The trees of Missing Island

It has been years since I fled that place on board a plane, inside a suitcase made of soft black leather, never to return.I have since adopted another land, England,where I have grown and thrived,but not a single day passes that I do not yearn to be back.Home.Motherland.

A map is a two-dimensional representation with arbitrary symbols and incised lines that decide who is to be our enemy and who is to be our friend, who deserves our hatred and who , our sheer indifference.

Occasionally, a birthday balloon that escapes a child’s grip drifts in the sky, strays into the other side- enemy territory.

The well is a hungry mouth,awaiting its next meal.It eats up every ray of light,every trace of heat, holding each note in its elongated stone throat.

PART ONE :HOW TO BURY A TREE

Without understanding our past, how can we hope to shape our future?

She could detect other peoples sadness the way one animal could smell another of its kind in a mile away.(Ada)

Since then she added her own name to the collection of non-English words she carried in her pockets, words which,though curious and colorful ,still felt distant and unfamiliar enough to remain impenetrable, like perfect pebbles you picked up on a beach and brought home but then didn’t know what to do with.She had quite a few of them by now.

Ada could speak neither her fathers Greek nor her mothers Turkish .

Even though they might, if only they searched , find at least some of these delicacies in the “international food” section of supermarkets in their adopted countries.But they would claim it is not the same taste.

First generation immigrants are a species all their own.They wear a lot of beige , grey or brown.Colours that do not stand out.Colours that whisper, never shout .There is a tendency to formality in their mannerisms, a wish to be treated with dignity . They move with slight ungainliness, not quite at ease in their surroundings.Both eternally grateful for the chances life has given them and scarred by what it has snatched away, always out of place , separated from others by unspoken experience , like survivors of a car accident.

First - generation immigrants talk to their trees all the time -when there are no other people nearby ,that is.They confide in us ,describing their dreams and aspirations, including those they have left behind , like wisps of wool caught on barbed wire during fence crossings. But for the most part , they simply enjoy our company , chatting to us as thought to old , long-missed friends.They are caring and tender towards their plants, especially those they have brought along with them from lost motherlands. They know , deep within, that when you save a fig tree from a storm , it is someone’s memory you are saving.

Fig Tree- I wish I could have told him that loneliness is a human invention.Trees are never lonely.Humans think they know with certainty where their being ends and someone else’s starts.with their roots tangled and caught up underground , linked to fungi and bacteria , trees harbour no such illusions . For us , everything is interconnected.

The places where we were born are the shape of our lives , even when we are away from them.

It is curse ,an enduring memory. When elderly Cypriot women wish ill upon someone , they do not ask for anything blatantly bad to befall them. They don’t pray from lightening bolts , unforeseen accident or sudden reversals of fortune .They simply say,

May you never able to forget .

May you go to your grave still remembering .

As you aged you cared less and less about what others thought of your,and only then could you be more free.

Boquila trifoliolata can alter its leaves to mimic the shape or color of those of its supporting plant , prompting scientists to wonder if the vine has some kind of visuals capacity?

Flower farmers turn on the lamps in the middle of the night deceiving chrysanthemums into blossoming when they shouldn’t. With a bit of light you can make us do so much.with a promise of love…

Despite all this,it would take me seven years to be able to yield fruit again .because that is what migrations and relocations do to us.when you leave your home for unknown shores , you don’t simply carry on as before ; a part of you dies inside so that another part can start all over again .

Today when other trees ask me how old I am , I find it hard to give a definite answer.I was 96 years old the last time I remember myself in a tavern in Cyprus . I who grew from a cutting planted in England , am now slightly over sixteen.

Excellent question . In all the myths and fairy tales, a woman who breaks social conventions is always punished.And usually punishment is psychological, mental.Classic, isnt it ? Remember Mr Rochester’s first wife in Jane eyre?

Why burden our children with our past -or the mess we’ve made of it? This is a new generation. A clean slate. I don’t want her to be preoccupied with a history that caused us nothing but pain and distrust.

Every inch of soil is the product of hard work. It takes a multitude of worms and microorganisms hundreds of years of ceaseless labour to produce even that much.Healthy , loamy dirt is more precious than diamonds and rubies , though I have never heard humans praise it that way.

I miss Cyprus too. Maybe because of the frigid climate, I can’t help harking back to my days in the sun . I might have become a british tree , but some days it still takes me a moment to fathom where I am , on which island exactly . Memories come rushing back upon me , and if I listen intently I can still hear the songs of meadowlarks and sparrows , the whistling of warblers and wigeons , the birds of Cyprus , calling my name.

Promises made,sins and secrets confessed .between its walls,strangers turn into friends,friends into lovers;old flames rekindled, broken hearts mended or shattered once again.many a baby on the islan had been conceived after merry evening in the tavern.the happy fig had touched peoples`lives in so many unknown ways.

You know what they say ,keep the tongue in your mouth a prisoner.wisdom consists of ten parts ;nine parts of silence ,one part of words.

The path of an inherited trauma is random:you never know who might get it, but someone will.Among children growing under the same roof , some are affected by it more than others.

1960 Cyprus gained independence from the United Kingdom.no more a crown colony .that was a hopeful year,it felt like a new beginning,with some sort of calm reigning between the Greeks and the Turks.

Ada said:you make it sound as if we should judge a culture not by its literature or philosophy or democracy , just by its baklava.

Schools were separate .Greek kids and Turkish kids didn’t mingle that ,much back then ,although there were mixed villages and mixed neighborhoods, like ours.Our families knew each other .i liked panagiota (kostas mom ).such a nice lady .but then things got really bad -we stopped speaking to each other.(Meryem is talking)

PART THREE:TRUNKS

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