Theresa, refugee Cyprus, Kour of Batroun, family farmers, resistance hordes Turkish troops

Lebanon Art, virtual art gallery

Theresa, the Refugee from Cyprus

Looking down from its constellation, the Pole Star is one of the brightest points of light in the Milky Way; it is to our planet what Cyprus is to the Fertile Crescent of Syria.

Yes, Cyprus is the island nearest the Syrian coast. Famous since earliest antiquity, it is the pearl of the sea, the birthplace of Aphrodite born from the foam of the waves that beat its shores, an island full of charm where one may still find Nature unspoiled. It rises up to a chain of mountains the highest summit of which is Troodos, well over 6,000 feet high and so offering a splendid view. Churches and monasteries are scattered around, with mausoleums and mosaics, and sites of wild beauty abound that recall the legends and myths of ancient times.

Cyprus belonged to the Phoenicians until 620 B.C., then to the Egyptians, to the Persians and finally to the Greeks in 450 B.C.. It was embraced by the empire of Alexander and then fought over by the rulers of Egypt and Syria and of the Arabs. It recovered a certain prosperity with the Crusaders which lasted for three hundred years, but misfortune came with Turkish occupation of the island in 1570 which caused destruction and decline into a deplorable condition, until British administration came in 1878. Its name derives from the Latin Cuprum, copper, which was mined in the island, hence Cypris. Three towns were consecrated to Venus Aphrodite, namely Amathontos, Paphos and Idelia.

When one has left the East Mediterranean coast, a few hours’ sailing enables one to enjoy the sight of the mountains rising above the horizon, recalling the day when Columbus first heard the cry from the masthead of “Land! Land!” when approaching the New World. On the other hand, when coming eastwards from Cyprus and seeing the distant snowy summit of Sannine it is more than joy that one feels, rather a deeper emotion of hope, so one feels forced to exclaim, “Heaven! Heaven!” as if Sannine were the one road to Paradise.

There has always been a relationship between the Fertile Crescent and its island star in every field, geographic, strategic, human and social. In fine weather, fishermen can row to the island, but at present there are rapid ferries taking only a couple of hours, while packet boats, cargoes and oil tankers take the best part of a day.

There has never been civil war in Cyprus involving the two communities, Greek 90% of the population and Turkish 10%, but in 1974 there was a lightning savage invasion by Turkish mainland troops which cut the country into two halves. Many people were massacred or obliged to flee. The United Nations intervened and the island was separated into two zones, one Christian and the other Turkish. It was a time of exodus with refugees all over the place. So far the international community has not recognized the autonomy of the Muslim Turkish part and is trying to bring about the reunification of the island.

For centuries, there have been several Lebanese Maronite villages, whose people once fled persecution or were driven to find refuge in Cyprus by the Ottomans. In one of these little village, Kour Magiti, the people are descendants of immigrants who came from Kour of Batroun. They gave the name of their town of origin to the new hamlet, adding to it Magiti (You did not come.)

There was a certain family of small farmers living there, planting cereals and cultivating vines, fermenting good wine and distilling aniseed liquor. The children went to school, with catechism at the end of the week. There was a general exodus from the village following the events described above, with terrorized refugees everywhere leaving behind all their worldly possession and either fleeing south or embarking for Lebanon, Greece or Europe, for resistance to the hordes of Turkish troops was impossible. When a family was not united in one place, the individuals would go where instinct told them they would be safest. When the Turkish army arrived at the entrance to the village, there was general confusion, disorder and chaos. The inhabitants assembled and took the one way out that allowed them escape.

Theresa was at the house of one of her aunts at the time; she ran to her family house, only to find it in flames. She lost no time. Knowing all the paths and winding ways round the mountain, through the valley and among the rocks, she fled to the open country, turning always towards the south and southwest and hiding at the least sound or crackle of gunfire. Night fell and she could see far away the fires and the smoke in the sky, smell the odor of burning, and hear the shrieks of fright. Finding protection under a rock away from the roads, she fell asleep there. On waking up early next day, she recognized where she was and carried on in the same direction as before. Coming across an old burnt-out building, she knew that the Turks had passed that way. Nearby was a small vegetable garden, where she found something to stay her hunger before hurrying on along her dangerous course. Far away, she could see the armored vehicles that crisscrossed the region. Taking her courage in both hands she pressed further on to reach a hamlet that was still inhabited, in this case by Muslims. She met a young girl of her own age whom she took under her charge, mudded, with clothes in rags and wounds on her arms and legs.

This young girl Fatima reassured her: “Tomorrow you’ll take the road along the valley, and there after about ten miles you will find a Christian village where you can look for your parents.” She had already covered more than twelve miles, and Fatima accompanied her for another three, saying that Theresa would be able to stop a car going in the direction of Larnaka. Theresa gave Fatima a half-pound coin that she happened to have on her. A car stopped and the driver picked Theresa up, perhaps out of pity. She was taken down to Larnaka, a Christian town, and there left right in the center.

Now she started searching for anyone she might know. She begged some bread at a kiosk set up to provide emergency aid for refugees. The man serving told her that he was going to Limassol that evening and Theresa begged him to take her with him. At ten that night she was in Limassol, where she easily found the priory of the Maronite monks whose superior was Father Franco, a member of the Lebanese Maronite Order. The doors had been kept open since the beginning of the catastrophe. In the large garden and in an inner construction adjacent to the priory were several refugees. Theresa greeted them and sat down in a corner, where she was given a sandwich. Next day Father Franco noticed her, having got to know her during his visits to his parishioners in the island. He sat her down at his table to have breakfast with him and she told him how her house had been in flames and she was now looking for her parents.

The kind Father Franco, whom I had known both in Lebanon and in Cyprus, told her to tidy herself up and to take a shower; he then found her some decent clothes to put on and entrusted her to a committee specially created during the violence to coordinate action, help people, and put people in touch with one another. The very same day Theresa’s family were located in a village nearby by the name of Khirokhitia. The surviving members were now all together again, but the father had been murdered by the invading soldiers and the mother and sister raped, with the savagery engrained in the mentality of the aggressors.

As for Father Franco, I had known him with the monks in Jounieh, as he had ordered from me a painting of Saint Michael killing the dragon which I had executed on a canvas of eight feet by five. I had met him on another occasion in Cyprus, when I had just come from Italy by ferry. He was waiting for me at the port and drove in his own car ahead of me. I followed him, saying to myself, “Keep to the left, first to the left,” for I was used to driving on the right-hand side of the road, not on the left as in the former British colony. From Limassol, there were boats running to Sidon and Tripoli, but I wanted to go to the little port of Jounieh, a picturesque fishing port with a military barracks.

But now, fearing any inattention on my part, Father Franco very kindly advised me to drive slowly and to follow close behind him. He accompanied me as far as the quays and then, when my car had been run onto the ferry, we sat down in a café. He told me that he was a Maronite from Cyprus and that he had found his vocation by taking the habit in the Order of Lebanese Monks. He returned to Cyprus every two years to see his aged father and before they parted and Father Franco returned to Lebanon, his father would say, “I look forward to seeing you in two years’ time.” He added that his father always lived in the hope of seeing him again, but the day came when they would see each other no more, with his father buried next to the Maronite church.

This kind Father Franco helped Theresa to find her family again and procured them a dwelling, some clothes, some food and some medicines. The father of Theresa had succumbed to his wounds; her mother, although still young, was in poor health and asthmatic. One of Theresa’s brothers emigrated to Canada, while another settled on the Greek mainland. A third was still quite small. One of Theresa’s sisters was taken on as a baby-sitter by a family in Madrid, while another who stayed with her mother was employed by Father Franco as a general help in the hostel. In this way the family was able to organize itself and find some tranquility.

Theresa went to school; she was good-looking and lively and was at the end of her high school studies when a young monk, himself a student, called Adeeb (Lettered), met her and suggested that he should take her to Lebanon to become a teacher there in a school. Theresa was tempted by this offer, as it meant living in the old homeland and the possibility of earning some money to help her family and to enable them to set up a home again.

One fine morning when we were at home, there arrived this young monk Adeeb, who was a student at the university and also a monk, but one whom I had never seen pray or darken the monastery doors. He simply traveled around, thoroughly enjoying himself, and denying himself nothing, rather than leading a life of self-sacrifice and austerity. However, we got on well enough together; he knew that I was discreet and that I could see deep inside him. He showed great respect towards me as well as friendship, friendship after his own fashion. I met him nearly every day. He was installed next to me, a few paces from my studio, and I remember well the last time he came to see me, in good company – that was twenty years ago!

He told me that a friend of his sister, a refugee from Cyprus belonging to a family ruined by the events, had come to teach in our Jounieh school (although his sister had never been to Cyprus!) and that the person in question, by the name of Theresa, could help us and look after our children, helping them with their homework. My daughters Marina and Madona were at the top of their class, Jean-Pierre’s name remained always on the college roll of honor, never having a grade below 14, while the youngest child, William, the calmest of the lot, thoughtful and intelligent, had some difficulty with his lessons and homework.

At this time we numbered eleven in the house, the children, my wife Andrée and myself, the father of Andrée who occupied a room, an Egyptian servant Sania, and a Lebanese assistant with her brother and her sister to whom I had offered the hospitality of our home, and under our roof there were always friends coming and going. Our home was a camp where affection, freedom and good understanding reigned supreme. The Egyptian worked endlessly from morning till night, though aided by the assistant Georgette and ourselves. She asked me, “Is this a house or a hotel here?” But she was always happy and sang and danced all day.

So I said to Adeeb, “Theresa will be welcome, she can come as a member of our family.” In our home it was forbidden to use the word “me”, only the word “we”. If I asked any of our children to whom a certain toy, tortoise, or pair of shoes belonged, they would always answer “Ours!” Selfishness, self-centeredness, had no place in our family vocabulary. Two washing-machines churned from dawn to dusk. Friends would ask when visiting us, “But what is that background noise we always hear when we’re here?” Then I would explain to them Andrée’s insistence on hygiene and cleanliness.

Theresa fitted in well with us and was popular with our children, showing herself unpretentious, affectionate, devoted, intelligent, amiable, lively, wide awake and unafraid. As for the young monk, he dropped in on us every day, telling us that his sisters were very attached to Theresa, but I had a feeling that Theresa found this visitor a nuisance. We never asked her to do anything; she was free to do what she liked, and had the key of the house and could go out with her friends and come home as she wished. She was fond of us and considered us as her family, calling Andrée Mother and myself Father.

In early spring, from the end of February to April, we used to pick from the garden the flowers of the Seville orange trees to distill them into scented orange water. Theresa enjoyed lending us a hand here, saying that the job recalled her childhood at Kourmagiti, and that the atmosphere in our house awoke in her nostalgia. She earned her wages and spent nothing. We had found her private lessons to give for backward children having difficulties of study. She was good in English and helped the children with the language of Shakespeare when there was need.

When we took off in our cars for an outing, we always worked out a plan with one of our bachelor friends. There were always three or four cars in our convoy so that everybody could find a place. George, one of my bachelor friends no longer very young, confided to me that Theresa interested him and that he found her company enjoyable. We asked Theresa her opinion and suggested that she should go out with George, but without result. She gave us to understand that she had ambitions of her own; George was a fine fellow, but she wished to go onto the university to wind up her studies and she also wanted to plan a trip to her brother in Canada, and meet the family before taking any such decision.

As a daughter of the isle where Venus Aphrodite was born, Theresa had a weakness for the sea and the shore, going there whenever she had time. So we bought her a fishing-line, something which made her very happy. Water means life but its rights have never been recognized. Our planet is one big drop of water, with its seas from which the islands emerge. Truly, water is life.

One hears about the customs of the desert and about the civilization of the steppes, but never about the customs and ways of the sea, this civilization of the coasts of the Mediterranean, although in the Greek Pantheon the wind, the storm, the water and all the elements had their gods as did love, the arts, music, hunting, medicine, and the artisan’s forge. In Phoenicia Venus Astarte was the goddess in love with the young god Adonis. In Greece, India, China and elsewhere there were hundreds of gods, sometimes one for each family, but the One God, unique, appeared in the Phoenician mind, as Il or El, the true Creator God. The names of people and places referred back to him, such as Michael, Gabriel, Hrajel, and endless others.
Now Theresa confessed to me that she was going to disappear without leaving any address, meaning that she was not going to leave her address and means of contact for the young “monk”. One can only guess what promises he had made her. She sat for me to do some sketches of her and then collected some little souvenirs of Lebanon, a country she had loved. Then one night she told us she had booked a place on a ship going to Cyprus the next evening, reaching there next day, when she would see her mother, brothers, sisters and Father Franco.

We were by no means surprised as we well knew that Theresa was ambitious, determined and never likely to give up. She further explained that she had in mind going to her sister in Madrid, and from then on we never had any more news of her except on three occasions, and then very briefly. After some six months, a letter reached us from Montreal: “Dear friend and all the family, Andrée and the children ... I am writing to you from Montreal, where I am registered in the University and also work in medical consulting rooms. My brother is here too. Lebanon is the land that I love. Canada with its freezing winters is not for me. The Cypriot-Greek and Lebanese colony here is very active. I am most grateful to you. I shall never forget the time spent in your home. I love you all...”

As for the young monk, I saw him less and less often; but about twenty years ago he came to visit me with a young lady whom he had picked up in the streets of Calcutta, beautiful with eyes like a doe – he seemingly at least had good taste!

Theresa was the expression of the liberated free woman and wanted freedom for Christian and Muslim women alike, for she had in her mind little Fatima who had been such a help to her.
She led a truly pious life without being in any religious order. Then the situation in Lebanon became steadily worse and people were talking about the “Cyprussing” of Lebanon, and the hypocrisy of the great powers and of their two-faced policies became ever clearer, policies worthy of Machiavelli according to which only their own interests were served.

Two years later a second letter came: “Dear friends, my mother, sister and brother have left Cyprus and are now with me. I am caring for my mother because of her asthma and so on... A big hug to you all...” Each one of us read the letter, for we all felt much affection for Theresa. A year later we received a third and last letter enclosing three or four photos, of Theresa, her elder daughter, her husband, Theresa with her mother, and a little daughter she had named Andrée. This, some thirty-odd years ago, was the last time we heard from her.

We can only suppose that all has gone well with her. As they say, “No news is good news.” Now our own family has split up, each going his or her own way, and Jean-Pierre reminds me, “You taught us to say ‘we’ and ‘us’, and to make no distinction between us, the ‘we, us’ being ‘I, me’ become plural. I find that our three daughters are all on an equal footing, the three of them together with my wife and myself forming another ‘we’”.

Cyprus, this pearl of the Mediterranean, I have visited six times – Cyprus the welcoming, the hinge between Western Asia and Europe, Cyprus whose people are so kind, Cyprus land of remains of past glory, of history and of mythology, Cyprus island of beauty, of goddesses and of love... Recently, Lebanese newly-weds started going for their honeymoon to Cyprus, only a quarter of an hour away by air and offering a great variety of places to visit.

A thought comes to my mind. When people want to describe somebody as being stupid, an idiot, a simpleton, they say, I think unjustly, “Cyprus donkey”. I wonder what the reason for this expression can possibly be. I believe that anyone who is kind, simple, and gentle may be compared to the donkey, for this beast is kind, friendly, faithful, persevering and obedient. Similes are not always explicit, so I have no answer that I can justify. If somebody can explain this expression for me I would be much obliged to him, for the sake of Theresa and that dear Cyprus that we hope to see united once again.