Taboo. Borders. / Ekaterina Bodyagina [extrait / extract]

TA B O O.

BORDERS.

E K AT E R I N A B O DYA G I N A

Concept In April 2018, I was at Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv to catch my flight to Moscow.

I had spent a month in Israel and Palestine, interviewing and photographing ArabJewish couples. What began the year before as writing an article for an online magazine turned into this long-term documentary project. As I was approaching the queue at the check-in counter, a security guard touched his colleague’s shoulder and nodded at me.

He looked at the paper in his hands, said “Ken, yalla, bo!” 1, and headed towards me. An interrogation that lasted more than an hour followed.

They asked me about the places I visited and the people I met in Israel and Palestine: names, occupations, addresses. Where I had met them and what we had talked about.

If we were friends on Facebook, and if so, they insisted I showed them our conversations.

I told them that they were invading my privacy. “That’s part of the procedure,” one of them said. Afterwards, they told me to show them the photos from my camera and asked, “What’s a good photo for you? When you take a picture of an Arab-Jewish couple, what are you looking for?” They asked where I study and work, with whom I live, how I finance my project. They opened my backpack and inspected every item inside. They patted me down, checking my body, my hair. Then they sent me to the X-ray scanner.

I was the last to board the plane. Some passengers looked at me with curiosity, others with irritation. One woman who had seen me being searched asked, “What was it for?”

This question might sound casual, but it is central to my project.

Interviewing and photographing Arab-Jewish2 couples in Israel and Palestine as well as Greek-Turkish Cypriots on Cyprus, I heard heartbreaking stories.

1

In Hebrew:

2

An important note: one couple I photographed, Imri and Mohammad, define themselves as a Jewish-

— yes, let’s go!

Palestinian couple (Mohammad also said in an interview that he calls himself Israeli or Palestinian, depending with whom he is speaking). Another couple describes themselves in different ways: Alina as RussianIsraeli and Salman as Bedouin-Israeli. A different couple identifies as Jewish-Israeli (Ela) and Israeli-Druze (Emad). Calling these couples Arab-Jewish is, on one hand, simplifying their complex identities. On the other hand, it is making known the challenges these couples face, because they are defined as Arab-Jewish.

Several Palestinians in Israel also told me that the Israeli government deprives them of their identity by calling them “Arabs.” I keep this in mind whenever I speak or write about the project.

The family of a Druze man named Emad didn’t talk to him for half a year after finding out his Jewish partner was pregnant. Serkan, a Turkish Cypriot, lost his job, because he is married to a Greek Cypriot. Mohammad, a Palestinian Israeli, was beaten up repeatedly by members of the Jewish far-right organisation Lehava3 for being with a Jewish woman.

Hatice, a Turkish woman, tried to commit suicide, because of societal and family pressures from having a relationship with a Greek Cypriot. This list of hardships goes further.

Listening to these stories, I have asked myself the same question I was asked on the plane — “What was it for?” 4 More precisely: what makes people who associate themselves with a particular territory or culture feel offended when their “compatriot” falls in love with someone beyond the border? As one of my interviewees, a Jewish-Israeli woman named Orna, wittily stated: “I sleep with a person, not with his passport.” What value do some people see in labelling this as an offence? Is it that some people believe their identities are defined by religion, tradition, history, and culture? Those key words brought me to the notion of a nation. Benedict Anderson stated in his book Imagined Communities that a nation is: “An imagined political community — and imagined as both inherently limited and sovereign. It is imagined because the members of even the smallest nation will never know most of their fellow-members, meet them, or even hear of them, yet in the minds of each lives the image of their communion … In fact, all communities larger than primordial villages of face-to-face contact (and perhaps even these) are imagined.” 5 Contemporary imagined communities still find their homes within nation-states, except for some that are considered rather disadvantaged6. On the UNESCO website, a nation-state is defined as “an area where the cultural boundaries match up with the political boundaries” 7.

3

Lehava violently opposes relationships between Jews and non-Jews.

4

It is important that this question is not judgmental but investigative.

5

Anderson, Benedict: Imagined Communities. Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism. Revised Edition. London, New York: Verso. 2016. pp. 5-6.

6

Not all countries agree that Palestine is a nation-state. By 2019, 138 of the 193 member states at the United Nations and two non-member states recognised the Palestinian Declaration of Independence, which in 1988 proclaimed the establishment of the State of Palestine. Palestinians do not have the same rights as members of nation-states.

7

UNESCO

website:

www.unesco.org/new/en/social-and-human-sciences/themes/international-migration/gloss-

ary/nation-state/ However, it also emphasises that this definition is inherited from the 19th century and needs revision due to the crisis of the nation-state — the contemporary separation of state from the nation.

I pushed this idea further — what are the visual markers of boundaries that separate the couples in the eyes of their communities? This is how the borders part of the project was born. I decided to take photos of physical borders — fences, wires, and other barriers that symbolise a political boundary of nation-states. Specifically, I photographed the West Bank barrier that divides Israel and Palestine; fences that separate Jewish settlements on Palestinian territories; cactus barriers surrounding displaced Palestinian villages. I also photographed borders between Israel and its neighbours (when this was relevant to couples’ stories), the United Nations-controlled buffer zone between the southern and northern parts of Cyprus, and abandoned spaces close to these borders. My project naturally divided into two sections:

1 . TA B O O One is devoted to couples with different backgrounds whose relationships are considered taboo, because their partners come from conflicting communities separated by borders.

2. BORDERS The other focusses on nation-states and territories divided from their opposing neighbours.

In the end, the following concept was born: A border is not always a taboo, but a taboo is always a border. A border can be physical and mental, while a taboo usually exists in a person’s mind or becomes “common sense” in a community.

This project is devoted to the borders that became taboos, or perhaps — to the taboos that became borders. What comes first is a disputable question that forms the core and essence of my work. The intention, however, goes further — to shine a light on the hardships of people who challenge taboos and borders.

I predict some readers will ask the valid question of why I combined Israel and Palestine with the southern and northern parts of Cyprus in my project. Aside from Great Britain leaving a noticeable footprint on these territories 8, Cypriot and Israeli-Palestinian historical events do not have much in common, other than territorial dispute. Even these histories are of two incomparable conflicts in different regions. However, the 23 individuals whom I interviewed for this project show these territories share in common something else: people who fall in love with a member of a community across a border face abuse, threats, boycotts, and even violence.

Cypriots, Israelis, and Palestinians are surely not the only ones who suffer from this.

Many other couples with different backgrounds around the world are also considered taboo. I would be no less interested to cover the life of Armenian-Azerbaijani 9 or Indian-Pakistani couples10. I plan to continue this empathic journey into the households of couples with different backgrounds from all over the world. But one has to start somewhere and Cyprus together with Israel and Palestine happen to be the pilot stories.

While typing empathic journey I do have impostor syndrome. During my travels for this project, I questioned many times whether it is legitimate that I — a stranger — bring my lens to such complex regions. I have never lived in these countries nor do I speak the language. The main thing that ties me with these places is the unexplainable and sincere emotion I feel towards my interviewees and the reality they live in. A certain relief came over me when three of my interviewees told me that they would not be able to share their story with a journalist from their own community.

I confess: though I began this project with the intention of staying impartial, this did not last. Nevertheless, I did my best to inform myself by listening to all sides, as well as speaking with locals of all classes, ages, and genders. This project is the undertaking of these attempts.

8

Cyprus was under UK control for 82 years (1878-1960); the British mandate in Palestine lasted for 28 years (1920-1948).

9

Largely because of the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict, there are no diplomatic relations between the two countries. During NATO’s Partnership for Peace programme in 2004 in Budapest, an Azerbaijani lieutenant murdered an Armenian participant.

10 In addition to the Kashmir conflict that has lasted for more than 71 years, India and Pakistan have fought three other wars.

Banayis

Hatice

The couple lives in the village of Sipahi in the northern part of Cyprus. They have been together for ten years.

Hatice and Banayis Hatice, 47: Banayis 1 and I grew up in the same village. He said that he noticed me when I was a child but was afraid to approach me. Communication between Greek and Turkish Cypriots was unthinkable back then. Instead, we would gaze at each other, but until the age of 35 never spoke.

One morning, our mutual friend and I had coffee together. Banayis took a chance and sat down with us. He glanced at me with a discreet greeting but spoke mostly to our friend.

Later, Banayis told me that he wanted to do this many times before, but his heart would stop when I entered the cafe. It wasn’t until then that he built up the courage to say his humble hello. Since then, each day before work, we have invited each other for coffee.

A few months later, my brother found me a job in Famagusta2. When I told Banayis the news, his mood shifted. He seemed sad and I knew that he wouldn’t ask for my number, so I took matters into my own hands: I wrote my number on a napkin and handed it to him. From then on, every day, we would call each other.

At that time, Banayis was still married, but he didn’t live with his wife — they were in the process of separating. He had two sons with his former wife. Before my appearance, Banayis’ family accepted this decision. But the situation changed dramatically when they found out about my existence. As Banayis likes to say, the 1974 war was nothing compared to their reaction about our relationship. A Turkish relative wasn’t part of their plans, and they became insistent on Banayis’ reunion with his wife, who changed her mind about agreeing to a divorce.

Banayis’ sister-in-law invited me to meet with her. Once I arrived, she attempted to dissuade me from continuing my relationship with Banayis. She said that he was an alcoholic, that he was lazy. I told her, if this is true, I would earn money for both of us, that I was in this for love and not what Banayis could offer me financially. After that, she moved on to threats: my brother didn’t know about our relationship — and she would be sure to tell him.

1

Banayis is 48 years old.

2 The Turkish name for the port city on the east coast of Cyprus. It is located in the northern part of Cyprus.

After this incident, I went to my parents. Only my mother was home. I told her about my relationship and she reacted calmly. Half an hour later, my brother came home — Banayis’ sister-in-law had already told him. My brother made it clear that he would never accept my relationship with Banayis. And just like that, my mother changed her mind. My father stopped speaking to me altogether.

Banayis tried to improve his relationship with my family. He came to my parents to ask for my hand, but my father flatly refused. After that, everything changed. I was still living at my parents’ house. Before my relationship with Banayis, I could freely walk around the village, drink coffee at neighbours’ houses, go by myself to the local market.

But when my parents found out about Banayis, they suspected that I would meet him and didn’t let me leave the house.

A similar situation occurred at Banayis’ home, where he lived with his mother. Banayis and I, a 40-year-old couple, were locked up by our parents, so we couldn’t see each other. A few months later, Banayis rented a house and said, “If you love me, move in with me.” And I did. In our culture, if a woman leaves her parents’ home for a man, she can’t come back. The exception is if a husband asks for a divorce, as was the case in my previous marriage. There are no other exceptions; my decision was irreversible.

My family took it as the greatest insult. They said that in the eyes of their neighbours, the house was covered with eternal shame. My parents didn’t even feel comfortable going into the village.

When I moved in with Banayis, the world broke into two universes: peaceful and harmonious at our house, hostile and aggressive outside of it. I was afraid to go out.

I didn’t even dare to open the curtains. Once, I pulled myself together and went to the market, where I ironically ran into Banayis’ ex-wife. She started to scream at me. I froze.

A passer-by stood up for me. I was in such shock that I don’t even remember what they said. Later, they took me home.

That day, I tried to commit suicide — I swallowed a handful of pills. I thought that through my death peace would finally come to my family and Banayis’ relatives. I was in a coma for five days. It wasn’t an easy time for Banayis — since he is a Greek Cypriot, he was immediately suspected of being involved in my failed suicide. When I woke up, an investigator came to ask about Banayis’ role in the incident. I explained this was my way to save our families from shame.

Once I got out of the hospital, I stopped taking pills, even birth control. A few months later, at 43 years old, I became pregnant. At first, I was terribly ashamed of my pregnancy — my age seemed to intensify the scandalousness of the situation. But Banayis and my daughter from my previous marriage were so happy with the news that I gave up the idea of an abortion. Now, I feel that I’m still alive thanks to our son, Banayodis.

After his birth, I no longer freeze from people’s hatred; I can stand up for myself.

In a big city like Lefkosa 3, it might have been easier for us. Perhaps people would have been a bit more open-minded. Our village, Sipahi, is stuck in the mentality of the 60s.

But we have more chances to survive here. Banayis didn’t receive education because of the war; it was hard for him to find a job. He earns money by taking Greek Cypriots to a school in a neighbouring village. He also receives benefits from the government of southern Cyprus for not leaving northern Cyprus: 370 euros per month and a food basket — it’s a big help. This, unfortunately, is the fate of most Greek Cypriots in the north. They either don’t work or have multiple small jobs. Those who’re younger go to work in southern Cyprus. People our age and older are fighting to survive here.

Greek Cypriots also don’t have the right to buy a house or land in northern Cyprus. They can live in family houses that belonged to them before the war, but they can’t buy new property. Banayis’ sister has savings from her divorce. She wanted to buy a house in Famagusta, but when it came to registering the property, the offer was cancelled.

Her boyfriend is a Turkish Cypriot, but she is afraid to put it under his name, because family pressure might increase and could cause them to separate. Banayis’ sister is a beautiful young woman, but she looks as if her shoulders carry the weight of the whole world. Her ex-husband forbade her to communicate with their six children because of her relationship with a Turkish Cypriot. Her boyfriend was affected as well. He couldn’t be fired, but his boss made it clear that his chances to climb the career ladder were gone.

3

The name of Nicosia in Turkish.

We can’t expect help from outside of Cyprus, either. Not long ago, UN representatives came to northern Cyprus to check the living conditions of Greek Cypriots. But no Greek Cypriot spoke about their hardships, because they were frightened the Turkish government would punish them. The Greek Cypriot school Banayis works for made sure that he didn’t give an interview — they threatened to cut his salary in half if he did.

When I tried to speak out, Greek Cypriots protested. They said, “Why would a Turkish woman stand up for us?”

I believe that the greatest fear of Greek Cypriots on this side of the Green Line is the Turkish police. If a Greek Cypriot doesn’t have a good relationship with a Turkish Cypriot police officer — let’s say, they don’t invite them for coffee or a meal at their house — then the officer will cause problems. When I had just moved in with Banayis, a policeman called him with accusations of kidnapping. I intercepted the call and said, “What kind of abduction is this? I’m 41 years old. I got into the car and came to this house voluntarily.

We haven’t done anything illegal — two single adults decided to live together. What business do the police have in this?” He didn’t call again.

The registration of our marriage was also quite a struggle. We followed all the rules and applied at the registry office. On the day of our appointment, an employee refused to register our marriage, allegedly due to a lack of documents from southern Cyprus. I was devastated — why didn’t they tell us about this special rule for Greek Cypriots earlier?

I took the documents we had, including our passports and residence permits, and tore them into hundreds of pieces. Fortunately, my husband made copies of all the papers before going down there. In another office, we were assigned a date immediately after Banayodis’ birth, so I couldn’t go. On October 6th, 2014, the wedding finally took place in southern Cyprus.

We also baptised Banayodis there. When we came to the priest, he turned to my husband and said, “You, Banayis, want to baptize your son, that’s clear. But let’s ask Hatice, a Muslim, what she thinks.” When I said that I had nothing against it, Banayodis was baptised for free. “This is my gift,” the priest told us.

Banayis knows that I read the Koran, that I pray. I also accept his Christian traditions.

When Banayodis reaches adulthood, he will choose his own religion.

Why did I agree to baptise him then? Because baptism gave Banayodis new relatives, a godmother and godfather. I have no one now, except for my daughter and husband.

We aren’t young. If something happens to us, Banayodis will have people that will take care of him.

Banayodis goes to a Greek school, because I don’t like the education system in Turkish schools. So far, he hasn’t had problems with his classmates or teachers. Every day after school, Banayis checks our son’s body for bruises or scratches. Several times a week, I go to the village where Banayodis’ school is located and stand beside the window of his classroom — I want to make sure that he’s treated fairly like the other kids.

So far, everything is going smoothly, but the fear for our son never really leaves us.

Once, there was a big scandal in the Greek school Banayodis goes to. One of the teachers said something unpleasant to a bi-communal child. I still don’t know what exactly, but his mother transferred him to another school and wrote a letter to the director, a Greek Cypriot. The teacher was fired.

Despite all the difficulties, we stayed in this village because of Banayis’ sons. When I moved in with Banayis, they stopped talking to him. This lasted almost two years. He suffered greatly. Banayis never told me, but I noticed that he couldn’t sleep at night. When he saw his sons on the village streets, he would tell me with a smile, “We are here for such moments.”

Now, his younger son visits us regularly, and the older one comes once in a while — his family doesn’t know. When the youngest son first started coming to our house, he acted rudely towards me, telling me repeatedly that I shouldn’t be with his father.

This has changed completely. Once, he even confessed that he would like to have such a mother like me, because I understand him like no one else. Banayis’ eldest son is a different story. From the beginning, he was courteous, but we didn’t develop a close relationship.

To be honest, I expected rejection and troubles from both our families. Except for one person — Banayis’ father. Before I began dating his son, we used to be close friends: he was my neighbour for 40 years. He came to my work every day to have a cup of Turkish coffee with me, even when he had a cold. Each time, he joked that he loves me more than Banayis, and that he’s busy looking for a husband for me. When I found one, he didn’t like it. This perhaps was the most painful blow. Now, he doesn’t even say hello and turns away if he sees me on the street.

My family still doesn’t talk to me. My mother called me once, when my father was about to die from cancer. I grabbed Banayodis and started my car — I wanted to introduce him to his grandfather before he passed away. When we were on our way to the hospital, my mother called me saying that we should turn back, because my father doesn’t want to see us. He ended up pulling through, but I don’t think Banayodis will ever meet him. If my father refused to meet his grandson even on the verge of death, what would make him change his mind now?

I still don’t know where we have found the strength and courage to cope with all the difficulties. Sometimes, I ask myself — is it worth it? The answer has never changed — yes.

When I’m with Banayis, the rest of the world doesn’t really matter. It’s light, it’s full, we can talk for hours about the little things. He doesn’t like to show tenderness in public — he’s a little old-fashioned — but I have infinite faith in his love.

Cemile

The couple lives in Larnaca in the southern part of Cyprus. They have been together for 12 years.

Lazaros

Cemile & Lazaros Cemile, 39 : Growing up in Cyprus, other students teased me because of my Turkish name.

The teachers were just as biased, and would ask me to do more. In primary school, my classmates had to spell three words and I five. Perhaps my background reminded them of wartime stories, but I was just six years old, and understanding this reasoning was difficult. Once, I asked a classmate, “Did I kill your mother, grandmother, father?

Why are you treating me like this?” And he answered without hesitation, “You did not.

But your dad did, for sure.”

In high school, the situation improved slightly. My fellow students got to know me and such stereotyping fell by the wayside. The feeling that I was different, though, never disappeared. I tried to fight it: I joined as many extra curricular activities as possible and attended Orthodox classes. I even forbade my father from speaking Turkish with me.

I regret this greatly — I speak six languages, but Turkish isn’t one of them.

My mother is Czech and my father is a Turkish Cypriot. I was born in the Czech Republic, but when I was three years old, we moved to my father’s motherland — to the port city of Larnaca1. After I graduated from high school, I went on to study in the Czech Republic.

It was there that I finally became a fully-fledged Cypriot in the eyes of my new classmates. I was cast as an outsider again; they never saw me as one of their own. This was partially why I returned to Cyprus.

Now, I work as a clinical psychologist for the Cypriot Ministry of Health. After hearing my name, patients often ask if I can even speak Greek, which is my native language. It’s worth adding that I wouldn’t have a government job if I didn’t speak Greek. I remember one incident when a woman called. After five minutes, she whispered, “I heard you have a Turkish-Cypriot colleague… please don’t send me to her. I’d rather make an appointment with you, I like you.” Sometimes, after hearing my name, patients have asked if they can speak to a Greek Cypriot. Other times, they have asked where my name comes from. Answering this question every day gets fairly tiring.

1

Larnaca is located on the southern coast of Cyprus.

I try to maintain a good relationship with all of my colleagues, but feeling like the black sheep doesn’t leave me. Recently, I was given a spacious room at work for sessions with my clients, and one of my colleagues decided to make a crude allusion to the Turkish occupation. Honestly… I was very upset.

I have the same rights as a Greek Cypriot, but I’m registered as a Turkish Cypriot. When it comes to bureaucratic things — such as getting official documents — the efforts I and Lazaros need to make are incomparable. What takes days for Greek Cypriots takes weeks for me.

My husband is often asked, “Why did you marry her? Could you not find someone better?”, hinting at my background. To be honest, I didn’t think Lazaros would be able to handle the colossal social pressure; I didn’t think our relationship would last. Now, 11 years have passed and we’re looking forward to many more.

In Cyprus, weddings are a huge celebration — all relatives, friends, and even friends of friends come. Sometimes, half of the guests don’t know either the bride or groom.

Since ours was a bi-communal wedding, I was sure that only a few people would come.

To our great surprise, 3,000 came! Even the president of Cyprus attended along with members from various political parties.

My family accepted Lazaros cordially. For his family, my religious affiliation was important. I didn’t grow up in a religious household. My dad is a communist and, since I was little, he always said, “I want you to choose your own way. Just remember that your strongest weapon is knowledge. That’s why my only wish for you is to graduate from university.” And that’s exactly what I did.

Before my last set of exams at university in the Czech Republic, I wandered into a church and met a local priest. We spoke and he reacted with empathy to my experiences. I began to visit his services, and my connection with Christianity began to form and strengthen.

When our children were born, we decided to baptise them — they have Greek names and identify as Greek Cypriots. So in the end, the concerns of Lazaros’ family were resolved.

My brother is also married to a Greek Cypriot, but his family situation is more delicate.

To please his wife’s parents, he was baptised and changed his name from Ayhan to Marcus. Sometimes, I slip up and call him Ayhan — his father-in-law gets very angry.

Besides my father and brother, I don’t have Turkish Cypriots in my circle. Strangely enough, I met my first friends from northern Cyprus through Lazaros. He dances in a Greek-Turkish dance group, so we travel to northern Cyprus from time to time. I never cross the border with my Cypriot passport — though I’m registered as a Turkish Cypriot — only with my Czech one, because I don’t want to spend half an hour being interrogated.

The government of northern Cyprus requires Turkish Cypriots to obtain a Turkish passport. I don’t have it and don’t plan on getting it. Over there, I’m also not considered as one of them. It’s a good thing I work as a psychologist, otherwise it might be even more difficult to cope with a permanent identity crisis.

I dream of a united Cyprus, where you can walk without boundaries, soldiers, passport stamps, and stereotypes. The older generations share fond memories of their experiences on both parts — back when there were no sides. Cypriots went to each other’s houses, drank coffee together — regardless of their backgrounds. In history lessons at Cypriot schools, this isn’t taught. One example is a page from our history textbook: the description “I will never forget” under a photograph of a village on the other side of the Green Line. The meaning is not to forget what “they” did to “us.” With an education system like this, a tolerant attitude towards the other party becomes difficult.

Lazaros, 42: I don’t look at my wife as a Turkish Cypriot. This doesn’t define who she is.

For me, she is a woman, my wife, whom I love. If a person has a good heart, who cares where his or her parents come from? When we first got married, I was often asked why I chose Cemile, but the last few years, I haven’t heard this question as much. My relatives and friends got to know Cemile better, realising that she isn’t this abstract notion of what a “Turkish Cypriot” is.

My family’s main concern about Cemile was her religion — especially whether we planned to baptise our children. We have a boy and girl. Both are baptised and have names corresponding to the Greek religious tradition, so my parents are happy.

I dance in an ensemble of Turkish and Greek Cypriots. Before our first practice, I was a little nervous, because of the language barrier and our different mindsets. But just an hour after being acquainted, we were chatting and laughing. The more I dance with Turkish Cypriots, the stronger my belief is that our minds work very similarly.

In fact, the problem is in the politics, not in the people.

My wife has a hard time: in southern Cyprus, she is viewed as a Muslim woman and, in northern Cyprus, as a Christian. But I believe in the peaceful future of a united Cyprus without prejudice and rejection from either side. The younger generation inspires me to hold on to this hope. And show that it’s possible to refrain from succumbing to religious and national stereotypes.

Serkan

Andri

The couple lives in Nicosia in the southern part of Cyprus. They have been together for 16 years.

Andri and Serkan Andri, 47: My parents are refugees. They come from a village not far from Famagusta 1, which is now on the territory of the so-called Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus 2.

After the war, we settled in Nicosia. My mother’s family suffered greatly from the war: my 14-year-old cousin and his father disappeared in 1974 during the Turkish occupation.

That’s why, despite the fact that Serkan and I immediately fell for each other, I worried for a while whether this relationship would be accepted. I was afraid that the political situation would worsen and the Green Line between northern and southern Cyprus would suddenly shut down. Also, I thought my family’s reaction to a new boyfriend — a Turkish Cypriot — would be difficult to deal with.

Surprisingly, it was my mother’s relatives who immediately accepted Serkan and fell in love with him. But my father’s family, who were less affected by the war, tried to discourage me from the relationship for the first few years. Frightened, they told me scenarios of possible difficulties.

Indeed, we had some challenges. I met Serkan online in 2003 — half a year before the UN buffer zone between northern and southern Cyprus opened for Cypriots to cross.

Once it did, we met in person. During the first year, Serkan didn’t have the right to stay in southern Cyprus after midnight. Like Cinderella, he fought against time. Before the clock struck midnight, he had to return home. After several months of visits cut short, we found an elegant way around the situation: next to the Greek-Turkish Cypriot village of Pyla lies a road outside Cypriot and Turkish control. I usually came by car, picked up Serkan, and we spent the weekends together — because of the lack of surveillance, Serkan allegedly didn’t cross the Green Line.

At first, I couldn’t force myself to come to the occupied north because of prejudice against Turkish Cypriots, memories of the war, and the feeling that by crossing the Green Line, I would betray all those Greek Cypriots who lost their homes and lives because of the occupation.

1

A city on the east coast of Cyprus. The old city and areas of the modern city are located in the northern part of Cyprus, which is controlled by Turkey.

2

Only Turkey recognises the northern part of Cyprus as an independent state, calling it the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. The international community considers it to be part of the Republic of Cyprus.

Serkan handled my feelings with deep understanding — the first year he came almost every weekend. Then, he said a phrase that persuaded me to cross the Green Line.

“I would be glad if the Greek Cypriots came as often as possible, so that the Turkish side would see: this place belongs to the Greek Cypriots as well.”

In 2003, my cousins and I visited our childhood village, located not far from Famagusta, for the first time. We knocked on the door of our old home. An elderly woman opened it and hugged me without saying a word. I sobbed in her arms and screamed, “This is my home! This is my house!” She cried with me. The house was much more modest than I imagined. Father said that we had a spacious veranda and huge windows overlooking a green valley. It turned out to be an average-sized house; and the hills were out of sight. Ever since, I fell in love with Cyprus even more, because I got to know it as a whole.

Some Greek Cypriots don’t use this chance. That’s probably why they call Turkish Cypriots Turks, and these are different identities. Most Greek Cypriots have, for a long time, treated Turkish Cypriots like ghosts, a minority they preferred not to notice and whose opinions they didn’t take into account. When the Turks came in 1974, the Greek Cypriots readily referred to the Turkish Cypriots as the Turkish occupiers. But Turkish Cypriots are a minority that have inhabited this island since the 15th century. Many consider themselves Cypriots and don’t support the Turkish occupation. Serkan and I have a 12-year-old son, Achilles. One day, a girl at school called him a Turk. He replied, “I’m a Cypriot, learn the history.” Then he turned around and left.

Having Sekran in my life changed my political views a lot. I used to feel connected with Greek roots more than with Cypriot ones, and this strongly fueled nationalistic feelings.

Now, I consider myself first and foremost a Cypriot. Yes, Turkish and Greek Cypriots speak different languages, but we have a common home, history, and culture. I believe that we can live together and a united Cyprus is the only right way. Our friends and relatives celebrate together Christian and Muslim holidays, and they have the warmest feelings for each other. That’s how prejudices disappear: through dialogue, communication, and exchange.

Serkan, 48: I’m a Turkish Cypriot or better — I’m a Cypriot who speaks Turkish. I was born in 1971, when Cyprus was still united. My father is a refugee. He was forced to leave his home, Paphos, in the 60s, when the conflicts between the two communities began. The capital of Cyprus, Nicosia, was divided in 1964. He settled in northern Cyprus, which was controlled by Turkish Cypriots. Father had a hard time: he didn’t speak Turkish very well, because for most of his life he lived in Paphos, where both communities lived together and the main language was and, to this day, still is Greek.

In 1964, shortly before the war, my father met my mother. Since the 60s, life wasn’t easy, but with the outbreak of war it became unbearable. My family was trapped in northern Cyprus like rats — no country except Turkey recognised the “new” state3. This created financial isolation: commerce and tourism had to operate purely out of Turkey 4. Moving to Turkey was the only possibility to escape our poor financial situation. My father said that the dream of a united Cyprus kept him alive back then.

In February of 2003, before the UN buffer zone between northern and southern Cyprus opened, I decided to visit my father’s homeland. To do this, I had to fly first to London, from there to Larnaca, and then take a bus to Paphos. In London, I spent half an hour trying to explain to the border guard why I’m flying from Cyprus to Cyprus via the UK. It’s difficult for me to understand why some Greek Cypriots don’t want to visit their homeland, when they have easier access to places dear to their families. Some Turkish Cypriots are also afraid to cross the Green Line, because they believe that Greek Cypriots might kill them. For decades, stereotypes and historical traumas that divide modern Cypriots have replaced communication between them.

For me, Andri was never a Greek Cypriot. From the very beginning, she was a woman I like, regardless of her religious or national affiliations. My family accepted Andri from the beginning, except for my aunt — she still doesn’t speak to me. From the moment I told her about Andri, she was sure that her family is planning my murder. She and my uncle are the only people who didn’t accept our wedding invitation.

3

To this day, only Turkey recognises the northern part of Cyprus as an independent state.

4 Commerce and tourism in the northern part of Cyprus still operate out of Turkey today.

Lack of communication between Cypriots has caused prejudice to grow on both sides.

Until 2009, I worked as an IT department manager in a large Turkish-Cypriot company in northern Cyprus. But then, a new board of directors came along with their nationalistic views, and I got fired, because my wife is a Greek Cypriot. After that, I decided to look for a job in southern Cyprus, but I also faced difficulties because of my background.

Often, I wasn’t invited for interviews, even though I was perfectly capable of doing the work. The economic crisis didn’t help either, as during that time there were no jobs!

I couldn’t find one for three years. Now, I’m a director of a northern Cypriot perfume company franchise in southern Cyprus.

Many Turkish Cypriots, although they identify as Muslims, don’t follow Islamic rituals and traditions. I would even say that Turkish Cypriots are actively fighting Ankara’s attempts to turn northern Cyprus into Islamic territory. Most Turkish Cypriots have always remained open to other religions, because for centuries they lived together with Greek Orthodox Cypriots, Maronites, and Armenians.

Andri and I both call the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus the occupied part. I don’t want to speak for everyone, but I believe that most Turkish Cypriots think the same way, whether openly or privately. When Turkey was preparing for the occupation, they used the coding phrase, “Aishe went on vacation.” 5 So now, among Turkish Cypriots, there is an expression: “Aishe, it’s time to go home.”

5

Aishe was the daughter of the army general officer.

Mohammad

The former couple lives in Tel Aviv. This interview dates back to when they were together — April 2017.

Imri

Imri and Mohammad Imri, 33: A few years ago, if somebody had told me that the name Mohammad would be on my apartment door buzzer and my voicemail greeting would say, “You called Imri Kalmann and Mohammad Wari,” I wouldn’t have believed it. The name Mohammad is a symbol of Islam. It’s the name of the prophet in whose honour the magazine office of Charlie Hebdo 1 was shot down. It’s the most common name in the Arab world and in Israel too — only amongst Arabs. But when Mohammad stepped into my life, I instantly understood it was serious. It still is.

When I first told my family my partner’s name, I had to deal with the obvious surprise.

They are used to being taken aback by my decisions, but this one was different. My parents were happy that I was in love but afraid that the relationship would complicate my life. Most of their fears disappeared after they met Mohammad in person. He is one of those people you fall in love with at first sight. When my mom saw me with him, she said, “I’ve never seen you so happy.” All of my relatives, including those in the US and Holland, agree we look wonderful together. My grandmother, who lives in Amsterdam, has a wall covered in pictures of all her grandchildren. After meeting Mohammad, she asked me to send her a photo of us for the collection.

It took my colleagues a little more time to accept my choice. They were concerned about my well-being and career. For the past two years, I’ve been closely engaged in politics.

I’m a member of the Israeli LGBT organisation, Aguda, and the left-wing political party, Meretz. Even to supporters of these groups, an Arab-Jewish couple in Israel is of special interest. Sometimes, this attention can be positive: some voters see us as a symbol of unity, peace, and change, but others may consider such union as a betrayal. Thoughts about publicity and its impact on our personal lives also worry me.

1

On January 7th, 2015, the offices of the French satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo in Paris were attacked by two brothers — Said and Cherif Kouachi. 12 people were killed and 11 were injured. The Islamist terrorist group Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula took responsibility for the attack. It’s considered that the main motive of the shooting was a series of cartoons that mocked Islamic leaders along with the Islamic prophet Muhammad.

To what extent will the public’s different opinions disturb our family life? So far, we’re managing well. My colleagues notice and maintain a harmonious relationship with Mohammad. At this stage, my and Mohammad’s cultural differences only strengthen our bond.

A couple of years ago, I realised my connection with Judaism and began seeking my own religious path. I was worried this might negatively affect my relationship with Mohammad. If we put religion at the forefront of our life together, it probably would have.

Instead, we try to compromise. A few days ago, we organised a wedding for ourselves.

In Israel, we can’t officially get married, because Mohammad is an Arab and because we are gay. I wanted to wear a kippah2, but Mohammad didn’t like this idea. I kept the kippah in my pocket — it was enough to know it was with me. Once, I wanted to hang a mezuzah3 at the entrance of our apartment, but this custom is alien to Mohammad.

We ended up inserting a photo of us inside the scroll, so the mezuzah would symbolise our love, not religion.

Another sensitive topic is language. I’m used to thinking and speaking in Hebrew and Dutch. Jewish people use a lot of words to formulate their thoughts and feelings.

Arabic feels more concise. To express the same thought, I need two sentences, while Mohammad needs two words. I don’t know Arabic yet, but I’ll learn; it’s the language my beloved uses to communicate with his family and friends. We’re planning to have children and raise them bilingual. It’s important to understand them — whichever language they speak.

In a political sense, it’s much harder to meet halfway. Don’t get me wrong: we are against violence and oppression. On some issues, we adhere to similar political views. Recently, we found out that both of us participated in the Council of Europe Youth Peace Camp 4.

2

A cap that is usually worn by Jewish men. It is worn at all times in Orthodox Jewish communities and just for ceremonies amongst more secular Jews.

3

A scroll of parchment from the skin of a kosher animal with the text of the Hebrew liturgical text of Shema Yisrael.

4

As stated on the Council’s website: “Youth Peace Camp allows young people and youth organisations from conflict-stricken regions to engage in dialogue and conflict transformation activities based on human rights education and intercultural learning. Through the Youth Peace Camp, young people gain a positive experience in living and learning together.”

This means we grew up in families who gave us opportunities to look at the conflict from different points of view. It’s often easier for me to discuss politics with Mohammad than with some Jewish people.

Still, Mohammad and I grew up in completely different cultural and political realities.

Just recently, we spoke about the Israeli border police, Magav. Despite the fact that I condemn some of the unit’s actions, I consider them as my people. I’m not afraid of them. For Mohammad even their uniform causes painful associations. They’re on the other side of the barricades to him. During these discussions, we learn to better understand one another’s upbringings. We were — and unfortunately still are — on different sides of the conflict.

Mohammad, 33: I grew up in Jerusalem. I went to an Arab kindergarten and school.

As absurd as it sounds, growing up, I thought that I was the only gay Muslim in the whole world. In my Arab environment, there weren’t any openly gay people and there wasn’t information for gay people either. Now, I understand there are no less gays in the Arab world than amongst other nationalities. And just to admit this fact is quite frightening.

Predominantly Jewish, Tel Aviv is much more progressive than Jerusalem. When I moved here, I started going to gay clubs, getting involved in LGBT parties, participating in parades. That’s how I met Imri — I saw him dancing on a truck at Tel Aviv Pride. I asked a friend of mine, “Do you know him?” It turned out that he did. Later, I found Imri on Facebook and it all began.

When I started dating Imri, I was sure I started a relationship with a non-religious person.

I’m not associated with any religion. I believe that the values inspired by the religion and culture each of us has grown up with aren’t a free choice. This is what has been formed for centuries and has been built into us for many generations. It’s important for me to choose and form my own values. That’s why Imri’s religious search sometimes bothers me. He, of course, can practice what he wants, but I can’t share those practices. I didn’t want a religious text — mezuzah — that I don’t believe in hung at the entrance of our apartment, but we found a compromise and the scroll’s new meaning doesn’t bother me.

Imri’s family once invited me to Passover Seder5. They behaved very tactfully. While reading the Paschal Haggadah 6, his relatives cut out the part which states that Jews are God’s chosen people. I was truly touched by this gesture. Overall, I have excellent relations with Imri’s relatives. The only difficulty is the language. We communicate in Hebrew, and this makes our life together a little easier for Imri and a little more difficult for me.

It’s no secret that Arabs don’t have the same rights in Israeli society as Jews. It’s a tough dichotomy of weak and strong, intimidated and protected, discriminated and privileged.

Once, I took a break from my main job as a programmer and tried to find a job at a cafe.

I’m fluent in Hebrew, Arabic, and English. Ten minutes into my interview, an employer was ready to hire me, but their certainty vanished as soon as I said my name. In the end, I didn’t find a job at a cafe.

5

A Jewish religious feast that marks the beginning of Passover, which commemorates God’s liberation of Jews from slavery in ancient Egypt.

6

A collection of prayers, which is read on the night of Pesach.

Every time I fly out of the country, border guards interrogate me. The examples are endless — there’s a big difference in attitude towards Jews and Arabs. But I, a minority, have a choice: I can spend my life complaining about the situation, or I can decide that I’m an equal individual and make an effort to create a worthy existence. I learned Hebrew, studied programming, found a good job, and I feel quite well in Israeli society.

Life in these two cities — Jerusalem and Tel Aviv — gave me the opportunity to get to know the perspectives of both Arab and Jewish Israelis. Now, I feel at ease in both contexts. If somebody asks me who I am, an Israeli or a Palestinian, then, frankly speaking, I answer what suits the situation best.

All of my Jewish friends know Imri already, but only two of my Arab friends know about his existence. The most noticeable difference between our cultures is how many people feel about gay people. For most Israeli Arabs, Imri’s religion causes less emotions than my sexual orientation. It would be difficult to have an interview with an Israeli journalist. I would be afraid that my family or friends would read it. The article could also cause them problems.

I came out to my parents about six months ago; I told them that I’m dating Imri.

My mom said that she isn’t interested in the religion of my partner, however she is in the gender. My dad doesn’t talk to me anymore. Once in a while, I phone my mom and try to tell her about Imri. They’ve seen photos, but neither of them are ready to meet him yet. Out of my entire family, only my younger brother attended our wedding.

He acts as a bridge between my family and me. I don’t lose hope, though. One day, they’ll see how happy I am. One day, we’ll have kids. Then, I hope they’ll accept us.