Loving Our Enemies

A personal reflection on the 52nd anniversary of the invasion of Cyprus.

Credit: Wiki Commons

Today marks the 52nd anniversary of the Turkish invasion of Cyprus. The observance normally pairs with anger, political statements, and nationalism.

Instead, I’d like to share a story that reveals the Kingdom in the midst of great pain.

My father was born in what is today Turkish-occupied land in northern Cyprus. About 20 years ago, I visited the island to reconnect with cousins, aunts, and uncles. One of my uncles offered to show us where my family was from: conquered land across a fortified border.

Crossing that border was intimidating: I’d never seen so many armed guards, so much razor wire.

Credit: Wiki Commons

Navigating the occupied territory seemed impossible: villages had been renamed, streets had been rerouted, all in an effort to erase the past.

But my uncle knew the landmarks: the rivers, the mountains, the rubble of demolished churches. He led us to some fields where, in the shadow of new developments, the ruins of an old house still stood.

Barely…

A padlock still hung on the front door, but the roof was caved in by a mortar during the invasion.

It was the house my grandfather built with his own two hands.

The house in which my father was born.

Photo by Nikolai Rubanov on Unsplash

As I looked upon this shadow of the past—a bare shadow, almost rendered invisible by decades of ethnic cleansing—I felt both sadness and rage.

“Surely this land could be taken back for its rightful owners,” I thought. “This home can be reclaimed. Blood for blood.”

Yet later that day, we drove to a different village and found the home of my great aunt. Her house had two stories and was, in fact, still occupied. We were all surprised to see it.

But we were stunned when my great aunt suddenly exited the car:

“I want to say hello.”

I watched her slowly make her way to the front door. Nervous eyes watched her from behind locked windows: the eyes of children, fearful as a stranger approached from enemies to the south.

Would this woman rage?

Call for justice?

Try to take the house back?

A woman answered my great aunt’s knock. She opened the front door, just a crack at first. But within a few moments she stood out on the porch, smiling and chatting with the former owner of her home.

When my great aunt returned to the car, she explained what happened.

“I asked the woman if she liked the house. I told her it was very special to me, since it’s where I raised my children. I shared a memory, then she did. There we were, two mothers, loving our children together. I invited her to my new home if she ever comes south.”

I was stunned.

“Don’t you want your house back?” I asked.

“Did you see the children looking at us with fear?” my great aunt responded. “That home is all they’ve ever known. How can I take it from them? My children were once refugees. How could I wish that on any child?”

There, on land contested by the nations of men, I experienced the Kingdom of Heaven. I saw what it means to love ones “enemies.”

I saw what it means to not simply forgive, but bless.

I saw Christ in my great aunt.

She reposed several years ago. May we have her prayers.