الضغط (aldaght); Press

Life’s pressure is equal to your resistance.- Bryant McGill

I can’t go home I can’t go home I can’t go home I can’t go home I can’t go home

“Let’s take your day off to think about it.” Chance is calm and pragmatic, and takes me on a hike through olive groves. Olive oil straight from the press and the fresh air seemed to loosen my shoulders and thoughts.

Can we drive GG off this island? We check the news, only to be discouraged by the political shenanigans:

“The so-called leaders of Turkish occupied Cyprus/ The so-called leaders of Greek occupied Cyprus have closed the borders”

So both sides are closed to the other, and won’t communicate with each other when they plan to reopen. So we ask the Canadian embassy. They tell us to check the news.

On the mainland, gas canisters and water canons rain down on migrants stuck between the border of Greece and Turkey.

Turkey announced that Greece was allowing asylum seekers to pass through. A surge of people bolted for the border, their chance at a new European life.

A treacherous ploy, Greece maintained it would keep its borders closed.

Blocked from returning to Turkey, both borders push back and forth on innocent people.

35,000 people caught in between two hostile borders. Thirty-Five Thousand.

On the island, Chance and I are crossing from the Greek Border to the Turkish Border on foot to ask whether we would be permitted to drive back. The Greek border guards don’t know, and have no way of asking the Turkish guards 20 meters away if they will let us pass.

We walk 20 meters to an unknown fate to ask if we can pass through.

Chance and I hold hands, quiet, knowing all our belongings are behind us, knowing we could be detained on one side, or blocked on the other.

Those 20 meters held all the privilege of having Canadian passports.

We asked our question, were denied passage, but were allowed back into Greek Cyprus.

Drained, small.

That night, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau told all Canadians abroad : “It’s time to come home”. Our own parents had been telling us for weeks.

I can’t go home I can’t go home I can’t go home

Of course my mantra grew loud as I realized I’d be leaving more than a dream behind. The people I had met could not leave so easily, and would be facing many months of hardship ahead. How can I run home knowing so many have none?

I can’t go home I can’t go home I can’t go home… almost came true, as plane tickets dwindled while their prices sky rocketed. Purchasing tickets online was impossible, as websites could not update fast enough to reflect plane cancellations and overbookings.

Five hours spent negotiating with a Russian airline for passage through their airport left us with nothing. And then Cyprus announced a full lockdown within two days, with no flights in, no flights out.

Chance and I ran to another ticket office just before closing, and got the last few tickets out. The tickets weighed heavy in my hand. Their destination was my failure, and my shame. I was flying to where many can only dream of, leaving nothing behind.

On the island, Chance and I are crossing from the Greek Border to the Turkish Border on foot, to ask whether we would be permitted to drive back. The Greek border guards don’t know, and have no way of asking the Turkish guards 20 meters away if they will let us pass.