[Michael Sherwood]

           In the courtyard, all the umbrellas have been put away, as well as the tables, chairs, postcard stands, and souvenir stalls. The rain is falling slowly, and the sky is streaked with heat lightning; a storm is brewing. It would only take a cool breeze to set it off. I enter the restaurant adjacent to the Büyük Han. It's the kind of restaurant that's perfect for a romantic evening out. The tables are set for two in the dim light: porcelain plates, crystal glasses, and silver cutlery are impeccably arranged, sparkling in the flame of the lit candles. There's a jazz piano ambiance, but nothing aggressive. The maître d’ escorts me to a free table on the side. There aren't many customers. A waiter brings me the menu and the wine list. I order the customary meze. He suggests to me the kleftiko, “the stolen sheep”, a Greek Cypriot dish. I accept his choice.

           The sky is constantly rumbling outside. At a moment when the thunder is louder, the lights in the restaurant suddenly go out, leaving only the glow of the candles. There's an "Ah!" of surprise from the guests at dinner. Then, after five minutes, the power is restored, and the service resumes its normal course.

           I ended up having a good time, less painful than I had expected. I have to run back across the paved courtyard because the rain has now started to fall heavily. I climb back up the stairs and head towards my room through the outside corridor. Once inside the room, it's a haven of peace. The window panes facing the corridor light up with each lightning strike, and the window and door frames shake a few seconds later. I calculate the seconds between the lightning and the thunderclap: the number remains constant, the storm isn't getting closer, nor is it receding. By dint of counting mentally, I eventually slip into sleep.
 
           It's early morning, just after dawn. I decide to take a walk around town before the population wakes up. I slip out of the hotel. Everything is eerily silent, except for the remnants of the storm that illuminate the sky and rumble sporadically in the distance. The pavement is glistening with moisture, and the air is heavy but breathable. Suddenly, I find myself on the paved sidewalk in front of the gates of the Selimiye Mosque. No more benches, nor tables, nor cats in front of the enclosing wall. I look at the façade and realize that the long vertical cracks that were so apparent yesterday are no longer visible. Masons have undertaken to repair the façade during the night! I look around again and am shocked to see that the market has also disappeared, as have the shop signs. In fact, all traces of modernity such as plastics, electrical wires, air conditioners, TV antennas have disappeared, including the cars and bicycles in the street. I reach into my pocket and pull out my smartphone as if it were to give me an answer to the present situation: it lights on, but no more reception bars and no date. Nothing.

           I retrace my steps towards the Büyük Han. Past the entrance porch, the courtyard is a chaotic jumble of carts, horses, grooms, servants, Arab merchants dressed in djellabah and other loose garments, as seen on ancient engravings. The lower stalls are cluttered with bales of hay, horse harnesses. There is intense activity all around. I finally realize with horror and anguish that I have fallen into a temporal rift, that chronological time has regressed, that the facade of the mosque that I saw repaired is actually the blank facade it presented when the Ottomans ruled Cyprus! I drag myself upstairs. I find my room, it smells musty, the hum of the air conditioning has stopped, I hear all the noises coming from the courtyard. Exhausted, I slip into bed as a last refuge, leaving it until tomorrow to solve the too many questions swirling in my head. I eventually fall asleep. Only to wake up immediately afterwards with a start. I feel like I haven't slept at all.

           The din of the storm has resumed with even greater intensity. Outside, the sky is continuously ablaze. Silver flashes and chrome yellow stripes illuminate it continuously. I don't have time to count to three before the boom of thunder immediately sounds, shaking the floor of my room. Outside, there is a deafening deluge of fire rain, iron, and flames in continuous rolling. Indistinct orders are shouted, staccatos of assault rifles and machine guns resound nearby. Booming cannon shots respond to them in the distance as echoes. The tracks of heavy vehicles and tanks rumble on the cobblestones of the streets of Lefkoşa in an immense racket. I don't know where to go, ready to throw myself under my bed. There is hell on earth.

           We are at the dawn of July 20, 1974
           Turkish soldiers are invading Cyprus.
           Operation Attila has begun!

           After this long nightmarish night, I finally wake up, this time for good. The room has returned to normalcy, the furniture is in its place, the air conditioning is working again after the long power outage of the night, chasing away the musty smell that had settled in. The sun passing through the gallery window clears the room of its shadowy corners. I enjoy the shower, hot and cold water, and brush my teeth vigorously. I dress in clean clothes from my backpack.

           I go down the stairs. In the courtyard armchairs and coffee tables have been set up for breakfast, sheltered by Coca-Cola umbrellas. A waitress invites me with a friendly smile to take a seat at one of the tables. She asks me out of politeness if I was bothered by the storm.

            — Sorry about the long power outage during last night's storm.
            — I usually like thunderstorms. But this one was loud and weird.
            — It was exceptional. We usually have them in autumn or winter.

I refrain from telling her everything I experienced last night; I feel like I'm the only one to have gone through all these phenomena. Then, after the difficult choice between "Tea or coffee?", I only have to let myself be served. It's an English breakfast, much more substantial than a continental breakfast. The juice and fruit are fresh. The morning croissants too. The atmosphere is relaxed, the few tourists having breakfast at this early hour speak in subdued voices. There is no longer all the commercial hustle and bustle of the previous day, souvenir stands and postcard racks have not yet been set up under the arches of the courtyard. It was then that I remember that today is National Day in the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus.

[Garfield1]

Fortunately, all this did not lead to a war, unlike what is happening in Ukraine.

[Michael Sherwood]

Hello Garfield1,

Merci d'être passé par ici pour lire mon texte. (Je ne sais pas si ça t'a demandé un effort ? )
On se sent un peu seul dans cette section  !

Je ne pense pas qu'on puisse assimiler un conflit à l'autre, une guerre à l'autre, même si à la base il y a toujours des revendications de souveraineté territoriale. Difficile de comprendre la situation à Chypre, si on ne connaît pas en détail l'origine du conflit entre Chypriotes grecs et Chypriotes turcs. C'est un héritage de la décolonisation bâclée des Anglais. Et non pas la lubie soudaine d'un dictateur.
Dans la guerre en Ukraine, il y a clairement un agresseur et un agressé.
A Chypre en 1974, les deux, Grecs et Turcs étaient à la fois agresseurs et agressés. Les Casques Bleus de l'ONU étaient déjà présents sur place (la fameuse Ligne Verte) et le conflit a été gelé, jusqu'à aujourd'hui ! Ce qui a évité une "extension du domaine de la lutte", mais n'a pas éteint les rancœurs et les revendications.

Je recopie ici un bon résumé de l'histoire récente de Chypre trouvé dans Wikipedia :

Désolé, vous n'êtes pas autorisé à afficher le contenu du spoiler.

Have a good day  !

[Garfield1]

Bravo pour ton écriture parfaite dans deux langues et merci pour ces explications.

Je crois qu'il est important de tirer les enseignements de l'histoire. Pour moi, ce que j'en tire, c'est que la guerre est la pire des choses, sauf à vouloir se libérer d'une situation de domesticité.

Entre Chypre et l'Ukraine il y a quand même au départ des analogies manifestes sur bien des points et il n'y a pas eu de guerre à Chypre.

Bon tout cela mériterait de longs développements qui n'ont peut-être pas leur place ici.

[Michael Sherwood]

Bon tout cela mériterait de longs développements qui n'ont peut-être pas leur place ici.

Je suis d'accord ! On pourrait se disputer des heures, et ce n'est pas le but de ce forum, qui est littéraire.
Je suis sûr que ni toi ni moi ne sommes Chypriotes, Grecs ou Turcs, alors pourquoi on se querellerait sur une histoire vieille de 50 ans  !

[Garfield1]

Disons que j'ai trouvé le drapeau dans ton avatar un peu provocateur ici.
Mais tout va bien 

[Michael Sherwood]

Disons que j'ai trouvé le drapeau dans ton avatar un peu provocateur ici.
Mais tout va bien 

J'avais espéré que tout le monde adopterait un signe montrant leur indignation, comme du temps où tout le monde se disait "Charlie" en France. Il faut croire que le soutien à l'Ukraine était moins prégnant dans les esprits.
Mais c'est une bonne idée, je choisirai un nouvel avatar...  !