busy watering Mr. Mafoutas’s garden.

  “Andreas, now!” His tone indicates that we are in danger.

  My young mind tries to rationalize what is happening.

  “What about Mr. Mafoutas’s
garden?” asks Andreas.

  “We have bigger problems, Andreas,” my father cries.

  I can’t bottle my emotions anymore. I want answers.

  “Why has God forsaken us?” I ask out loud so that everyone can hear me.

  Mother turns to face me, making sure that her eyes are locked onto mine. “We are alive and unharmed; we have each other, and our home is intact. You must believe he is protecting us.”

  As the truck pulls away, I look out the back window wondering how long it will be before I can return to Famagusta. Suddenly the walled city and the wide sandy beaches that I loved to roam fade from view. This is the last time I will see home. After my father deposits us safely at his sister’s house, he returns to duty as Cyprus braces for a second invasion by the Turkish military.

  The next day, on August 14, tanks carrying the Turkish army roll into Famagusta despite the fact that negotiations are still ongoing. The second Turkish invasion is far bloodier than the first. More than two hundred thousand Greek Cypriots are displaced, one-thousand six hundred and nineteen are missing and feared dead, and luckily my father survives to return to us again.

  My family manages to escape with our lives, but we are marked by the events of war for life. I am no longer known by my name. I am called refugee.

  Six

  THE DANCE

  THE HAGUE, MARCH 1989

  A feeling of restlessness shadows me since my meeting with Van Rijn at the Posthoorn. I struggle to comprehend how the looting, smuggling, and sale of religious objects can take place on such a massive scale.

  I feel as if my destiny is now tied to finding the stolen artifacts and the truth about what happened in the occupied area of Cyprus after the war.1 In a fax to the minister of foreign affairs, Yiorgos Iacovou, I outline the details of my meeting with Van Rijn. He informs me that my fax has been passed on to Michael Kyprianou, senior legal counsel of the Republic of Cyprus, and that Kyprianou will be in touch shortly.

  Several weeks later I reach out in confidence to my dearest friend and mentor Harris Orphanides, a press and media representative for the Greek embassy, for advice. Harris is politically insightful, and he is always willing to help me navigate the political waters.