"Not again! Not again, my Virgin Mary!" My mouth does not shout it, my soul screams it as I run with my hand raised to cover my dry lips and my chattering teeth. I feel like my insides are churning, I think I will vomit bile, bitter bile like the one I have tasted for almost a month now, since the invasion began. My feet thunder loudly on the mosaics as I run, as if to cling and keep me upright, I really don't know how I hold myself and don't collapse in the long corridor. To my right and left are doors, some closed and some half-open, I don't even remember how many times I have passed through them, sometimes with anxiety, sometimes with burden, sometimes with sadness, but now I don't stop at any, I can't. Moans of pain are heard from some, deathly silence from others, the smell of dirty blood, sickly hairs, and stale disinfectants from end to end, they bring me suffocation, fainting. "Not again... No..." I whisper this again and again, as if my repeated denial could take from our shoulders the cross of martyrdom we will bear a second time within a few days. "Even Your Son bore it only once, my Virgin Mary. Why us...?"
I quickly blink my eyes as I recover from the blow. The first thing I feel beside me, my three boys, my whole life.
“Mom…”
“Mama…”
Twice. Two voices. I’m mistaken. My God, I’m mistaken. It’s not my whole life. It’s incomplete. One voice less. One life less.
“Where?” I scream, and my soul tears apart. “Where is my other son?”
CYPRUS, sea-kissed, sun-drenched. But enslaved to the colonizers. When the time comes, its people stand tall, alone, against an empire. They fight and hope. They hurt and bleed.
First against the gallows of the British. And then against the Turkish. The invader who drowns the island in blood, that black summer of ’74. The summer of the dead, the captives, the uprooted, the thousands of missing.
Of Maritsa, who is left with an empty, orphaned embrace. Of Helen, who refuses to wear black, because they didn’t hand her a body to mourn. Of Vagorakis, who stands all day with the picture of a lost father hanging from his youthful chest. Of Nikos, Andreas, Markos, black-and-white images in front of burning candles.
Men, women, children, our brothers and sisters in Cyprus.
This is their justice and their tears.
This is their struggle.
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Manufacturer
Product Guides
- Author
- THodoris Papatheodorou
- Publisher
- PSychogios
- Publishers
- Psychogios
- Type
- Historical Novel
- Subtitle
- -
- Cover
- Soft
- Number of Pages
- 504
- Release Date
- 3/2024
- Publication Date
- 2024
- Dimensions
- 14x21 cm
- ISBN-13
- 9786180155822
Important information
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