It was the first time I’d returned to Cyprus since that day almost forty years ago. It’s amazing how everything is the same yet at the same time completely different. The beaches are still of rich golden sand, the sea still glitters when the sun kisses its turquoise waters. But I did not want to be here. I thought that after so many years I would be able to face my demons, leave my past behind, but the moment I had caught sight of the Greek port town of Varosha, through the grimy airplane window, the nightmares had returned, though I had never been fully rid of them, in vivid and painful detail.
After a week of avoiding the town and virtually no sleep, feeling irritable and itchy I came to a decision. With my mind finally and firmly set, but in no hurry, I trudged along, step by heavy step up the pristine beaches of Famagusta towards the birthplace of my nightmares.
I don’t know what I was expecting to happen when I got there. Maybe that the fear and grief would dissi