Pointless
Young Cypriots grew up with black-and-white images of war from 1974, memorising treaties and UN resolutions, trying to understand how bullets and parachutes had shaped their island’s future. The sounds of sirens and fighter jets belonged to history books. But last week, that changed.
Most of my friends woke up to the news that the British base nearby had been hit over night, that sirens blasted for hours, that panic ensued in the area and that no one could give a definitive answer as to why and if we would be targeted again.
Most of the initial shock was expressed with dark humour. After all, none of us could have imagined living through an attack in our lifetime. Not before Trump 2.0, at least. The jokes were further reinforced by the chaos that ensued. The government was in no way reassuring, and as more reports of sirens and British alarms going off hit the news, the jokes subsided and for a brief moment we were all genuinely upset.
It was also the first time I felt my friends genuinely relying on information I might have had. I had joined journalism only eleven months earlier. Becoming the designated “friend reporter” was not something I expected to happen so soon.
Taking it upon me to keep them informed, I had realised that through this exchange we were actively discussing matters of war. War on our shores. National security. Government policy. The role and power of the European Union. US ignorance. The global economy. Strategic alliances.
I will never forget the genuine feeling of shock after reading the first text to Akrotiri residents.
“There is an ongoing security threat. Please remain indoors and stay in place until further official notice. Move away from windows and take cover behind or beneath substantial, solid furniture. Please await further instruction.”
The image of our little sunny island, away from conflict for more than 50 years, had shattered. Welcome to the real world Cyprus. Take cover.