Refugee Week - My Story

This is my dad, kitesurfer, photographer, computer genius and a refugee, and this is where half of my story begins.
Before I start, I want to say that this is not a political story. It is a journey into becoming. ⁠⠀

So back to this guy, my dad, one of the greatest story tellers of all time. Most kids had fairytales to send them to sleep, we had stories from his childhood and the war. In 1974, he and my family were forced to flee their home in Famagusta, Cyprus, and begin their journey of resettling. ⁠⠀

Most of us have an image of a refugee in our minds, but a refugee is me, you, your neighbour. Displacement doesn’t have a look or a job, a skin colour or a gender. It could be round the corner for any of us, and for 70.8 million people, it has already arrived. ⁠⠀

20th July, 1974, a soldier knocked on their door and told them they needed to leave their house. My dad (12 YRO) and his family grabbed a few belongings and all pilled into one car, although a few people too many. My grandma wanted them all together - just incase. ⁠Probable a decision no mother ever thought they would make, or ever wish to make again.

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My family drove to a refugee camp where they were fed and looked after. ⁠My dad, having had his childhood come to an abrupt halt, washed dishes just to pass the time with my uncle, his older brother. They were given their first beer as payment. ⁠⠀

From the Refugee Camp, my family left in their car. Cyprus to Greece to Italy to Switzerland to Paris to London. My Dad speaks humbly of his experience, calling themselves privileged. They were privileged in comparison to some of my friend’s stories that we hear of today, fleeing their countries. However, they still had everything taken away from them, other than the clothes they wore, a handful of personal items and the comfort of each other. ⁠

They were used to a certain standard of living, and now they had £500 and a car, between them. ⁠⠀

In London, my dad picked up dishwashing again, this time to save up enough money for a vinyl and a roll of film for his camera. He ended up getting a press pass for the London Motor Show. It’s no surprise then, that I also have a love of story telling through my lens.⁠⠀⠀
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Dad stayed in London until university. Adventures sprinkled throughout his teens.⁠⠀
Adventures that opened his eyes and mind, whilst the borders remained closed and withering. Not a new memory made in the city that has stayed still. Just a scar that ran across the tiny island, known as the Green Line. ⁠⠀
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His adventures included a brief spurt of living in Corfu, running a water ski school; racing back to the UK against his brother in their cars; more fancy dress parties than I can think of costumes for!⁠⠀
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The border opened in the early 2000’s, that allowed travel between the North and the South. Before that, we would stand on the top floor of the tallest building with binoculars, to get a glimpse of dads home. ⁠⠀
Whilst the borders are open, my dad’s town Famagusta, is exactly as it was in the 70s.
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We have visited the barbed wired beach a few times, while dad pointed out his bedroom window and the beach his brother and sister snuck sand into the bathroom, from. We have dreamt of how we would decorate each floor and how we would wake up and run to the sea every morning. ⁠⠀

Somewhere inside, I am sure that in 1974, my family and many others, thought they were going to return to their home, that this was a strange pause in time before they pressed play on normality again. 46 Years later and Famagusta remains paused...empty till this day, making it one of the only ghost towns in the world. ⁠⠀
Turkish Cypriots were also forced out of their homes on the now 'South'. These villages remain a time capsule, untouched by humans, occupied only by mountain goats and the elements.

My dad has since returned to Cyprus, although of course not back to his original home just yet. Hoping for a solution and peace everyday!⠀

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⁠So this is half of my story.

And whilst I don’t feel the pain of loosing everything I own, it is carried through my ancestry and I feel it somewhere deeply embedded in me. ⁠
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My favourite summer days are road trips to the North where the stories unfold from my dads memory. It’s hard to believe he can have any more tales to tell, after 30 years of hearing them, but there is always something new and there are always the classic favourites. I feel a duty to not forget these memories that aren’t even mine.
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It’s always been in me to want to help, as I am a natural empath. Speaking up and using my voice to bring justice to those voices who are silences. I have been protesting since my first word, and can imagine I’ll be protesting till my last.

This was the start of my story, and my journey with this work is only getting deeper. I have been led down this way by my dad but my friends from Sudan, Yemen, Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran and too many countries that I could name, are now my beacons.

As I mentioned at the start of this blog, a refugee can be anyone, it can be me, you, your neighbour….or my dad!

We have more in common than we don’t - remember that.