Bitter Lemons In a Lost Paradise

Before last summer's short but savage war between invading Turks and the outgunned Greek Cypriot National Guard, Cyprus was an oasis of sunny prosperity in the turbulent eastern Mediterranean. Nearly six months after the end of the fighting, Cyprus today is a wrecked dream--its airports still closed, its economy shattered, one-third of its people refugees in their own land. Greek Cypriot Leader Glafkos derides and his Turkish counterpart, Rauf Denktas, had hoped to resume their interrupted peace talks during Christmas week but were unable to agree on a basis for further negotiations. TIME Correspondent Erik Amfitheatrof recently visited the troubled island. His report:

With no settlement of their six-month agony in sight, Cypriots are living through the bleakest, most bitter winter in memory. Though there have been losses and atrocities on both sides, the Greek Cypriots, who make up 80% of the island's population, have suffered the most. Terrified by reports of mass shootings and rapes by Turkish troops advancing in the north last July, some 200,000 Greek Cypriots fled toward the British base area of Dhekelia on Cyprus' southern coast. The more fortunate were able to squeeze into the homes of relatives, but nearly 20,000 are spending the winter in canvas tents pitched in the fields and orchards.

The temperature is near freezing after sundown. On rainy days, the muddy lanes of the refugee camps turn into streams and water seeps into the tents. On cold nights, hundreds wander like ghosts into nearby towns to bed down in cafes or hotel lobbies.

The situation of some 10,000 Turkish Cypriot refugees in the southern, Greek-controlled part of the island is no better; they, too, are living under canvas this winter. In two desolate camps at the British base in Akrotiri, many are suffering from bronchial and rheumatic conditions, and there are cases of tuberculosis. But they at least have the consolation of knowing that, a few dozen miles to the north of their camps, there is Turkish armor with the capability of overrunning the entire island.

For many of the refugees, the ordeal is made more difficult by memories of the paradise that has been lost. Before last summer's upheaval, the island, which is carpeted with citrus groves and vineyards, exported lemons, oranges, grapes and wines to Europe. It produced automotive parts for Middle Eastern countries, and its beaches lured 250,000 tourists a year. By the early 1970s, Cyprus was one of the eastern Mediterranean's most prosperous nations, with a per capita income of $1,460, and there was virtually no unemployment. Even the long-festering animosity between Greek and Turkish Cypriots was sweetened by the good life, and an eventual healing seemed possible.

Silent Leader. Prospects for a political settlement that might revive the island's economy now appear remote. Archbishop Makarios, the prelate-President of Cyprus, returned from his enforced exile last month, but so far he has accomplished little and said even less. He has consulted with leaders of all the Greek Cypriot political parties about forming a new government, but has yet to give any indication of the composition of his future Cabinet. Meanwhile, negotiations between both sides remain stalemated over the issue of a mass population transfer. On a visit to Cyprus last week, former Turkish Premier Bulent Ecevit insisted that the geographic and administrative separation of ethnic communities be formalized through the establishment of a federal state. But the Greek Cypriots oppose any agreement that would prevent them from returning to their homes; to bolster their bargaining position, they have refused to allow Turkish Cypriots in the Greek-controlled south to move north. For the moment Makarios is silent. But he knows well that unless he remains adamant on this issue, he cannot hold the support of the Greek Cypriot community.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.