memories – Lessons I learned after I turned 30

The power of childhood memories and why you shouldn’t make assumptions

Sunday afternoon,

My sister, my hubby, and I are returning from our Sunday excursion when my husband suddenly reminds me, “Didn’t you say you wanted to buy a lottery ticket?”.

Of course, I did. Who doesn’t dream of winning just enough money to go on a month-long trip to South America, buy a house so they never have to pay rent, and swap their 9-5 office job with charity work, volunteering, a little farm in the suburbs, and a cottage by the sea? Well, that’s my dream.

So, we made a stop at the nearest bet shop (in Cyprus, you can’t buy a lottery ticket online, you can only get it from bet shops, which are mostly frequented by old men who stare at any woman walking through the door) and we got our tickets. Bet shops also sell scratch cards, which for Cypriot millennials hold a special place in our hearts.

Our parents used to buy us one from a street seller at the beach, at christenings, weddings, or pretty much any celebration, or on a Sunday afternoon, from a local kiosk, as a treat (as well as ice cream, of course, an Agrino cone most of the time). Beautiful, happy memories that evoked almost a melancholic nostalgia for my childhood innocence and carefreeness. So, we decided to get a couple of scratch cards as well.

My sweet husband, who didn’t grow up in Cyprus, had no idea what a scratch card was and what to do with it.

“You really don’t know how it works?” I exclaimed.

“No, we didn’t have this in Egypt!” he answered.

“YOU DIDN’T??” I replied.

I immediately assumed that everyone knows what a scratch card is, and it reminded me not only how powerful childhood memories are but also not to assume that just because I know or understand something well, everyone else does. That’s how misunderstandings happen, quite often, due to wrong assumptions.

That’s a useful reminder for everyone, particularly for trainers, teachers, managers, and anyone who imparts skills or knowledge to others. Don’t assume your students/trainees understand something just because you do. Always check their level of knowledge and ask questions so you can design your session based on their level, not yours.

Eleni

The sweet smell of memories

I put the bread in the toaster, put the saucepan on the hob and whilst stirring I was instantly distracted… thinking of the day I had, the great people I met, friends I’m seeing this week after a long time, worrying about things, how fast time goes, life and then suddenly, the smell of the forgotten, almost burnt toast…

And just like that I was back, back in my great grandma Annou’s home. I must have been around 6 or 7 years old, I had just started school and I loved it. I loved my teacher, who had the same name as me, Mrs Eleni Iakovou, my uniform, my new friends, I loved learning, I loved everything about it. But what I loved most was my afternoons with my favourite cousins Georgia and Andreas and my dear dear grandma Stella who never hid the fact that I was her favourite grandchild.

Every day, before going to giagia Stella we’d pop to giagia Annou first who permanently lived on the first floor of her house. She was, in her nineties, too old for those old creaking stairs to be going up and down, so she stayed in this big room, full of her favourite things. She had a little old toaster right next to her and what I remember most of her was offering us toast every time we went to see her. And the toast, almost always slightly burnt, but not quite. That’s how I like my toast to the day.

My mind then wandered to my grandma Stella. I spent most of my time with her until she died when I was 9. I remember her making me chunky, delicious, greasy fries when I didn’t want to have the healthier lunch my parents prepared for me.

I remember the smell of roses. The smell of the rose water she often asked me to sprinkle her hair and face with on those hot, summer days, back when air conditioning was not common in every house. I remember how I loved to smell my hands afterwards, the delicious, sweet smell of roses, that I love so much I can’t use any other smell for my perfume, because it will always remind me my time with my grandma.

I only have an old, half-ruined from a flood picture of us together, still in my school uniform, happily, proudly kneeling next to her, smiling.

I smiled. And then I cried. I cried tears of nostalgia but also joy, gratefulness, love.

Blessed I was so dearly, unconditionally loved by my great grandma, my grandma, my cousins. Blessed I had an amazingly, crazy childhood full of smells, food, love, adventures, bruised knees, dirty clothes from playing outside, people, beautiful, pure, kind-hearted people.

I finished dinner and sat on my guitar for hours. Playing the same song, again and again.

Let these fools be loud, let alarms ring out, ’cause you cut through all the noise…Bring me some hope, by wandering into my mind, something to hold on to, morning, noon, day or night. You are the light that is blinding me, you’re the anchor that I tie to my brain, ’cause when it feels, like I’m lost at sea, you’re the song I sing again and again, all the time, all the time, I think of you all the time…

And that’s how I put all the worrying, stressful, painful thoughts aside for a night.

Whatever the future holds for me, I’ll always have the memories and I’ll always have my loved ones, the light blinding me, the anchor that I tie to my brain.

Namaste

Eleni

05:30, 20th of July, 1974 the sirens sounded, the Turks just invaded Cyprus…

43 years agο, on the early, warm morning of the 20th of July 1974, the sirens sounded. Since then they will sound every year on that day to remind us of 1974.

My mum, 8 years old then, with two of her three sisters, her brother and her parents woke up terrified and were told that Turks invaded Cyprus and had to leave their home and ran into safety. Her eldest sister was with her grandma and grandpa, captured by the Turks. Later on a kind Turkish officer would disguise her and she would pretend to be an old lady so she could escape and avoid rape and murder…

A few cities away, my dad, his two sisters and his mum were on the run, desperate to get into safety… They would live in a refugee camp for months…

My dad still has some photos from the time he lived in those but since they are all back home in Cyprus. I found these ones online, to give you an idea of life after the invasion.

I’ve heard and read hundreds of horror stories over the years, not just what I’ve been taught at school (not much) but from my parents, relatives, family friends and my own research.

I spent endless summer nights with my dad sitting on our balcony, having a cold beer and him narrating everything that has happened with chilling details, from the 15th of July 1974, the coup, the assassination attempt of the then president Archbishop Makarios (his statue is still in Madam Tussauds), the historic moment he addressed the Cypriot nation on the radio confirming he was alive, until that horrendous day, 20/7/1974 that left a horrible mark on my little island’s history for ever.

43 years later, a lot of people are still missing, several have died in protest (I vividly remember the summer of 1996, when Solomos Solomou, upset and emotional after his cousin’s murder, was shot dead by a Turkish officer, whilst climbing on the flag pole in an attempt to take down the Turkish flag and replace it with the Cypriot one. The whole island watching this were terrified that the Turks would invade Cyprus again, I had nightmares for years after that day) and Nicosia is the last divided capital in the world.

I won’t get into too much politics but I’m aware that England, Turkey and Greece had already divided the island since 1963, 11 years before the invasion and the infamous Green Line that still divides my little island got its name from the colour of the pen the then British Commander Young used to split the island on the map. British forces are still in Cyprus to keep the ‘peace’ between the two ‘governments’.

It’s sad that after all these years the island is still divided and all because of politics. My grandparents and parents used to live with Turkish Cypriots in peace until politics destroyed everything. My grandpa can still speak Turkish, as he had Turkish Cypriot friends.

It’s sad that my little sister’s generation doesn’t really know much about what happened and a lot of the memories and the history will die when my generation dies.

I remember my dearest grandma Stella describing me the beauties of her birth place, Kithrea, the river that run through it, Kefalovriso, how my mum used to play with the ducks in the river, my grandpa telling me all about his life before 1974, being a shepherd, spending his days in the fields, playing his flute. I remember my dad’s hilarious childhood adventures, running around getting himself into trouble, working at his uncle’s restaurant and many many more stories.

I’ve always wanted to write them down so they don’t die with me and that’s on my bucket list.

I can keep on writing about my little island’s history for days but the only thing I want to say on this day is:

I hope that one day I don’t have to show my passport to visit my mum and dad’s homes, the places they were born and grew up. I’ve only visited once and I found it extremely sad and felt sorry for Turkish Cypriots who most live in poverty. There is so much beauty on the other side of my island but no money to let it shine through.

I hope one day my little island will be united again, even if it’s under two governments.

Until then, I’ll never forget and hope for the best.

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Eleni x