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I was carefully focusing the viewfinder of my camera. I was then crossing over a narrow footpath that divided the city. I turned back when I heard a whistle blowing. Two armed men were sternly walking towards me. Three or four security men were there in a close by bunker.
Place Charlie check point, City of Nicosia. It divided Cyprus into Turkish and Greek territories. One side is under the control of Greek Cypriots. The other side captured by the Turkish army is controlled by Turkish Cypriots. The border was strife-torn after the partition. The United Nations created a buffer zone between the borders. The adjoining areas were a No man’s Land. Externally both Cypruses were apparently quiet but deep inside there was brewing hatred. It was not easy to cross the border, especially for foreigners.
I turned off my camera as soon as I sighted the policemen. I quickly started moving towards them. They ordered something to me in Greek. I could surmise from their gesticulations that they wanted me to stand still.
One of the policemen knew English. He asked me why I was shooting the sensitive areas of a high security zone. I explained everything about my TV program. I spoke in a frank manner lest their suspicion should be stirred up. The police too knew the true facts. The English speaking guard said, ‘Here we have very strict rules in this zone. Police check post and patrol cannot be photographed.’
‘My guide did not advise me so.’ I muttered apologetically. The second guard wanted to see the photo coverage I had done. I played it back for him.
I was dropped near the check post Charlie by my tourist guide Stelios. Walls of the border. Barbed wire fencing. Dissipated buildings of the buffer zone. Painted pictures on the wall depicting Greek Cypriots under gunfire and assault, Protest slogans, Ledra hotel that was army headquarters. Me walking forward. Then came the check point. The armed guard men. Police scrutinizing identity cards of some people crossing the border. I move forward. The blowing of the police whistle. Turning off the camera.
After having viewed those shots, the police insisted that I should delete those scenes. There was no arguing with them. I quickly selected the shots and promptly deleted them.
‘Why are you going to Turkish territory?’ Asked the guard. I replied that I wanted some shots of Turkish controlled area for my documentary.
‘It is okay to go over there but do not expect this friendliness there.’ The English speaking guard gave that piece of advice and scrutinized my passport and visa.
‘You have a single entry visa for the Republic of Cyprus. We can hold you up here when you return.’ He said with a mischievous smile. He was friendly enough. I informed him that I would go a little further and then quickly return. They let me do that. That is how I could snatch at least a few visuals of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus.
I was a little scared to move about in that area. I could be in deep trouble if the guards trick me. Stelios was still tucked in his pick up van. He appeared to be afraid to go near the border. The entire area was engulfed in frightening silence.
Chilling quiet. Even those who talk do so in hushed tone as if they were whispering a secret. Fear had permeated the whole area. Anything might happen at any time. Such was the suspense prevailing .
When I returned to the Republic of Cyprus, the somewhat friendly police gave me no trouble. Sights and scenes at the No Man’s Land were disturbing. Structures built in classic stay lay in ruins. Abandoned by the residents, snakes and jackals would have occupied the interiors. The No Man’s Land was at the heart of a then throbbing city. Buffer zone was about 180 kilometres. Width varied from 3.5 meter to 7.5 kilometre. As much as 346 square kilometre of Cyprus was No Man’s Land.
I could see flags over the ruined buildings. The red flags with the crescent were those of Turkish Cyprus while the white ones with the cross were those of Greek Cyprus. Those flags fluttered in their respective territories as symbols of senseless victory. A truly detestable spectacle!
Stalios and I were moving in the hollowness of the No Man’s Land. We saw an old man in front of a not so heavily damaged building. He was struggling to raise the rusted shutters of a shop in that building.
I asked Stalios to stop. Shutter slowly opened to an ancient looking shop.
A wood work lathe could be seen. As I took a few shots, Stalios called the old man out. He was Greek and might be 85 years of age. He put his head through the window of the van. Costus Herlambus was his name. He knew only Greek. Stelios interpreted.
Herlambus was running a wood workshop in that street. He was witness to many political and racial upheavals, internecine conflicts, fights for freedom, terrorist activities of fundamentalists, assaults of Turkish army, genocide, Bombings......
He witnessed those horrifying events from his little shop. People migrated. The teeming street was deserted. It became a No Man’s Land. Yet our Herlambus would continue to go over to his shop. Everyone had advised him not to go. But the shop and the street were very special to him emotionally. Some old friends often drop in. Otherwise there was no job in the workshop. Not a single soul in the street. He had vowed solemnly to be in his shop until Nicosia reunites or he dies.
He sat there as the guard of his shop in that Dead city.
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