A Morning Routine, in Alternative Peace

by Lita Olsen (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Cyprus

They call it a dead zone, but all I see is life. So much life, that my morning has a routine to facilitate it. Georgios, the farmer I am volunteering with, nods diagonally at a chair for me to sit with the other farmers of the area. He looks like an unusually stern Buddha statue - round and hard with no smile. I pretend to fit in with the tattered men while they chain smoke. Lately, when I drink their Cypriot coffee I crave for them to be near me. One farmer speaks fluent English, but he only pulls it out when I have difficulties communicating with Georgios. So I sit, sip, and inhale their everything. The farm is located in the buffer zone of Cyprus, a horizontal strip of land sandwiched between the Turkish north and the Greek Cypriot south. Also called the Green Line, it was created in 1964, and since 1974 monitored by the United Nations. This Mediterranean island has a complex past of empires coming and going, one gets the feeling that this is a routine. Georgios’ farm is on the eastern edge of the island, outside the town of Deryneia. Three German shepherds chained up around the farm shack we spend our early mornings in, simultaneously become agitated. The dogs are trained to bark at anything baby blue, white, and with flags all over. Whenever I become comfortable in this environment there’s a prompt reality check. A crisp white UN truck rolls by, bouncing easily over divits in the gravel road. The barrett gives a vertical nod, while the UN flag waves. The person himself doesn’t make me unsettled, but the formality of the exchange isn’t relaxed. I feel my anxious self coming to the table when I don’t want her to. I focus on a cracked open sardine can with a used split lemon sitting in it, wondering how deep I can breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, without anyone thinking my behavior is odd. The dust from the road rests back into the Earth, and the cigarette smoke rises to the sky. It’s time to go into the fields. I hop into Georgios’ truck, which is a lot less refined than the UN vehicle, but it manages. We are surrounded by vegetation, but the plots are not in the systematic squares seen in rural America. We weave in and out of crops everyday, and Georgios shows me what to work on. We drive past a fellow farmer’s shack that has a chicken coop. An arc of doves swarm up from long grass up into a “C” shape, then rest on the coop. “I don’t know why they’re here,” says Georgios, referring to the doves. A UN helicopter flies over us, spooking the flock out of sight. We keep driving, slowly, to avoid potholes. With no windows the air feels sharp, but the sun softens it. The right side of the road is packed with yellow horned poppies, that weave around each other with lanky green stems. The left side is a barbed wire fence, with worn red metal triangle banners reading, “CAUTION: LANDMINES.” Every other sign is in Greek. This is the buffer zone’s remake of the 60s era photo with a hippie placing a carnation in the barrel of a police man’s gun, out of protest. We get to the tomato plot. The majority of our time has been picking vegetables: aubergines, zucchini, squash, peppers, artichokes, brussel sprouts, broccoli, and a type of chard called “lahana.” We’ve also been planting hundreds of watermelons. Georgios stays near me today as we pick in silence. Depending on which way the wind blows, you can either taste the salty sea air or smell the Turkish coffee. Georgios takes a deep breath in and says, “I like it here...it’s peaceful.” We start loading crates of tomatoes in the back of the truck. Loud pops like fireworks go off, but more metallic than fiery. My stomach sinks, my head turns quickly to Georgios - “That’s the Turks. It’s fine, just target practice.” I look back at the tomato plot to remind myself that this is the Green Line after all, focus on the flora.