I don’t fit into your stereotype of what a woman is.
smell of jasmine
a story weaving
forgotten morning kiss
enclaved you’ve been
country/you found none;
you seek one.
love yourself more;
you lift/before you
a wall/ between
my dowry to you, again, till the very end, i give.
you died last night.
Today, you’re famous;
funny, it wasn’t your music or your lyrics
’twas your death.
Today, you’re something like a symbol of anti-fascism/
but,will anything come out of your death?
Today, hundreds of people are demonstrating against your murderers
and what they stand for, violence for violence,
and the world, in awe, stays still.
Today, I write these words listening to your music;
stabbed to death, your voice hushed at 34, past midnight,
you only went out to watch a game, they say.
Last night, you died,unarmed, for what you believed in
and we, we… still speak of democracy.
Κ’οταν ο έρως πάψει
θα πα να ψάξει.
He lives at the other side.
I know the process off by heart by now;
I say “Γεια σας” at the police officers and I walk straight in.
I then say “Hello” to the next police officer and I fill out a little paper;
I swear its the easiest visa to get.
I make sure to spell my name with an “i” and not an “e”.
Name and Surname: Valentini Stavrou
Passport No : 1034517
The officer looks at my ID card, then at the little paper;
she types out the information on the computer and my heart is pounding,
do I have any pendind speeding tickets from the last time I visited?
My friend with the blue eyes calls to make sure everything is fine,
the lady stamps the little paper “28 Nisan 2013”, 90 days
and I’m good to go. My visa is burning in my hand.
I can now meet my friend. I grab a tourist map;
I smile cause I don’t really need it. I have a friend at the other side!
He waves at me and I feel less of a tourist, it is the first time I crossed
and there was someone there waiting for me.
Friendship makes the crossing less of a pain.
I give him a flaouna, baked by my yiayia
and I stupidly ask him if he knows what this is and he laughs
“Woman! My grandma bakes these every Easter!”
We drive and drive and drive for hours on end;
we reach Karpaz and we order coffee.
He makes fun of me, a spoiled little princess he says I am
and the coffee is strong and the beach is beautiful.
And maybe one day, Hakan,
we’ll be able to meet and have Byzantine/Greek/Turkish/Cypriot coffee
and we will both leave our ID cards at home.