WHEN Roulla Savvidou, 56, from Kythrea visited her childhood home on April 24, 2003, for the first time in 29 years, she could not believe her eyes when she saw the Turkish Cypriot family living there had hardly changed the furniture.
Prior to that the last time she had been there, she was just 17. Her family had packed their bags with only the clothes they could carry and rushed south to escape the advancing Turkish army.
The Turkish Cypriots, who were from Larnaca, moved in three months after the invasion.
“They were friendly. They let us in and gave me photos of my parents, some encyclopaedias, three books of Grivas, my grandmother’s old cups and my sister’s sports trophies,” said Savvidou.
“Afterwards, I went quite frequently initially, and then I started going only once a year when one of the churches in the village celebrated its name day. Now, it’s been three years since I’ve been.”
She took her elderly mother back to the family home at one point but the mother found the occasion too emotional.
Asked why she no longer crosses north, Savvidou replied that her cousin used to take her but he stopped.
“I won’t risk going alone in my car,” she said.
Would she go back to live? “Only if Kythrea comes under Greek Cypriot administration after a solution.”
The 56-year-old said it felt like a foreign place to her. All the olive, orange and lemon trees of the village had dried out.
“I still see it as our home, our country, but under occupation. After the checkpoints opened, we thought they would find a solution, all those Turkish soldiers in Kythrea would leave, and we would move back. I feel disappointed now, but who’s to blame? Intransigent Turkey? Us? Everybody I think.”
Asked how she views Turkish Cypriots ten years after the checkpoints opened, she said: “I have no feelings about it, they are neither our enemies nor our friends.”
Elias Pantelides, a chartered accountant from Yialousa in the Karpas region remembers having mixed feelings when he returned with his family in 2003.
Despite making his children play a ‘name the occupied villages’ game over lunch to ensure they never forget their heritage and homeland, when he took them to see the Karpas peninsula, deep down, he felt they had no connection to it.
“It was a bit disappointing in that sense. You go, thinking you’ll meet the people you knew, and at the end of the day, you realise that life has gone, it’s finished.”
He spent his first night in the north post-1974 camping with his daughter by the sea on a plot of land belonging to his family and currently being used by a man who has known his family since the 1950s.
“Slowly, you start to feel, this is not my place anymore because I do not live there. Around six years ago, I asked a lady in Yialousa where she was from. She replied in Greek that she was from Yialousa. I said, ‘no you’re not’. She said she was born there and raised her two children there.
“It was shocking how time flies. OK, I’ve got legal title to the place, but any way you see it, that lady was born in Yialousa and raised her kids there.”
Pantelides also finds that he returns less and less to the north.
“I’ve been all over the occupied part now, seen the whole lot. It’s now meaningless. I go and feel like I don’t know the place or the people.”
However, closing the checkpoints would be a negative development, he said.
“On a daily basis, it won’t impact on me too much but it would be a stupid, illogical political decision. Without the two communities mixing and exchanging ideas, how could we find a solution?”