Special to The Washington Post
N ot far from where I live in south London, there’s a cafe, the sort of simple joint that we Brits affectionately call a “greasy spoon,” serving up fried breakfasts and mugs of tea. It was a couple of days before I was due to leave on holiday that I noticed the poem. Hanging above one its white laminate tables, on the same wall as a soft-focus photo of Princess Di, it betrayed the owner’s affiliation with the country I was about to visit.
“Cypriot people, close family bound, Sent here by war in their homeland.”
As a work of literature, it wasn’t quite Whitman. But as I sat there eating my bacon and eggs, this naive couplet brought the realization home: You really can’t go to northern Cyprus without being aware of its politics.
Read the rest on: