“My beloved cousin from ,” read the tweet from Marianna, “good morning from , your homeland!”
It had been a while since I’d last logged on to Twitter, and messages from my Cypriot cousin were rare, so I took notice. Her tweet went on: “There is a discussion on TV claiming that Cypriot Australians do not want to participate in the local elections. Do u think this is true? Can we do [something] to find out the truth? Love U.”
My cousin Marianna is one of only two close family members who reside in Cyprus. All my other cousins, 17 on my mother’s side and 10 on my father’s, were born and raised in Australia. And although it’s been more than a decade since I last visited Cyprus and spent time with Marianna, we’ve always shared an unspoken bond that survives both distance and time.
My cousin Marianna [and I have] always shared an unspoken bond that survives both distance and time
As for the Cypriot election, well, the truth is, I didn’t even know it was happening.
I am a dual national, Australian-born but also a Cypriot citizen, with a shiny EU passport to boot. As someone who is interested in the world and who sees value in engaging with it, I would usually make the effort of staying informed about the politics of the country where my parents were born. But in recent times, with a busy work and family life and many other things to do and think about, faraway Cyprus has fallen off my radar.
I was last there in the European springtime of 2010 for the wedding of Marianna’s younger brother, Sotiri. It was my third visit. The first was a family holiday with my parents when I was a toddler; the second, in my late 20s, when I was more interested in summertime parties than forging a connection with my parents’ homeland.
This third visit was different. With fewer tourists around, I opened my eyes and got a small window into the real Cyprus. I spent time with my family in my mother’s village, roaming the laneways and meeting her old friends and neighbours, listening to stories of her childhood.
I spent time in my mother’s village, roaming the laneways and meeting her old friends and neighbours, listening to stories of her childhood
I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with my father with distant views of Varosha, the coastal town where he once lived, which now lies in ruins thanks to the decades-long stalemate with Turkey.
I hung out with Marianna and her friends in Nicosia, which, despite being Europe’s last divided capital, is a cosmopolitan place with well-dressed locals, vibrant streets and a cobblestoned old town surrounded by stunning Venetian walls.
Like many sons and daughters of migrants, I had spent my childhood trying to distance myself from the culture of my parents. But on that trip, for the first time in my life, I had touched my roots.
I had spent my childhood trying to distance myself from the culture of my parents
I returned to Australia feeling like I’d reconceptualised my identity. I now had two homes, two places on opposite sides of the world, both of which gave me a sense of belonging.
A dozen years have passed, and it’s been a long time since I’ve thought about Cyprus. I have not spoken with my cousin Sotiri in all that time. Marianna and I have had online interactions, but they’ve been fleeting. Their father, Andriko, the eldest of seven siblings in my mother’s family, died a few years ago. Even my mum, who once made a habit of spending summer there every other year, has no plans to visit anymore.
I thought I’d made peace with my connection to Cyprus. I thought I’d come to terms with my awkward relationship with the place and culture I’d spent my childhood and adolescence denying.
I have never felt as disconnected from my Cypriot heritage and ethnicity as I do right now
Marianna’s message made me realise that wasn’t so. In fact, I have never felt as disconnected from my Cypriot heritage and ethnicity as I do right now.
In some ways, that’s not surprising. After all, I’ve spent no more than four or five months of my 44 years there. It almost feels a bit fraudulent that I’m a citizen with voting rights.
At the same time, while I’ve called Australia home for most of my life, I don’t know if I feel fully Australian either. I was raised in a Cypriot-Australian household sharing values from both cultures, but never feeling as if I fit fully into either. I’m not sure that I ever will.
I was raised in a Cypriot-Australian household sharing values from both cultures, but never feeling as if I fit fully into either
But as is often the case with these things, it’s those who don’t overthink things that provide the pearls of wisdom. In this instance, it was my nine-year-old son. At bedtime one night, I asked him, “If someone asked you what your nationality is, what would you say?”
He replied nonchalantly, “I’d tell them that I’m half Australian and half Greek-Cypriot.”
Then, after a pause, he corrected himself. “Actually, no. I’m 75 per cent Australian and 25 per cent Greek-Cypriot.”
“Okay,” I said, “but why’s that?”
“Well, because you’re my dad and you’re Greek-Cypriot, but you were born in Australia, so you’re Australian, too.”
Sounds like good logic to me.
Weeks after Marianna sent me her tweet, I finally replied. I guiltily told her the truth: I had missed the news about the election. If I had known (and I should have), I would have done my research and supported the candidate with solutions to the problems that confront the country.
Next time, I promised her. Next time for sure.
You might also like
Picturing life with the brother-in-law I never met
