Waking up from a drunken stupor
she looks around her shabby room.
Ashtrays full, plates piled in the sink
and a mattress with soiled bed sheets
—her faithful and trusted servants—
torn from years of loveless coupling.
A quick shower behind the mouldy
curtain with cheap soap, cheap shampoo
and an even cheaper scent;
into a bra that's a size or three too small
and a skirt that's been too short for years.
She smokes a roll-up and drinks raki
until she hears her cue for work—
a ship's horn blowing in the distance.
Gasping for air, rank with stale tobacco
and laced with shattered dreams, she opens
her front door and waddles to the harbour.
She recalls her wrecked and wasted life.
First the fear, the panic and the shame
then the buzz, the laughter and the thrills;
until Time —deceitful and a shameless thief—
stole her youth away.
Each night brought a new assault.
Every morning she nursed
the battle scars from the night before
—a small blemish on her flawless skin,
a grey strand in her wild black mane—
until one day the face she saw in the mirror
was not her face any more.
She gazes at the lilacs of the sea
and listens to the noise, savouring
the odours of all the sailors passing by.
Such a sweet aroma. Her head feels light
and maybe because of the bottle of raki
or the warmth of the late Mediterranean sun
she drifts into a rumbling reverie.
In her much loved and much kissed body
all the hurt and pain are now gone.
Old lovers' faces rise in her wrinkled mind—
kings, Bedouins and sultans;
black, white and yellow faces, merge
and she is seventeen and beautiful again.
She dreams and writhes on a rotting bench
until a group of sailors come passing by.
They stop and stare at the old wreck and
—merciless youth— they jeer and mock her.
She wakes and hears their ridicule
the laughter and the heartless jibes.
With tears in her jaded eyes
and cursing the cruelty of the young
she takes the road to the sanctuary
of her seedy room, grieving for the day
that ended before it even had begun.
A few words about the poem…
The Cyprus Poems: The Odyssey of Kakoulla Panayi in the Tapestry of a Transforming Middle East
In the mosaic of time's passage, a singular figure emerges—Kakoulla Panayi, a name that resonates with the echoes of a bygone era, embodying the essence of a life intertwined with the rich tapestry of the Middle East in the early 20th century. Chris Zachariou, her sister’s grandson, narrates her tale in his collection of Cyprus Poems, with a gentle yet resolute voice, providing a glimpse into a life characterized by trials and triumphs.
Born in the latter half of the 19th century, Kakoulla's lineage weaves its threads across two countries, bridging Turkey and the sun-soaked island of Cyprus. Her mother, Katerina, came to the island as a child with her mother around 1860, seeking sanctuary on its soil from the persecution of Greek Orthodox Christians in the country of her birth, Turkey. This was a time when emigration was etched into the collective consciousness—a narrative of movement across lands, whispering promises of new beginnings and distant safe horizons.
The early years of Kakoulla's existence were painted with the hues of innocence, a period of untouched youth that would soon yield to the harsh realities of her circumstances. An arranged marriage at the tender age of twelve, thrust her into a world marred by tumult and pain, setting the stage for a life that defied conventions. Fleeing the brutality that awaited her, she embarked on a perilous journey, transitioning from the sanctity of her home to the stark embrace of a house of ill repute. An era characterized by limited choices and pervasive vulnerability painted the backdrop of her transition.
Captured and sold into a harem in Arabia, a land veiled in opulence and mystery, she found herself ensnared in a world of grandeur and captivity. However, her spirit remained undaunted, guiding her through the labyrinthine corridors of adversity. Escaping the chains that had bound her, she retraced her steps to her homeland, where the Cyprus sun greeted her with the warmth of a survivor and a storyteller.
In the enigma of her gaze, one could discern the chapters of her life unfolding against the canvas of a transforming world. Kakoulla by now was fluent not only in Greek and Turkish but also in Arabic. Whispers and murmurs carried tales of her subsequent ventures—the ownership of a brothel, a hotel and, many plots of valuable land in the centre of the city.
However, it was her affinity for uncharted pathways that left the most indelible mark around her. In an age when a woman's stride was often constrained, she chose a trajectory that defied expectations, accumulating wealth and influence that resonated through her community. Armed with the keys to her destiny, she emerged as a living testament to the strength of a woman's resolve.
Kakoulla's legacy reverberated in the purr of an engine—a car that mirrored her journey from the past into the modernity of the 20th century. It was a declaration of emancipation, a testament that the reins of her life were firmly grasped in her own hands. Photographs immortalized her beside the polished vehicle, her beauty continuing to shine even as time traced its lines across her features.
She was a frequent visitor to the sandy beaches of Yialousa, that cradled her in their warmth as she sought refuge from arthritis that gnawed at her bones. Recollections of a life well-lived flickered like distant stars in the tapestry of her memory—faces of kings, Bedouins, and sultans merged, and she was seventeen and beautiful once again. As the waves caressed the shore, she surrendered herself to the embrace of the sea—a sacred ritual that bestowed solace upon her and mended the remnants of battles fought.
Her wealth bestowed upon her not just power, and authority. Yet, even in her grandeur, she remained impervious to the vicissitudes of fate. A stroke marked a passage of vulnerability, a poignant reminder that time ceaselessly eroded even the sturdiest foundations. With the doctor, the priest, and the hodja gathered around her, she confronted the shadows of mortality—an epilogue to the odyssey of an extraordinary life.
In the twilight of her years, Kakoulla emerged as a testament to the intricacies of human existence—a mosaic of strength and fragility, and power. Her narrative transcends the pages of history, offering a glimpse into the social complexities and intercultural dynamics of an era perched between the whispers of empires and the shifting sands of identity. Hers is a mosaic of narratives interwoven through time, a beacon illustrating how the human spirit navigates the turbulent waters of existence with fortitude and grace.
Kakoulla met her end in 1963. During the inter-communal strife between the Greek and the Turkish Cypriots the Turkish military wishing to take ownership of her house shot her and her husband Yiannis Ellinas in cold blood. To this day we do not know where they are buried and we, her family, await news from the Committee of Missing Persons so they can be laid to rest.
This poem is loosely based on the life story of Kakoulla Panayi. A short biography of her life in Greek and English by Sevgul Uludag was published in the Politis newspaper.
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