THE WAY IT BREAKS, by Polis Loizou

Cloud Lodge Books, London, 2021. ISBN 978–1–8380451–2–8

It’s not often I’m minded to write an extended piece in reaction to a book I’ve read but this is one of the times when I am. I follow the author on Twitter (@PolisLoizou) for his occasional musings on the writing life, the bookselling life, the oral storytelling life, the expat life of a born & bred bisexual Cypriot who now finds himself a married man in Nottingham, including updates on kitchen renovations & the occasional pec-proud selfie.

I feel a certain kinship, having been born in southern Cyprus to British parents, brought to the UK as a child; although I did not grow up there, it is odd how the place of one’s birth still draws the imagination. I love the sea, the wine dark sea, a phrase that tugs at me for no conscious reason but makes my heart skip a beat when I think of the excitement of seeing it. I identify with the joy of those who shouted, ‘Thalassa! Thalassa!’ when they saw it after so long.

To this day I hate wearing anything on my feet, perhaps a small giveaway signal of a birth in a warm climate followed by a lifetime spent wanting to reconnect with the land I first felt beneath them. I have an enduring fondness for Greek, although my New Testament koiné Greek is much better than my modern, and I make no claim to proficiency with the medieval Byzantine Greek that lives on in the Cypriot dialect. When I hear Greek, I feel comforted and rejuvenated, as though something from long ago still lives and nourishes me, perhaps an echo of the Greek words I learned as a child, taught to me by my Turkish nanny.

And there we have it, these layers of identity that we struggle to understand and reconcile in the attempt to know ourselves, so we might have a serviceable answer to the question of where we belong, where we stand in order to take our bearings, so as to navigate. Do we belong to a place? A culture? A language? A family? A person? God? Ourselves? All of these?

If the culture we are born to disrupts the process of putting down roots naturally, unthinkingly, we are forced to choose consciously where we might permit ourselves to do it. Those of us who lack an identity we can easily buy into are forced to write our own, which is no easy task given the extent to which self-image still draws upon the locations where we have lived — especially when those locations are themselves contested.

Anyone with even a slight tie to Cyprus knows this struggle. I feel inclined to specify ‘southern’ Cyprus when I say where I was born, because I know being non-specific begs the obvious question, and I choose ‘southern’ instead of ‘Greek’ because I know how much more there is to the part of Cyprus south of the Green Line than simply being Greek-speaking. ‘Greek Cypriot’ is the usual tag, I know, but it is a one-dimensional, oppositional self-definition (contra Turkish) that fails to capture who Greek-speaking Cypriots are, and which reacts to only one dimension of who Turkish-speaking Cypriots are.

This problematic richness is what Orestis, Eva, and the other characters in ‘The Way It Breaks’ try to comprehend, as they tackle the challenge of carving out their lives on an island whose geography makes it a valuable prize, yet never rich and powerful enough in its own right to resist those who would possess and use it. How does one love a place that simultaneously makes us feel so many of the things we want to break free of? Powerful strangers and family alike can stifle.

Millenia of foreign overlords leave their mark upon a culture. People do their best to assimilate each new layer; resisting more than is necessary, adopting and adjusting just enough to enable an adequately civilized life to continue until the next visitor arrives. In this setting, the ability to preserve what matters is a constant struggle; the ability to do certain things as they have ‘always’ been done assumes importance. Religion is an important prop for a people engaged in this struggle, along with language, and popular culture, the music, songs, and poetry that carry the narratives housing shared identity, and the examples of individual lives that we choose from in assembling our own.

This is a tricky inheritance, all the more so because there is no escaping it. It is part of the language we think in. Becoming our own person can mean distancing ourselves from family and home if we feel restricted or controlled; the price of not doing it can be to end up becoming that which we might have escaped, coming resenting it and ourselves, even our own bodies.

What is a young Cypriot like Orestis to do with all this? Spending foreigners and the larger towns that attract them can make the rhythms of traditional village life seem impoverished, limited, encouraging thoughts of a life more comfortable and more likely to be looked upon with respect by outsiders and aspiring compatriots alike. Does Orestis put roots down on a vulnerable, divided island while hoping to encourage incomers to bring their money, or does he learn from outsiders how to live a comfortable, potentially mobile life that can, if need be, keep trouble at a safe distance (by relocating oneself, not it)? Can he remain a decent man, when some of the opportunities that come along involve deceit of others by him and manipulation by others of him?

The layered identities of the other characters in the book, Orestis’ maybe future fiancée Eva, her father & Orestis’ employer Ioannou, Eva’s stepmother & Orestis’ lover Darya, intertwine in ways that allow them to be read as aspects of Cyprus, itself an island born of a mingling, that Aphrodite might emerge from the waves, first of an ongoing procession of presences, arriving via beaches where St Paul himself trod before, like so many others, moving on.

These are rich characters, and we access their inner lives because the author tells the tale from the perspective of different characters in different chapters, which become shorter and more focused as the tale develops, and the possibilities open to them narrow. As we follow the characters, seeing how they use their inheritances to navigate life and grow, we see also how choices can leave us boxed in, reducing our available options. Yet this is still growth, for progress in life is so often about choosing which doorways to leave closed, as much as those we choose to open and enter.

As we age, more of our time and energy are spent living the choices we have made, rather than making new ones; being the people we have become, rather than wondering/wandering and exploring who we might be. And the time comes when we realize we have been putting down roots for some time now, and did not notice the day when we gave ourselves permission to start. Or, like Darya, transplanted from Belarus, we realize the roots have not taken, despite our conscious efforts. If Cyprus is tricky for Cypriots, it can be doubly so for those who choose it as a refuge.

It has been said often that character is fate but this book reminds us that history is also fate, for in human beings, these two are interwoven, like the strands of the baskets crafted by the village women. As we weave our individual stories a cross the years, we become more complex, the narrative of our life takes longer to tell, and it becomes more difficult to enable closeness because there is so much more of us that the other must learn about so as to know us.

Herein lies Cyprus’ problem: the longer division continues, the harder it may be to unify. To be Cypriot is to know incompleteness, to know what it is to have to cope, even though part of you is missing, and may or may not be recoverable. This is a painful wisdom to have to live with.

I enjoyed this book hugely, and enjoyed processing the reflections it prompted. Apart from anything else, it was a joy to read a book in English that asks us to pause and look at Cyprus in its own right, as more than just a crisis or turning point that must be managed by others.

One of the most poignant moments in the book comes when an old woman is watching a village wedding, and remarks with tears in her eyes that it feels just like the old times, saying, ‘Any minute now, we’ll be hearing Turkish.’ She expresses a longing for old neighbours long departed but who, as the author notes, many of those present would despise. New chapters have been added to the narrative, and can only be altered by adding yet more, for who can unwrite?

This is a book that yearns for a simpler time, as I sometimes yearn for those early days of sunny ease when I had a Turkish nanny who thought it natural to teach me Greek. Yet this is also a grown-up book, by an author who knows that we can only travel forward, continue the business of becoming.

The author knows better than to end on a joyful note, instead choosing a knowing, poignant one. The lead characters, Eva and Orestis, marry; it is the outcome of who they are. They realize that, still learning about themselves, it is not realistic to expect to know each other fully, now or ever. Even the one we most wish to be with might remain forever strange, despite the blessings of priest, parents, and even future children. This is self-knowledge that is true to the characters, and to the land that birthed them.

We make our choices, including whom to trust, and with what. If it enables us to judge appropriately, to resolve moments of crisis to advantage, perhaps that painful wisdom is worth the price.