Despoina’s Saga – A Story of Two Shores

 

Despoina’s Saga – A Story of Two Shores

My dear friends and neighbors, come hear my plea,

 A story I have that will set your heart free.

 It happened in Varosha, a recent event,

With a message of pain and a heart-melting intent.

 

My mother’s uncle, Koumis, and his wife, Sophia,

 lived with their seven children by the Golden Sands.

 Poverty a great weight, misery a deep wound,

they chose America, the dream in their hands.

 

They worked for the Americans, day and night,

their lives a tireless rhythm of work and home.

Their children, content with this new fortune,

slowly forgot the land from which they had roamed.

 

Seventy years passed; they never returned.

The old ones, the children, the grandkids, none came home.

My mother’s uncle and his wife, Sophia,

never revisited Varosha, a city left alone.

 

Their souls departed their bodies, worn and aged,

buried on foreign soil, a final, distant rest.

So many had left their land, a great migration,

many died abroad, their passing unheard, their graves unblessed.

 

Then, good news arrived across the sea:

My mother’s uncle’s granddaughter would come for a visit.

 Despoina, the first to return since the long-ago leaving,

unaware of the sadness, the sorrow, the grief she'd elicit.

 

She came the day before yesterday, searching for roots,

 for the place where her grandparents once took their first breaths.

At Ayia Zoni church, her spirit began to languish,

as she confronted a past haunted by absence and death.

 

On the seafront, at Glossa beach, her tears flowed,

 her eyes swollen, her heart aching with a profound pain.

 Those rocks in the sea, called Kamila, witnessed her shock,

 she looked and looked, but words she could not attain.

 

We walked away from the beach toward Democratias Avenue,

to the high school, a cradle of vanished education.

Two Turkish flags veiled the students' old writings,

hiding the slogans and myths of a lost generation.

 

Opposite, the Greek Women's Lyceum stands,

 a ghost of a cultural hub, a haven for the young.

The Public Garden behind it, now untended,

and the GSE stadium, where the crowds’ cheers are unsung.

 

On this street, we used to hold parades,

with chariots and demonstrations filled with pride.

 Now trees and grass reclaim the broken asphalt,

and houses stand empty, their doors and windows flung wide.

 

Houses and shops, all dilapidated and broken,

their gaping doors and shattered windows tell a grim story.

 Only a few commercial signs remain on the cracked walls,

visible scars left by hatred and human discord's fury.

 

At Evagorou Street, my own tears could not be held.

I remembered going for groceries at the market,

and the stores where we’d buy our school clothes,

the past was a wound, fresh in my heart, a painful target.

 

“Despoina, look behind you, to the south,” I said.

“Your mother was raised in that house, on Doryphoros Street.”

 Before they left, they moved to Artemis’ house,

your grandfather Koumis was a relative, a blood-bond, a feat.

 

We moved on, toward Ayios Nicholas church,

to see Hadjihampi cinema and the Heraion’s forgotten trace.

Across from the mosque, in front of the church,

was Zako’s shop, where your grandmother worked in this place.

 

The shops in a row were all ransacked and looted,

their treasures taken to Turkey, a final, cruel theft.

Not a pin, not a nail was left behind,

only the marks of decay, the ruts, and reptiles left.

 

The banks, the cafes, the restaurants, the clubs,

stand abandoned, worn by the passage of time.

 And their poor owners, still here in spirit,

are worn by the bitter sadness of their country’s crime.

 

As we returned, we passed the Boccaccio cafe,

with no seats to offer, just a hollow, empty shell.

We saw the slogans written on the walls, empty words,

 soap bubbles, and myths that refuse to swell.

 

On Kennedy Avenue, she admired the abandoned hotels,

and wondered about the beauty the city held before.

 Its great mansions, its courtyards, its green orchards,

all gone now, a history that is no more.

 

As we departed, we spoke of our foolishness,

of how a poor man’s mind had led us to this fate.

Despite the profound sadness she felt,

Despoina was pleased she came, and was not too late.

 

She will tell her friends and family of all she saw.

She will tell her children how beautiful Cyprus is,

how sad it is to see Varosha, and the pain

that she endured, the hurt that her heart could not dismiss.

 

She will tell her relatives in Astoria,

the history of Cyprus, and her own story, too.

She will share how beautiful Cyprus is, how lucky she was to visit,

 how Varosha was before, and its current, desolate view.

 

Whoever she meets, she will urge them to visit,

to remember the land they left long ago,

to see the beauties of Cyprus, its seas and mountains,

its streams and its pain, a truth they need to know.

 

Let them see how the Turks have treated the occupied lands,

 if they wanted to make a vow to Apostle Andreas.

 Let them find the truth for themselves,

and not believe when others tell them fairy tales, full of gas.

 

This, my friends, was the sad news they heard abroad,

and also every one of you tonight.

 I thank you all for finding the time

to listen attentively to Despoina’s plight.

                                                        KVJ