No Man's Land

by Angela Braga (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown Cyprus

I find myself standing in the centre of a derelict airport terminal building. Tattered advert posters still hang on the walls amidst the peeling paint. Bird droppings cover every seat and inch of the floor in the waiting areas, once the back drop to chaotic scenes of throngs of departing holidaymakers. Direction signs stubbornly stand upright, refusing to let go of the building’s past. We continue slowly along, stunned at the deafening quietness of the place which is only broken by the crunching of shattered glass under our boots. Every small motion made by our moving bodies, the sound of the breeze pressing against the panes of broken windows, was amplified by the silence. We reach what was once passport control, now boarded up and desolate. Barbed wire is scattered around like tumble weed in the desert. All a testament to the passage of time. I begin to notice the rancid smell of rotting bird droppings. The others seem to as well, so we head in the direction of the airstrip. You may be wondering why I am here. “Welcome to what once was the Nicosia International Airport, now a demilitarised UN Buffer Zone, which stretches 112 miles long, in the world’s only divided capital city,” explains a herculean Argentinean UN commander. His voice pierced through the crumbling remains of the building, its vibrations setting off the flapping of distant wings. “This was once the principle airport of Cyprus, but was used by right wing Greek nationalists who overthrew the President of the country in the summer of 1974, to ferry troops against him,” he continued. “Five days later, following the coup on 20th July 1974, Turkey invaded Cyprus,” the commander pointed northwards, his stern voice juxtaposed with the softness of his face, “bombing the airport and forcing its permanent closure. The heaviest fighting between the Turkish and Cypriot forces happened on this ground which is why you find us here.” No more check-in queues, cafes, or souvenir stalls but a UN Peacekeeping force and a group of 30 Air Training Cadets on their summer camp, including me. “This is so cool!” shouts one of the boys, reaching into his combat trousers to grab his phone. Tiny sweat droplets dapple his face, glistening in the furious Cypriot heat. “I’m afraid no photos, this zone is not open to the public. Only people with special permits can enter,” explains the commander. The boy sheepishly puts his phone away. “Turkish paratroopers and tanks battled for control…” The commander’s voice drifts away as I close my eyes. The sun’s heat was extreme. It flogged down relentlessly, assaulting every nerve in my body. The sweat trickled down my face, arms, and legs. I heard a faint buzz and my mind immediately whizzed back in time to 1974. I could almost see the titanic silhouettes of Turkish tanks crawling towards the airport. The faint hum of their engines engulfing the airstrip. It grows louder and louder. I open my eyes. It’s just a pesky fly. The group has moved towards the control tower. It stands gathering dust, watching over the barren graveyard of a plane's carcass decaying in the sun. The aircraft stands among determined weeds which fight for a place in-between the concrete slabs. Closer examination shows bullet holes in the body and windows of the plane. Perhaps the holes shine light on the deep wounds which still exist in this divided city. Talks of opening ‘no-man’s land’ have never come to fruition. This lonely airport, once a symbol of hope, represents a present stolen by war that now stands frozen in time. The UN Buffer Zone is a permanent marker of the violence that took place here. But hope is not lost. Amidst the emptiness, the birds still fly, and flowers grow and peace is present. The commander notices the awe in our eyes as we stare at the plane’s faded airline logo. “Ok, just this once. Gather around… that’s it… you come forwards. Yes perfect.” Click. He snaps a forbidden photo.