From 1947 Jerusalem to 1974 Famagusta: A story of Armenian exile

Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote: “It is not enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many and have the immense patience to wait until they return.”

This is perhaps truer of refugees than any other member of society. Through the passage of time and new political realities, silence is no longer tied to survival, and memories of harrowing events gradually interlace with daily life.  

1947 marks the year that my paternal grandparents migrated to Cyprus. As natives of the age-old Armenian community of Jerusalem (referred to as kaghakatsi), they were among the thousands of Armenians who fled the Holy Land in the first Arab-Israeli war. 

In Cyprus, they settled in Famagusta, a prominent port city in the northern part of the island, where my grandfather worked for the British administration. Through the 1950s, repeated armed struggles between the island’s Greek and Turkish communities took place, instilling greater insecurity about the future. These clashes eventually culminated in the Turkish military’s invasion of 1974, which resulted in massive internal displacement. In a searing feeling of déjà vu, my family packed what they could carry, stored their valuables at the bank and took refuge at the British Sovereign Base of Dhekelia before evacuating the embattled island. 

It was not until recently, when the self-proclaimed Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC) unilaterally decided to partially reopen my father’s hometown in Varosha (Maraş in Turkish) — a fenced-off suburb in Famagusta, left in perpetual stillness for five decades — that stories from the war began resurfacing at our dinner table in Brussels. Gradually, a desire to return took root and led us to visit the abandoned sites in the summer of 2024.  

Famagusta first entered our journey by virtue of a black-and-white photo displayed in a flower shop in Larnaca. “How long have you lived here?” my aunt asked the florist. “I am from Famagusta. I moved here when the war started and stayed ever since,” she said. Then, she put down her cellophane and pointed to the picture: “This was my house. As you can see, we had a beautiful orange tree garden.”

Intrigued, I stepped closer. “Did you ever go back?” I asked. “No, but my children did. There are Turks living there now. They cut down all the trees and turned my property into student flats. I have no desire to see it like this,” she said. Her story made me see just how profoundly the past is felt in the present.  

Varosha in September 2024 (Photo courtesy of the author)

The words ‘ghost’ and ‘town’ are often used together to describe what Varosha has come to — a city dismembered from its rhythms, habits and former inhabitants. Since 2020, the district referred to in the media as a ‘bargaining chip for future peace negotiations’ between the TRNC and the Republic of Cyprus has become a hub for ‘dark tourism.’ Like any tourist attraction, opening times and rules for visitation are carved onto a large board by the gated entrance adjoined with an open-air coffeehouse. One need only cross over to experience the macabre.  

Under the midday heat, we walked along crooked sidewalks. Relics of sandstone houses, chalky boutiques and cafés stood behind ropes on poles while people zipped by on electric scooters and snapped selfies. Every few meters, a red panel indicating the risk of building collapse came into view. These inscriptions, along with the presence of Turkish guards and the U.N. Peacekeeping Force, affected my posture. A part of me just wanted to be reckless and go beyond the ropes, so I put extra effort into straightening my back to compensate for my illicit thoughts. 

The timeless orchards in the backyard, the three-piastre tahinopita from the nearby bakery and the people whose daily presence provided a sense of unshakable continuity — those are the things that hovered, beyond the grid of restoration.

Further down Demokratia street — formerly the main commercial avenue — was the family home, sitting two floors above what used to be a lively café. I stood behind my aunt and my father as they stared into the broken windows. This scene provided a frame for all the missing pieces. It had the earthy smell of a lost paradise. The timeless orchards in the backyard, the three-piastre tahinopita from the nearby bakery and the people whose daily presence provided a sense of unshakable continuity — those are the things that hovered, beyond the grid of restoration.

By the time we left, the air was heavy with neglect and made my head spin. Everything from my father’s recollections to the letter-severed store signs felt disjointed, further blurring the line between reality and imagination. I was transfixed and lost. There are no winners in war, I thought. 

“You know, 50 years is a lot. Back then, things were so simple and beautiful and slow-paced. No queuing, no rush hours. It was a different kind of setup,” my aunt whispered. Her words struck a chord with me, as they vitally capture the nucleus of diasporic existence: the wistful longing for a lost era. This, perhaps, is what draws us back to the ruins of war — to face and grieve reality, to grasp the meaning of our existence and, admittedly in my case, to cause something to survive in a newspaper that I imagine my grandparents would have enjoyed reading. 

Alexandra Merguerian

Alexandra Merguerian

Alexandra Merguerian is a recent graduate of Uppsala University, Sweden, where she earned a Master of Arts in Holocaust and Genocide Studies. Passionate about human rights and deeply committed to social justice, Alexandra has dedicated much of her academic time to understanding the intricate relationship between trauma, historical memory and the law—particularly in relation to the Armenian Genocide and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. She views storytelling as a powerful art form, essential not only to the survival of diasporic communities but also to the pursuit of reconciliation. Currently, Alexandra serves as a social-legal counsellor for the Jesuit Refugee Service (JRS) in Brussels, an international humanitarian organization dedicated to supporting refugees and displaced persons.
Alexandra Merguerian

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2 Comments

  1. A haunting and powerful insight. Thank you, Alexandra. It makes me think of Ursula’s exploration of the ruined Palestinian village of Lifta.

    • Thank you, Sarah. I’m hoping to hear more about Ursula’s expedition one day—perhaps over a refreshing glass of lemonade, if we’re lucky.

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