Approaching border control, my muscles tense involuntarily. To my left, a horde of Chinese tourists snap smartphone pictures of the concrete path I hope to cross. Fumbling to fetch the passport from my little black tote, I hand my documents to the officer and avoid eye contact. After little inspection, she waves me through to the next line. I’m officially in limbo between the Republic of Cyprus and the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, as Nicosia has been for 44 years.
Though surrounded by impressively intact walls that date back to the Venetians, Nicosia is defined by the very stretch of abandoned buildings, barbed wire, and overgrown wildlife I find myself in. Known as the Green Line, it snakes through city center like a scar. British Major General Peter Young drew the line in 1963 as a seemingly temporary measure to prevent further fighting between the newly independent island’s Greek majority and Turkish minority. Tensions wouldn’t climax until a decade later, though, when an Athens-backed coup d’état prompted full-scale Turkish invasion. External forces intervened again and in 1974, the Green Line transformed into a United Nations buffer zone that stretches 112 miles from one end of the island to the other. By the time I traverse the boundary, it has become the longest-serving peacekeeping mission in U.N. history and Nicosia the world’s last divided capital.
Yet compared to other demilitarized zones, the Ledra Street crossing is relatively stress-free. Unlike the Purple Line dividing the Israeli-occupied Golan Heights from the rest of Syria or the Kuwait–Iraq barrier, violence is rare. And notably different than Korea’s 38th parallel, both sides are open. Since regulations loosened in 2003, hundreds of visitors and Cypriot citizens cross freely every day. No visa or passport stamp required. (After all, only Turkey recognizes the top third of Cyprus as its own state.) Continuing past the derelict cement walls and threatening signs, I remind myself there is a reason I tore myself away from the country’s majestic beaches and enchanting mountains.
Once on the other side, multinational retailers and trendy bars feel much further than a few feet away. Street hawkers invite me to shop their ramshackle stores. iPhones and androids are less popular than flip phones and beepers. Local women are few and far between. And no matter where I look, my eyes meet a crimson and crescent-emblazoned flag. Of course, I noticed the largest flag on my hotel’s balcony days before. Carved into the southern face of the surrounding mountain range, it demands attention from anyone in or near Nicosia.
I make my way past the preliminary crowds and beeline for kebab. Once full of spicy splendor, I follow signs to the Selimiye Mosque, removing my sneakers and donning a headscarf from a colorful collection outside the door. No one else is inside. I relish in the quiet, noticing all the hints of the former Roman Catholic cathedral that remain. Next, I meander through the narrow streets to Büyük Han. A trader’s inn during the Ottoman empire, the grand space is now stuffed with craft studios, souvenir shops, and restaurants. Outside, goods spill from bazaar-like stalls onto the street. Prices are displayed in Euros and lira, but I negotiate a better rate with my Turkish notes.
Walking toward the Kyrenia Gate, it strikes me that I’ve heard more English than I expected on this trip. Cyprus is no stranger to colonialism, with a history that encompasses Roman, Crusader, Ottoman, and until 1960, British rule. The U.K. maintains a presence here, despite the harrowing images and hateful information you may see in the National Struggle Museum. According to the 2017 Cyprus Tourism Market Report from KPMG and the Cyprus Tourism Organization, Brits account for more than 36 percent of current tourist arrivals and made up over half of all visitors until 2009. It’s slightly ironic how welcome they feel considering Britain’s acquiescence during the Greek coup and Turkish invasion, but most of the people I hear are day-trippers hoping to get a taste of the so-called East without leaving the confines of Europe. They can’t be blamed for the country’s political stalemate.
Further from the marked attractions, I notice a problematic pattern. One way, ramshackle walls of brick and mud crumble as a result of the north’s economic isolation. The other, beautiful cobblestone streets with flower-covered townhouses end abruptly in blockades of wires, weapons, and watchtowers. At points when the barrier zone bulges, there are eerily empty stretches of dry land. Even the formerly glorious Ledra Palace Hotel that acts as U.N. headquarters is blemished with bullet holes. Having the streets to myself doesn’t feel quite as romantic as it did in Pafos or Lofou.
Crossing back into the south, something catches my eye: a bright blue oil-barrel spray painted with John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s peace mantra. It was cliché, but fitting. The war does seem to be over. One side of Nicosia may be more rundown and less modernized than the other, but the sandstones are the same in the north and the south. The sun burned my skin whether I was surrounded by the Greek alphabet or the Turkish. The jasmine smelled as sweet no matter who planted it. Most importantly, the halloumi tasted as succulent – seemingly oblivious to the geopolitical consequences at stake.
The presidents of Cyprus and Northern Cyprus (who funnily enough hail from the same southern city) meet regularly to discuss reunification and citizens seem hopeful for an end to the long, complex journey for peace. In the meantime, there’s a feeling of calm throughout the island that mirrors the centuries of Cyprus’s history when Greeks and Turks cohabitated harmoniously. In fact, less jarring than the different ways of life on either side of the Green Line was the buffer zone itself with its sharp edges and armed sentries. For now, it seems, these cultures can only coexist with a sharp reminder of their recent turmoil.
As I walk past a combination boutique-art gallery towards the taverna I’ve been eager to try, the southern part of Nicosia is buzzing with a cultural cool I recognize. A young gaggle of teenage girls with Starbucks cups and Bershka shopping bags shuffle into a popular microbrewery. Just then, I hear the call to prayer over the ramshackle partition. I scan the streets for a reaction. Frankly, no one seems to notice.
***
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