Intergenerational hurts

I grew up hearing about the wounds of Cyprus almost daily. The invasion. The missing people. The homes taken. The lives lost. The churches and homes desecrated. A country divided into an occupied part of Cyprus that could never or would never be visited again. And this was only in 1974.

Fifty years later, those wounds are still open and raw, running so deep that eyes fill with tears at the mere mention of my Grandmother’s village.

I knew of these hurts, these scars, all my life but I guess in many ways, they weren’t my own… or so I thought.

Intergenerational hurts is another area I work with many of you about - and I have an important section in my forthcoming book about the impact on our health and the ways in which we can try to mend these wounds.

I guess I didn’t realise how much these intergenerational hurts would affect me both physically and emotionally whilst being here, especially at this significant time of the year - the fifty year anniversary of the invasion.

Sirens are heard on the 14th July when the coup entered, and then the 20th July when Cyprus was invaded and the North became occupied. There is no longer a north and south of Cyprus but Cyprus and Occupied Cyprus. You are literally entering another country when you cross that border. And we had planned to do something frowned upon by many: to go and stay in my Yiayia’s village, hard though it may be, to visit the village, the cemetery (my cousin from Melbourne recently found our grandparents/great grandparents’ grave) and of course visit the place I have felt incomplete not having visited all my life - Apostolas Andreas - the monastery and patron saint after whom my grandmother, myself and Amika were named.

Relatives had always refused to take my mother across the border when it opened in 2003. Most people we have seen or met here have told us not to go. In fact aside from my relative in Melbourne, many have begged us not to go. But part of me has always felt incomplete not going and I knew it would be my mum’s last chance.

Each day I meet someone who is touched by our roots and our journey. Some have given me money to take to the monastery for candles and “damas” and prayers. Others want holy water brought back. And others just weep because they can’t bring themselves to ever go back.

Our plans changed while we were here and whilst I kept trying to resist the difficulties, I kept trying to remember God’s hand is always with us. Instead of Daniel navigating Occupied Cyprus as planned, we found a man, Thimitri (of course, my grandfather was Thimitri!) who would take us. He was also from the same village and knew the villages and land very well. We were blessed with a journey that will never leave us. It is one we are still trying to come to terms with and I know we need some time to process what we saw and experienced and felt being there and now returning to Cyprus as it is now.

The uncertainty crossing the border, the beautiful people Thimitri took us to meet who are doing God’s work (teaching the Greek Cypriots the language, the faith and the culture; trying to restore churches and simply refusing to leave behind what was once Cyprus). The love we felt and the warmth they shared - I saw a side to the struggle, agony and perseverance of those who never left and remain, in many ways, at war each day.

To find the resting place of my great grandfather and grandmother - to see the streets my grandparents walked, my aunties and uncles, and the fields that they worked in. And to finally make our way to the monastery, Apostolas Andreas. I cannot romanticise it. It was not as I expected. It was as though it was a light surrounded by darkness, despair, greed, ambition and entitlement.

I will remember the kindness of the priest and the beautiful icons that still remain. I will remember being able to fulfil a promise to an aunty and uncle in Australia, and most significantly I will remember the “vrissi” where Apostle Andrew tapped a rock and the water still flows to this day. Holy water that has healed people in the name of Jesus. And I will remember my father on his knees, fulfilling a “dama” he had made to come to Apostolas Andreas for a loved one. This will never leave me.

But the heaviness and weight surrounding the monastery and the occupied area in general has left such a sadness. I will need to take some time to process those intergenerational hurts, hurts I thought weren’t my own, but hurts I could see even in my children as they saw the desecration of the churches, the cemetery and the crosses where their great great grandparents lie.

I guess it also hurts that returning to my roots could have meant finding family, visiting loved ones and enjoying the Cypriot way of life. And what we found was so different…heartbreakingly different.

And yet in many ways I need to be counting all the blessings: we did find family and love and our roots - maybe not in the ways we expected but hopefully in ways that can help mend those hurts someday.

I was told yesterday, “now that you have found your roots, your life can begin”. I wonder what that means for us. How do you return to normality when your heart is breaking?

It’s funny I have said so often that this trip has been a family pilgrimage. I certainly knew where we were going. I knew the stories and the wounds from my Yiayia. I guess I didn’t expect that those intergenerational hurts and wounds would be experienced first hand in such a way that makes me now revisit everything - our conversations, my childhood and my (oh so limited and naive) views. It’s made me realise this pilgrimage doesn’t end here. It will be ongoing I suspect til the day I die. It has brought me closer to my family here and those who have died and their struggles in a way that makes me want to strive for greatness…to serve and make a difference in a way that they could not.

I wonder what that will look like.