"Somewhere, Forgotten"

Upon a vale where limestone ramparts rise,
And Nature weaves her green and whisper’d thread,
There lies a hamlet lost to mortal eyes,
Whose folk, like dreams, have long since joined the dead.

O Time! Thou thief of names and hearth and kin,
What hand hath dared this place to so forsake?
Did pest or war, or simple fate creep in
And bid the roots reclaim what man did make?

Now only God surveys this hidden dale,
With watchful eye from spire o’ergrown with moss;
The church remains, a lone, eternal tale
Of fleeting pride, and love, and worldly loss.

So if thou chance upon this hallowed glen,
Tread soft, speak low, and let thy heart be still;
For here did dwell the hopes and prayers of men,
Now kept in stone, beneath the silent hill.

Am I on a map?

Somewhere down in the valley, below the limestone outcrops, lies our village. There is no road that leads to us. No trail, no sign. Just bramble and rock and the hush of old roots curling through the soil.

I sit in a crease of the valley, tucked beneath the limestone ridges. People pass on trails that never bend near enough. Some stop at the Mountain View cafe with its privileged outlook. They speak of the beauty of the valley—of hawks wheeling, of the stone cliffs—but they do not see me.

They do not know I am here.

Kyria Maroulla is dowager of the Mountain View café, nestled between Trachypedoula at the top of the valley and Prastio at the bottom, their village lands bordering each other. From her vantage position I hear her tell the tale of Prastio to any occasional curious passerby who might show interest of what lies below the café and the crags…

“Ah, my dear… sit, sit. Let me pour you a coffee — not the rushed kind you young ones drink, but proper, Cypriot coffee. You see that picture on the wall? That’s Prastio, the old village. Not as it is now — no, as it was in its heyday. A Turkish Cypriot village, nestled like a little bird at the bottom of the valley, hugging the Diarizos river. Just twenty-one houses — small ones — enough to hold dreams and heartache both. Back then, it was all simpler  — harder maybe, but simpler.

I remember the winters... the river would swell and rise, cutting the village in two. You couldn’t cross when it was full. No road, just the water deciding if you’d visit your neighbours or not. And the land! Always shaking beneath us. The earthquakes in the early ’50s rattled the teeth in our heads, my girl. Life by the river wasn’t easy, not then, not ever.

So the villagers, tired and frightened, they asked to be moved. Not away from the land entirely — no, they loved it still — but to higher ground, away from the unpredictable river, on sturdier foundations against the trembling earth. And in ’63, Makarios — may his memory be eternal — allowed it. Twenty-one new homes went up, just off the highway above the fields.

But... the Turkish Cypriots never got to live in those new homes. No. By then, the troubles had begun. Denktash moved them elsewhere, somewhere safer, I suppose. And the houses? The state let us Greek Cypriots rent them, so long as we kept them standing. I did my best, as did others. But no more…

You ask if the old villagers ever return? They did, after the borders opened. It warmed my heart to see them. Less now… time, she takes her toll, doesn’t she? But every year, a few come. There’s one family I remember especially — baklava makers, I think, or maybe blankets? Ah yes, blankets! The father had twelve children. Imagine! Twelve! He used to bring them all, like little ducklings trailing behind. Such joy in his eyes. One of his sons still visits, well-educated, polite, always lights a candle at the little church.

You know, I remember those Turkish Cypriots — good people. We lived peacefully together, no bad blood. Shared our bread, shared our stories.

That village, though Turkish, had a church — yes, a proper Christian church, dedicated to Archangel Michael. As a child, I never thought much of it. To me, Prastio was a Turkish village. But that church, it tells a different story. Must’ve been mixed, once upon a time. Now, we hold a service there once a year, on the saint’s day — November 8th. The priest from our village, Trachypedoula, walks the path up and says the liturgy.

Ah, Trachypedoula... that’s where I’m from, like my cousin Panikos. You might meet him, always pottering around the church or over at the old monastery — Ayios Savvas. He still tends the candles, checks the doors. He knows there’s no road anymore to the abandoned houses. Just silence and stones. The land, most of it below Prastio, belongs to us now — the people from Trachypedoula. You see, the monastery owned it once, a big community there, over a hundred houses. But when they gave out the land, they gave it to us — not to the Turkish Cypriots of Prastio. That’s just how it was.

Prastio... it was poor, yes. A hard life. They were subsistence farmers, scratching what they could from the earth. But they had pride, and they had dignity. We all did. Different faiths, different tongues maybe — but the same sun, the same soil. And when I think of them now, those faces from my childhood, I feel... what’s the word... ευγνωμοσύνη. Gratitude.

Now then, would you like a piece of cake? It's walnut — old recipe. Like the memories, it's better with time.”

I was one of those homes once. Built by hands now dust. There were voices here—soft ones at night, loud ones at work, a child singing. Once, a woman leaned against my doorway and watched the evening fall like a shawl over the hills. Her breath misted. I held her warmth. I was alive in their lives.

That was long ago. Fifty winters, or more.

Only the church stands sure, proud in her silence, a sole survivor. Standing whole, still attended by man, her needs satiated, she mocks the ruin of houses. Occasionally her bell rings, I envy her plaster and mortar and her wholeness.

No one remembers this place. I am not mourned. I am not missed. I am not even noticed. Will I remember how it felt to be a home?

I don’t fear the end. Decay is simply a kind of forgetting. But I hope, before the earth fully claims me, that someone finds this place. Steps inside my bones. Runs a hand along my lichen-covered walls and wonders who I was. What I held.

I am still here.

Somewhere.

Waiting.