Childhood Memories of Cyprus - part 1
by Chris Zindilis
Cyprus is a beautiful island in the east corner of the Mediterranean Sea; where I was born. I call it my beautiful island, and I have warm and unforgettable memories of my younger days there; days which I had spent under the guidance of my maternal grandparents.
It wasn’t until I returned back to Cyprus with my grandmother that my love for history; especially Byzantine history and religious art began. Little did I know at the time that my maternal grandmother was born in Constantinople - the city of the great Byzantium - and that she was well read in history and religious art. She lived in Constantinople with my grandfather until 1926, when Kemal Ataturk came to power in Turkey and decided to have Turkey cleansed of all foreigners. She and my grandfather became refuges, with thousands of others, losing her home; her father and mother killed by the Turks, and escaping with her life to Cyprus. She settled there with my grandfather, never to return back to her beloved Constantinople. The family Icon was the only object she had with her to remind her of her beloved city of Constantinople.
As I mentioned in an earlier article, my grandparents looked after me while my parents were working hard in England. Both of them were devoted Christians and my upbringing was very strict in the sense of Eastern Christian Orthodoxy, which was our way of life. Besides my everyday school studies, which were very hard, my grandmother was my greatest teacher on religion and history and taught me about all the various aspects of life, even at that young age.
The way she always spoke about our island conjured my young imagination of Cyprus as a perfect blend of mountains and plain, with beautiful historic hills that slope and end to some lovely deserted bays that are surrounded by either olive, fruit or pine trees. I remember the countless times we spent in some of these bays having picnics, and afterwards enjoying an afternoon siesta. In hot summer days the best place to be, was either by the beach, or up in the mountains. I still hear in my mind the insistence of the cicada, and mixed with the sound of the sea waves, the making of the infinite duet in the heat of the day.
I always looked forward to my mother coming over to Cyprus to spend some time with us, and in those days in the late 1950’s, the only way to travel was by a ship. It took nearly two weeks to travel to Cyprus from England. She always said that she enjoyed the home coming journey and the approach to Cyprus; for she knew she was near home when the boat approaching the island from the west, she saw the long brown and green coast with all the tall mountains rising inland, and once the boat passed the port of Limassol it wasn’t long till she saw the white sleepy little town with a port called Larnaca. This was our town and she knew she was finally at home.
Larnaca is also the town where my mother was born. My grandparents and I were always waiting faithfully by the port, and at the first glimpse of my mother I felt that my world was complete, and from that moment till the day she was due to return to England I was spoiled rotten.
The days went by quickly while my mother was with us, and little things of the past come to mind. For instance: I used to get up very early in the morning to be with my mother and we both watched the magic of the mist moving away like veils from the lovely tall mountains in the far distance. My favourite time was in the afternoon when we all sat on the big old veranda listening to my grandmother telling us stories about Constantinople - the town where she was born.
One particular afternoon, my grandmother asked my grandfather to take us in the morning on a visit to see the monastery of St. Barnabas. St. Barnabas was St. Paul’s friend and fellow traveller on his journeys. Early the next morning, the food prepared, my grandfather brought his car round; an Austin Seven that had seen better days. After loading the food I sat in the front passenger seat with my grandfather, while my mother sat in the back with my grandmother. We were finally on our way.
We left the town of Larnaca behind us and followed the coastal route towards Famagusta. It was a lovely bright and warm morning. On our right we saw the shimmering blue sea stretching as far as the eye can see. It was a day to be happy; a day I wished it would last forever. I felt this warmth within me; especially knowing that my mother was with me sharing this beautiful day with all of us.
Four miles before reaching the town of Famagusta is the monastery of St. Barnabas. Having turned left, we left the main road and followed an old mule track among endless bean fields and within some distance we reached the many-domed monastery of St. Barnabas. It was almost midday and the sun was high above us and the heat was unbearable. My grandfather parked the car under a carob tree that offered some reasonable shade and comfort. I remember getting out of the car and walked about the little sun-stepped courtyard which led into the main church.
The church was cool and comfortable, and we made our way to the gilded iconostasis. On the way my mother commented about the church whose domes were upheld by piers into which marble columns were built, collected from the ruins of ancient Salamis. First my grandmother lit a candle, and we followed her and paid our respects, first to the icon of St. Barnabas and all the other various saints by kissing them. The nice thing about Greek churches is, that no matter how poor, or small they might be, they always have a good display of beautiful icons. Some Greek people are great believers, and always attach miraculous qualities associated with them, and by kissing them one attains the physical contact, the unity and the connection with that particular saint.
My grandmother as usual started telling us about the history of the church, and when she had finished we noticed an old Greek monk standing by the church entrance. He looked so lonely, as if he wanted to speak to someone. He wore a dark brown cassock; his hair was in a knot and was drawn under a brimless old hat. He came over and asked us if we wanted to see the tomb of St. Barnabas.
The sun was very bright as we exited the church and into the sunlight, we followed the lonely monk through a bean field to a little stone domed chapel building. Once inside we followed a flight of steps that led underground to the vaulted Saint’s tomb. I didn’t feel very comfortable, and my grandfather noticed this apprehension and came over to me and held my hand tight while we were shown around this underground vault. I vaguely remember details, except for an icon that was lit, and a big crevice in the rock face where the body of St. Barnabas was originally discovered. I was so glad when we were back out into the sunlight and breathing fresh air again. We thanked the monk for his kindness and for showing us around and invited him to come over and have something to eat with us, but he politely declined the offer. He noted that he was fasting, he thanked us and left.
Grandfather found a nice shaded space under a very big old carob tree, and a blanket was laid under it where we all sat and had our picnic. The meal turned into a feast. We had roast chicken, salad, meatballs - done with my mum’s special recipe that I liked so much. While we ate, my grandmother asked my mum to tell us about St. Barnabas. At that young age I didn’t really appreciate the importance of that days visit, and I didn’t pay much attention to my mother telling us the story of Saint Barnabas and about the monastery and how he happened to be buried there.
Years later we revisited the site with my beloved wife. But this time having read religious history for over fifty years, I knew all about Saint Barnabas and I was the one telling her all about my previous visit. But this was a new era; for the whole area where we were standing on was under Turkish occupation, and it has been like that since 1974. It was not the same, for the expectations of this visit were disappointing. The magic of that year long ago had gone, for the monastery had been turned into a museum, and the little stone building that protected the saint’s tomb had been replaced by a small Byzantine chapel. In the chapel all Christian icons were missing, with the whole place having been stripped down bare: It looked like a forgotten old ruin. I felt so sad - for I was standing on holy ground; the last resting place of one of the most important Saints of Christianity. I have the highest respect for St. Barnabas: It was he, who first guided St. Paul and started him on his first missionary journey. After our picnic on that first visit, it was decided that since we had time we should go and visit the town old Famagusta.
December 2013
Cyprus is a beautiful island in the east corner of the Mediterranean Sea; where I was born. I call it my beautiful island, and I have warm and unforgettable memories of my younger days there; days which I had spent under the guidance of my maternal grandparents.
It wasn’t until I returned back to Cyprus with my grandmother that my love for history; especially Byzantine history and religious art began. Little did I know at the time that my maternal grandmother was born in Constantinople - the city of the great Byzantium - and that she was well read in history and religious art. She lived in Constantinople with my grandfather until 1926, when Kemal Ataturk came to power in Turkey and decided to have Turkey cleansed of all foreigners. She and my grandfather became refuges, with thousands of others, losing her home; her father and mother killed by the Turks, and escaping with her life to Cyprus. She settled there with my grandfather, never to return back to her beloved Constantinople. The family Icon was the only object she had with her to remind her of her beloved city of Constantinople.
As I mentioned in an earlier article, my grandparents looked after me while my parents were working hard in England. Both of them were devoted Christians and my upbringing was very strict in the sense of Eastern Christian Orthodoxy, which was our way of life. Besides my everyday school studies, which were very hard, my grandmother was my greatest teacher on religion and history and taught me about all the various aspects of life, even at that young age.
The way she always spoke about our island conjured my young imagination of Cyprus as a perfect blend of mountains and plain, with beautiful historic hills that slope and end to some lovely deserted bays that are surrounded by either olive, fruit or pine trees. I remember the countless times we spent in some of these bays having picnics, and afterwards enjoying an afternoon siesta. In hot summer days the best place to be, was either by the beach, or up in the mountains. I still hear in my mind the insistence of the cicada, and mixed with the sound of the sea waves, the making of the infinite duet in the heat of the day.
I always looked forward to my mother coming over to Cyprus to spend some time with us, and in those days in the late 1950’s, the only way to travel was by a ship. It took nearly two weeks to travel to Cyprus from England. She always said that she enjoyed the home coming journey and the approach to Cyprus; for she knew she was near home when the boat approaching the island from the west, she saw the long brown and green coast with all the tall mountains rising inland, and once the boat passed the port of Limassol it wasn’t long till she saw the white sleepy little town with a port called Larnaca. This was our town and she knew she was finally at home.
Larnaca is also the town where my mother was born. My grandparents and I were always waiting faithfully by the port, and at the first glimpse of my mother I felt that my world was complete, and from that moment till the day she was due to return to England I was spoiled rotten.
The days went by quickly while my mother was with us, and little things of the past come to mind. For instance: I used to get up very early in the morning to be with my mother and we both watched the magic of the mist moving away like veils from the lovely tall mountains in the far distance. My favourite time was in the afternoon when we all sat on the big old veranda listening to my grandmother telling us stories about Constantinople - the town where she was born.
One particular afternoon, my grandmother asked my grandfather to take us in the morning on a visit to see the monastery of St. Barnabas. St. Barnabas was St. Paul’s friend and fellow traveller on his journeys. Early the next morning, the food prepared, my grandfather brought his car round; an Austin Seven that had seen better days. After loading the food I sat in the front passenger seat with my grandfather, while my mother sat in the back with my grandmother. We were finally on our way.
We left the town of Larnaca behind us and followed the coastal route towards Famagusta. It was a lovely bright and warm morning. On our right we saw the shimmering blue sea stretching as far as the eye can see. It was a day to be happy; a day I wished it would last forever. I felt this warmth within me; especially knowing that my mother was with me sharing this beautiful day with all of us.
Four miles before reaching the town of Famagusta is the monastery of St. Barnabas. Having turned left, we left the main road and followed an old mule track among endless bean fields and within some distance we reached the many-domed monastery of St. Barnabas. It was almost midday and the sun was high above us and the heat was unbearable. My grandfather parked the car under a carob tree that offered some reasonable shade and comfort. I remember getting out of the car and walked about the little sun-stepped courtyard which led into the main church.
The church was cool and comfortable, and we made our way to the gilded iconostasis. On the way my mother commented about the church whose domes were upheld by piers into which marble columns were built, collected from the ruins of ancient Salamis. First my grandmother lit a candle, and we followed her and paid our respects, first to the icon of St. Barnabas and all the other various saints by kissing them. The nice thing about Greek churches is, that no matter how poor, or small they might be, they always have a good display of beautiful icons. Some Greek people are great believers, and always attach miraculous qualities associated with them, and by kissing them one attains the physical contact, the unity and the connection with that particular saint.
My grandmother as usual started telling us about the history of the church, and when she had finished we noticed an old Greek monk standing by the church entrance. He looked so lonely, as if he wanted to speak to someone. He wore a dark brown cassock; his hair was in a knot and was drawn under a brimless old hat. He came over and asked us if we wanted to see the tomb of St. Barnabas.
The sun was very bright as we exited the church and into the sunlight, we followed the lonely monk through a bean field to a little stone domed chapel building. Once inside we followed a flight of steps that led underground to the vaulted Saint’s tomb. I didn’t feel very comfortable, and my grandfather noticed this apprehension and came over to me and held my hand tight while we were shown around this underground vault. I vaguely remember details, except for an icon that was lit, and a big crevice in the rock face where the body of St. Barnabas was originally discovered. I was so glad when we were back out into the sunlight and breathing fresh air again. We thanked the monk for his kindness and for showing us around and invited him to come over and have something to eat with us, but he politely declined the offer. He noted that he was fasting, he thanked us and left.
Grandfather found a nice shaded space under a very big old carob tree, and a blanket was laid under it where we all sat and had our picnic. The meal turned into a feast. We had roast chicken, salad, meatballs - done with my mum’s special recipe that I liked so much. While we ate, my grandmother asked my mum to tell us about St. Barnabas. At that young age I didn’t really appreciate the importance of that days visit, and I didn’t pay much attention to my mother telling us the story of Saint Barnabas and about the monastery and how he happened to be buried there.
Years later we revisited the site with my beloved wife. But this time having read religious history for over fifty years, I knew all about Saint Barnabas and I was the one telling her all about my previous visit. But this was a new era; for the whole area where we were standing on was under Turkish occupation, and it has been like that since 1974. It was not the same, for the expectations of this visit were disappointing. The magic of that year long ago had gone, for the monastery had been turned into a museum, and the little stone building that protected the saint’s tomb had been replaced by a small Byzantine chapel. In the chapel all Christian icons were missing, with the whole place having been stripped down bare: It looked like a forgotten old ruin. I felt so sad - for I was standing on holy ground; the last resting place of one of the most important Saints of Christianity. I have the highest respect for St. Barnabas: It was he, who first guided St. Paul and started him on his first missionary journey. After our picnic on that first visit, it was decided that since we had time we should go and visit the town old Famagusta.
December 2013