FRAGMENTS OF A DIVIDED CITY
Rationale
I chose the photo essay format because it allows me to explore the lived experiences and emotional narratives of people navigating divided and contested spaces, such as Cyprus. Photography highlights the human aspects of these divisions by capturing subtle, everyday moments that reflect their impact. Inspired by de Certeau’s concept of walking as resistance (de Certeau, 1988), this project uses the photo essay to examine how individuals reclaim divided spaces through their daily practices and presence, subverting the imposed control of borders. By focusing on these human-scale interactions, the project critiques systems of power while prioritising the resilience and agency of those affected by these boundaries.
This project also draws on hooks’ emphasis on accessible storytelling and the power of personal narrative (hooks, 1990). Incorporating my own experiences and those of my family, I aim to ground the work in authenticity while fostering a connection with the audience. The use of images creates a visual entry point that resonates with viewers from diverse backgrounds, transcending language and cultural barriers.
As a Turkish Cypriot, my perspective is deeply shaped by my experiences of growing up within a divided society. This personal connection enables me to approach the subject matter with sensitivity and depth, drawing on both lived memories and theoretical insights. At the same time, I position myself as a reflective observer, connecting individual stories to broader themes of exclusion, identity, and resilience. This dual perspective allows me to present a narrative that is both intimate and universally relatable.
The essay critiques borders as tools of control, drawing from Foucault’s idea that power operates through the organisation of
space (Foucault, 1977). The Green Line exemplifies how geopolitical borders fracture the emotional and social fabric of communities, disrupting daily life and identity. Yet, through the lens of de Certeau’s notion of walking as resistance (de Certeau, 1988), these spaces are reimagined as sites of silent defiance. Individuals navigate these boundaries not just physically but emotionally, asserting their agency in spaces designed to exclude them.
The interplay between text and imagery engages the audience emotionally and intellectually. While the text offers context and reflection, the photographs capture the symbolic tension between exclusion and belonging. The minimalistic layout reflects the control imposed on post-war spaces, while the fragmented structure mirrors the divisions it critiques. The images highlight how everyday movements and routines reclaim these spaces, turning acts as simple as walking into subtle forms of resistance.
I envision the essay being presented digitally and in physical exhibitions. A digital format allows immersive scrolling, while a physical space with fragmented layouts invites viewers to navigate the material as a metaphor for crossing borders. These formats expand the project’s accessibility and impact, reinforcing the themes of exclusion and connection.
This essay complements my video project, which focuses on collective action. Together, they explore the duality of border experiences: quiet reflection and active resistance. Ultimately, this project seeks to humanise the abstract concepts of borders and control by amplifying the voices and stories of those who navigate these spaces daily. It reflects my commitment to a critical spatial practice that fosters empathy, questions entrenched systems, and imagines possibilities for change.
“Space is fundamental in any exercise of power.”
(Foucault, 1984, p. 252)
Lines of Control
This map zooms into Nicosia, the last divided capital in Europe. The Green Line snakes through its historic core, carving a buffer zone that controls the flow of people, goods, and stories between its northern and southern halves. Drawn in 1964 to prevent conflicts between the island’s Turkish- and Greek-speaking communities, this line transformed into a permanent border after the war involving Greece and Turkey a decade later.
Who shaped this map? Whose interests does it serve? The Green Line is not just a border—it is an exercise of power, imposing control over a city that once thrived on unity and connection. Michel Foucault reminds us, this map reflects the priorities of those who drew its lines, creating systems of exclusion that disrupt the lives of those who call this city home.
Looking at this map, I think of the narrow streets I walked as a child—streets that stop abruptly, interrupted by walls and checkpoints. Streets that once thrived with markets and conversation now echo with silence, their vitality frozen by the lines on this map. While the Green Line was meant to ensure peace, its prolonged existence perpetuates division, benefitting those who wield power over it more than those who live within its confines.
Maps like this illustrate the role of borders in defining geopolitical realities, often at the cost of shared humanity. Space is political, and the Green Line is the proof of this. Behind the line lies not just land but stories of separation and resilience. This map introduces us to the central theme of this essay: a journey through the fragments of a divided city.
Flags of Division
A chain-link fence dominates the foreground, sharp and unyielding. Behind it, flags representing Turkey, the TRNC, Cyprus, and Greece flutter in the distance. These symbols of identity stand close yet divided, their proximity underscoring the distance between the communities they represent.
The Green Line, as drawn on the map, becomes real here. The Republic of Cyprus flag once represented all Cypriots; on paper, it still does. However, in reality, it now primarily represents Greek-speaking Cypriots, its pairing with the Greek flag underscoring this shift. Meanwhile, the TRNC flag, unrecognised and exiled, mirrors the Turkish flag, symbolising the control Turkey exerts over Turkish Cypriots and the erasure of their distinct cultural identity.
The chain-link fence, sharp and unyielding, is not just a physical barrier—it is a metaphor for the invisible walls that divide communities, identities, and aspirations. These flags, though separated by fences today, could one day symbolise a shared identity, rooted not in division but in the collective heritage and future of all Cypriots. They invite us to imagine a shared future, where identity is bound not by separate banners but by collective belonging to the island as a whole.
A Tombstone of Dreams
The façade of this building barely stands, the only visible remnant of a once-lived life. Green fabric hangs from a window, fluttering in the wind. The crumbling stone of the façade is rough and uneven, its archway hollow, framing a view of overgrown vegetation and broken debris. The bright sunlight contrasts sharply with the shadowed decay, as if illuminating what remains while mourning what is lost.
The flags rising above the Green Line signify the rigid identities speaking the division, while the abandoned homes embody the silence left behind. The ruins of homes stand as testaments to lives disrupted. This building is a tombstone, its façade the only marker of what once was. The green fabric embodies the Green Line itself—torn and fragile, much like the dreams of those who called this place home. I wonder who lived here, what their lives were like, and what they left behind when they fled. Perhaps they gathered here with family, shared meals, or gazed through these windows, never imagining their home would one day stand as a hollow shell.
This building, like so many along the Green Line, is a casualty of division. It represents not just physical destruction but the fracturing of lives, identities, and communities. As bell hooks writes, home is not simply a place but a site of memory and belonging (hooks, 2009). In spaces like this, where the physical home has been erased, the memories remain—unspoken yet deeply felt, marking the Green Line not only as a barrier but as a wound on collective identity. Here, the collapse of the building mirrors the collapse of connection.This scene challenges us to see beyond the ruin, to imagine how spaces like this might be reclaimed and rebuilt, both physically and emotionally.
“What the map cuts up, the story cuts across.”
(De Certeau, 1984, p. 129)
Defensive Thresholds
A beautiful entrance stands fortified, its windows barricaded with sandbags. The damaged door and bullet-scarred wall bear witness to a history of violence—a stark reminder of the conflict that once engulfed this space. The scene feels frozen in a moment of urgency and fear, capturing the fragility of life during times of unrest.
This scene recalls the day war broke out, a moment etched into the memories of those who lived through Cyprus’s division. The sandbags, now worn and weathered, were once hastily arranged in an act of survival. They tell a story of people determined to protect what they could, even as the world around them unravelled. My mother says their home looked like this on the day war broke out. My mother says their home looked like this on the day war broke out. Women and children hid in the corridor, ensuring at least two walls separated them from the street. Men, on the other hand, were either waiting by the door or outside in the field.
These personal memories tie into the broader reality of conflict— how spaces of safety are transformed into sites of fear and vulnerability. This doorway reflects the everyday reality of conflict, where survival becomes the priority. The bullet holes are scars on the façade, reminders of the violence that shaped this space. Yet, this image also invites us to consider the potential for healing—how these barriers might one day be dismantled, and this doorway reopened to connection and renewal.
“The archive has always been a pledge, and like every pledge, a token of the future.”
(Derrida, 1995, p. 18)
Rooms in Limbo
Sunlight streams through broken windows, illuminating dust-covered floors and crumbling walls. The room is bare, except for fragments of furniture and debris scattered across the floor, hinting at a life long gone. The cracked doors and shattered glass seem frozen in time, as if waiting for their story to continue.
While fortified thresholds spoke of immediate survival, stepping beyond these barriers reveals spaces frozen in time, abandoned and echoing with absence. I imagine the people who once called this place home—the scrape of chairs on the floor, the murmur of voices, the clink of dishes. Their routines, joys, and struggles now feel impossibly distant, replaced by silence that fills the void and makes the air heavy with absence.
The interior of this abandoned building is a physical manifestation of displacement. It reflects the trauma of those forced to leave, their lives uprooted and frozen in the wake of conflict. As Jacques Derrida suggests, spaces like this act as archives, preserving fragments of erased histories. The Green Line creates an unnatural pause, leaving these homes in a state of limbo, caught between destruction and reclamation. Yet, the light filtering through the windows feels like a quiet invitation—to reclaim, to rebuild, to fill these walls with new life. These spaces hold the potential for new stories to emerge, challenging us to move beyond division and reimagine what these walls could hold once again.
“Exile is strangely compelling to think about but terrible to experience. It is the unhealable rift forced between a human being and a native place, between the self and its true home: its essential sadness can never be surmounted.”
(Said, 2001, p. 173)
A Home Beyond Reach
Barbed wire stretches across the foreground, sharp and unyielding. In the blurred background, an abandoned house sits in silence, its windows crumbling under the weight of time. The house, partially cloaked in shadows and overgrown with vegetation, stands as a hollow shell—a ghost of the life it once held.
The barbed wire stands as a physical barrier, yet my gaze is drawn to the house beyond it. It reminds me of my grandfather’s home. He bought it with a lottery prize—a dream home in which he only lived for a few months, but one he has been dreaming of returning to for over 50 years. Each time he speaks of the house, it feels as though he’s reconstructing it in his memory—a sanctuary that lives more vividly in his mind than it ever did in reality.
Barbed wire is a powerful symbol of control, its sharpness a visual representation of exclusion and division. The house in the background serves as a haunting reminder of what lies beyond these barriers—lives left behind, stories untold. Edward Said’s idea of exile resonates here. As Said notes, “exile is not just a physical condition but an emotional and psychological state—a constant negotiation between what was left behind and the hope of return” (Said, 2001, p. 173). The contrast between foreground and background challenges us to think about what borders protect and what they erase, urging us to question not just their purpose, but their permanence and the stories they silence.
“The street geometrically defined by urban planning is transformed into a space by walkers.”
(De Certeau, 1984, p. 117)
Barriers and Bridges
The street stretches toward a concrete wall that abruptly halts its path. A “no photos” sign adds an air of surveillance, as though this space is meant to be unseen. On one side of the wall stands an Ottoman-era home, while on the other, a cathedral tower rises above the division, hinting at the city’s layered and intertwined history.
If abandoned homes tell the story of displacement, the barriers that surround them show the systems that enforce it, rigid and unyielding. The wall is an unwelcome interruption, turning a space meant for connection into one of restriction. The “no photos” sign seeks to obscure not just the physical division but also the history and ongoing realities it represents, making the division itself an unspoken wound. Even acknowledging this space feels forbidden, as though it is a space outside of time and belonging.
This street is a microcosm of the Green Line’s impact on urban life. As Michel de Certeau suggests, streets are spaces of interaction shaped by the movement and presence of people. Here, the street is defined by the wall. The wall disrupts the space, reducing the street to a void—a corridor of disconnection rather than interaction. Yet, the character of the buildings on either side hints at continuity. It suggests that, even divided, this city remains a home to diverse cultures, offering hope for a future where barriers are replaced by bridges.
“Hope locates itself in the premises that we don’t know what will happen and that in the spaciousness of uncertainty is room to act”
(Solnit, 2004, p. xiv).
Growth Amid Ruins
In the foreground, greenery emerges from the cracks of a crumbled stone wall. The plants grow with vigour, spreading upward and outward, reclaiming the abandoned building in the background. The structure, its wooden frame and walls weathered by time, hints at life long forgotten.
This image speaks of both decay and persistence. The building, once someone’s home or sanctuary, stands in silence, bearing the scars of time and conflict. Yet, the plants in the foreground tell a different story—one of nature’s quiet but persistent reclamation. This duality feels both haunting and hopeful. It reminds me that life moves forward, even when human actions bring it to a halt.
The sight of greenery overtaking this abandoned space echoes Rebecca Solnit’s idea that hope often grows in the unexpected. Here, nature silently asserts itself, indifferent to the divisions and borders imposed by humans. This scene becomes a metaphor for renewal—reminding us that even in spaces marked by loss, there is always the potential for growth and transformation.
A Stage for Division and Hope
The Ledra Palace Hotel sits in the distance, framed by greenery and the leaves of a nearby tree. Its façade, weathered by time, contrasts with the vibrant vegetation around it. Nearby, an abandoned building reflects the stillness and stagnation of the buffer zone, its crumbling walls a haunting reminder of the lives once lived within.
Once a symbol of luxury, the Ledra Palace is now a site of contradiction. Its current use as a UN base fills me with unease, as its interior brims with military personnel—a stark reminder that the conflict persists, casting a shadow over hopes for resolution. Yet, this same space also hosts peace talks, offering a hopeful symbol of what could one day be. This dual role—housing soldiers while hosting negotiations—captures the paradox of Cyprus: caught between division and the possibility of peace.
The surrounding vegetation grows freely, untouched by the human conflicts that persist. It stands as a quiet reminder of resilience, hinting at the possibility of renewal not just for the Ledra Palace, but for the island as a whole. This scene invites reflection on how spaces of division might one day transform into spaces of reconciliation and shared purpose. I imagine the hotel’s grand halls not as sites of tension, but as places where unity is celebrated and its walls bear witness to the island’s long-awaited healing.
Navigating a Divided Homeland
A woman adjusts her belongings near the passport control window, the sign reading “Pasaport Kontrol” starkly marking this as a space of regulation and division. In the foreground, a blurred figure moves quickly, as if to escape the bureaucratic weight of the scene. The station’s rigid structure contrasts with the organic movement of the people, emphasising the tension between freedom and control.
This image reminds me of how borders create an atmosphere of tension and separation, even in spaces of passage. Crossing here has always felt more than physical; it is an emotional crossing, forcing one to confront the reality of division. Having to prove our identity to move through the land I belong is offensive. I remember times where I had to cancel plans just because I forgot to bring my passport. In those moments, I felt not just frustration but a sense of alienation, as though the land I belong to was not truly mine. The act of showing a passport becomes a reminder of how identity is constantly questioned, divided, and categorised by the borders we have constructed—forcing us to navigate a fragmented sense of belonging in our own homeland.
The passport control station is not just a site of passage—it is a site of power, where individuals are monitored, categorised, and controlled. My own experiences of alienation at this border reflect that surveillance reduces individuals to documentation, fragmenting their sense of self. It reflects the broader dynamics of the Green Line, where movement is tightly regulated, and identity is defined not by connection but by division. Yet, the blurred figure in motion reminds us that people continue to move, crossing and challenging these boundaries in their own quiet ways.
Childhood Under Watch
A child swings on a rusting playground structure, his expression calm, almost unaware of the UN watchtower looming in the background. Barbed wire coils along the fence, a stark reminder of the militarized border. The vibrant greenery of the park contrasts sharply with the cold steel of the fence and tower. The rusting swing set, once a symbol of carefree childhood, now feels frozen in time, echoing the stagnation imposed by the Green Line.
The passport control stations mark the Green Line’s bureaucratic impositions, but for children, the same line materializes as a silent observer of their play—a looming, unspoken presence in the backdrop of childhood. This scene takes me back to my own childhood. Growing up near these borders, the sight of barbed wire and watchtowers became a normal part of life. As children, we adapted to the unnatural—running and laughing within the shadow of these barriers. Yet, the presence of this division raises many questions: Why are we separated? Will this ever change? These are questions the elderly, who lived through the events, often lack the strength or words to answer.
This image captures the duality of childhood along the Green Line: innocence and resilience coexisting with division and control. For children, these borders aren’t just physical barriers; they constrain imagination and restrict connection and belonging, leaving a lasting imprint on how identity is formed. This image is a microcosm of what it means to grow up divided but hopeful, always looking beyond the fences for freedom.
“The right to the city is like a cry and a demand... it is a transformed and renewed right to urban life.”
(Lefebvre, 1996, p. 158)
A Quiet Defiance
A small group of people gathers at outdoor tables, sipping coffee and chatting under the warm afternoon sun. Behind them, the grandeur of the Ledra Palace Hotel rises, framed by lush greenery and hints of decay. This contrast between casual, everyday life and the weight of history feels striking, as though two different worlds coexist within the same frame.
This juxtaposition feels poignant. The casual energy of the coffee shop contrasts sharply with the silent presence of the Ledra Palace. After so much time, people here have learned how to live with the haunting presence of these buildings and borders. Yet, their presence in this space is not passive—it is quietly defiant. It’s as if their laughter and conversation soften the edges of the division, reminding us that life persists even in the shadow of borders.
The coffee shop represents resilience—how life adapts and endures in the face of separation. Henri Lefebvre’s notion of the ‘right to the city’ reminds us that people shape spaces through their presence and practices. By gathering here, the patrons of the coffee shop transform this borderland into a space of connection, reclaiming their right to normalcy and humanity. This small act of community offers a glimpse of what coexistence might look like, where barriers give way to bridges and spaces of division become spaces of belonging.
Shadows Over Peace
A stencilled silhouette of a soldier looms over a fallen dove, its olive branch lying on a pool of red. The image, stark and visceral, is a haunting representation of the impact of militarisation on the dream of peace. The dove, a universal symbol of harmony and hope, lies lifeless beneath the weight of conflict, silenced by the shadow of power and violence.
This artwork encapsulates the reality of life along the Green Line. The presence of the military is not just a reminder of past violence but an ongoing barrier to reconciliation. Each gun, each uniform, and each watchtower reinforces division and distrust, killing all hopes for peace before they can take flight. It speaks to the way militarisation distorts not only landscapes but also the human spirit, turning spaces of potential into places of stagnation and fear.
The visual juxtaposition here is powerful—the stark black soldier’s shadow against the vibrant white of the dove creates a tension that cannot be ignored. The soldier’s shadow becomes a metaphor for hooks’ observation that domination extinguishes love, leaving no room for coexistence (hooks, 2000, p. 98). Peace, much like love, cannot flourish where power is imposed through violence. This piece asks us to confront the cost of division and question what it would take to remove the shadow so the dove—and with it, hope—might rise again.
“Heterotopias are real places—places that do exist and that are formed in the very founding of society—which are something like counter-sites, a kind of effectively enacted utopia in which the real sites, all the other real sites that can be found within the culture, are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted.”
(Lefebvre, 1996, p. 173)
A Space for Reconnection
A group of people gathers at the “Home for Co-operation,” their conversations and laughter filling the air. The building, nestled within the buffer zone, stands as a quiet yet powerful symbol of resilience and dialogue. Its bright, welcoming façade contrasts with the divisions it seeks to bridge, offering a rare moment where boundaries dissolve.
Beyond the barbed wire and military shadows that define the Green Line lies a different kind of space, one offering connection and collaboration that defies imposed division. This space feels like its name, home. It is how Cyprus should have looked in many hearts. Amid the political tensions and physical barriers, the “Home for Co-operation” reclaims a portion of the Green Line, transforming it into a place of hope and inclusion.
Through cultural events, peace-building workshops, and everyday gatherings, this space challenges the very purpose of the buffer zone. It reflects what Michel Foucault describes as a heterotopia: a site that simultaneously mirrors, contests, and reimagines societal norms. The Green Line, once a symbol of division, becomes a meeting point where shared experiences take precedence over political control. This space is not just a building; it is a testament to the enduring human desire to connect, share, and rebuild—one conversation at a time.
“Leave the door open for the unknown, the door into the dark. That’s where the most important things come from, where you yourself came from, and where you will go.”
(Solnit, 2005, p. 4)
Resilient Roots
A single pink flower emerges from the shadows, its delicate petals framed by wire and metal fencing. Around it, greenery thrives in small patches, defying the harshness of its surroundings. This image is simple yet profound, a reminder of nature’s quiet resilience.
From spaces of reconnection to nature’s quiet reclamation, the story of Nicosia hints that even in the shadow of division, resilience and renewal find ways to emerge. This flower is a symbol of hope. It grows where it shouldn’t, reclaiming a space meant to restrict and control. Its presence is a reminder that even in the harshest conditions, life finds a way to flourish. I see this as a metaphor for the potential of reconciliation—not the erasure of scars but the ability to grow alongside them, to create something new and beautiful in spaces marked by history.
This flower tells a story that invites us to embrace uncertainty and possibility. It embodies Solnit’s idea, finding life and growth in the most unexpected of places. Reconciliation is not about erasing scars but growing alongside them, creating something new and beautiful in spaces marked by history. This small bloom challenges us to imagine a future where barriers become irrelevant, and life flourishes freely, unconfined by fences or divisions.
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