Photograph by Alice Karayianni
I grew up in a divided capital.
As teenagers and young adults, we’d spend a lot of time right by the border, in the old town of Nicosia. The city seemed to pause there. It didn’t feel heavy then: backgammon dice striking wooden boards, laughter spilling out of local coffee shops, the scent of jasmine in the warm air, and long conversations that stretched late into the evening. My paradise for photography.
Some of my friends lived on the other side. Just knowing each other and sharing ordinary moments across a “line” felt like a small way of refusing the distance we had inherited. It felt important somehow, as if we were contributing to something bigger.
Life has moved on since those days. The border that once felt like the centre of our world now sits somewhere in the background of everyday life. But the memory of that feeling still lives in me, and I find myself hoping that my children will know it too.
The instinct to bridge the line shouldn’t disappear with our generation.
As elections approach and the island once again debates its future, I find myself thinking back to those evenings by the border and the simple friendships that quietly crossed it.
