On October 29, 1974, the last bus carrying Greek-Cypriot and Greek prisoners of war from the Turkish invasion arrived at the Ledra checkpoint in Nicosia. For the women, children, and siblings who did not reunite with their loved ones that day, a second, more painful phase of the ordeal began. Since then, the term “missing person” has marked their lives. “1,619.” This is the exact number of those who, apart from the confirmed dead, never returned home.
From that day on, hundreds of families in Cyprus and Greece found themselves at the starting line of an endless struggle: ultimately aiming to locate and identify their relatives. These are families that learned to survive between the finality of death and the faint hope of life. Children who “grew up with a photograph in hand.” The wound remains open, as dozens of soldiers and civilians from July-August 1974 are still considered missing.
Fifty years later, three women, daughters of missing persons, share their personal experiences with Kathimerini. Along with their own memories, the memory of a nation has been etched – of waiting, absence, loss. Through their stories unfolds one of the most painful legacies of modern Greek history.
Final hours
On the night of July 20, 1974, Eirini Mandoles’ family, along with other villagers from Elia – just a few kilometers from the Kyrenia coast of Pentemili, where the Turkish invasion began – hid in the basement of a house. The voices of the invaders grew closer and closer. She was only 2 years old at the time. After years of effort and with her mother Charita’s help, she recalls painfully, “I hold in my heart those last hours I spent with my father. Outside, the Turks were spreading pain and destruction. He held me in his arms and read me a book that happened to be in his hands, as if he knew he would never be able to do it again.” He was reading to calm her, to keep her from crying and revealing their hiding place to the soldiers.
In front of little Eirini’s eyes, 12 men from the village were executed, including her father, who remained on the list of missing persons until 2008.
“We grew up with a photograph in hand. We grew older, but the face in the photograph didn’t,” she says, describing her abrupt entry into adulthood. “The tragic thing about a missing father isn’t the loss; it’s the waiting. You keep waiting. Inside, there’s a constant pain. You hope. For me, my father, and every missing and fallen person of 1974 is a point of reference for struggle until liberation and catharsis.”
‘Over my dead body’
‘I hold in my heart those last hours I spent with my father. Outside, the Turks were spreading pain and destruction. He held me in his arms and read me a book, as if he knew he would never be able to do it again’
The life of Tasos Markou was intertwined with Cyprus. A fighter with the National Cypriot Fighters’ Organization (EOKA), a Greek Cypriot from the Hellenic Military Academy, and an officer in the National Guard. In August 1974, during the ceasefire, Major Markou fortified himself with a small number of soldiers at Mia Milia, northeast of Nicosia. With the second invasion imminent and resistance seeming almost futile, Markou could have chosen to retreat with his men. No one would have blamed him. “The Turks will pass only over my dead body,” he replied to those urging him to withdraw.
To this day, Markou is listed as missing. “He is one of the central ‘pieces’ still missing,” his daughter Andri Markou-Christodoulidou tells Kathimerini, encapsulating the essence of his disappearance: “Chasing the shadows of the past, I dare to express what we feel, citing an excerpt from Han Kang’s ‘Human Acts’: ‘After you died I could not hold a funeral, and so my life became a funeral.’” Andri Markou had the “privilege” of briefly meeting her father between the two invasions. “I remember him in uniform saying goodbye to us, and the mixture of emotions he felt was evident in his aura and gaze, overwhelming us. It was a silent and painful farewell, as we knew deep down that the soldier Tasos Markou, raised with Greek ideals, would never abandon his own Thermopylae.” When she first heard the expression, she wondered, “Mom, what is a ‘missing person? Alive or dead?’”
We ask Markou if she ever felt anger at her father’s choice to stay on the front lines. “The initial despair and pain give way to denial, internal numbness, and even anger, which subsides over time,” she replies, disarmingly. “As a child, I often wondered if our father loved us enough when he chose not to retreat. By analyzing him deeply, as both a soldier and a person, I managed to understand him: There was only one choice: ‘Come back with your shield, or on it.’ [editor’s note: This is an ancient Spartan quote capturing the essence of their warrior culture]. He chose the path of dignity and unwavering faith in the oath of the Greek officer.”
Stigma of absence
July 23, 1974, was the last day Maria Kalbourtzi saw her father. He was Greek Lieutenant General Stylianos Kalbourtzis, commander of the 181st Field Artillery Battalion of the National Guard, stationed at Trikomo, where he and his men fought Turkish invaders for three days. A few hours later, during the ceasefire, parts of the unit were surrounded. Along with Kalbourtzis, 37 men from the unit were killed. For over 40 years, Maria Kalbourtzi did not know her father’s fate. Today, she is president of the Panhellenic Committee of Parents and Relatives of Undeclared Prisoners and Missing Persons of the Cyprus Tragedy and fights for the discovery of those who remain unaccounted for.
“Life flows at a different pace. Everyday routines, but especially anniversaries and holidays, are marked by absence. Waiting is inevitable, as is anxiety, pain, questions and tensions. The deprivation of the right to loss, to experience mourning, to cry for one’s loved one feels so distant,” she tells us.
Anger also overshadowed her feelings. “The image of the lost father, his absence when I needed him, his choice of duty – all dominated my thoughts. I thought of his anger over the coup and his certainty about the invasion. Gradually, the anger transformed into disappointment with the state that allowed this betrayal to happen.” Today, her anger is channeled into persistence for uncovering the truth. As for her father’s legacy? “He had a touching humanity, a deep and selfless patriotism without political labels, dignity, kindness and morality. I feel proud of his service and especially of his dedication to what he believed in. He taught me to hold high the values of faith and dignity in just causes.”
Like thousands of others affected by the invasion, Eirini Mandoles, now a teacher, has been marked by the past and by the experience of displacement. “You grow up far from your roots,” she says, adding: “To be able to dream, you need to feel safe. In Cyprus, there’s a false sense of security. In the occupied areas, there are 40,000 soldiers simply waiting for an order from Turkey. Only my bond with the land and my family keeps me here.” One thing she’ll never forget is the entry in her childhood ID card: “Father’s occupation: Missing.”
For Markou, distancing herself from Cyprus’ tragedy during her studies and career in the arts served as partial healing: “I realized the futility of waiting. For the brief time I had with Tasos Markou, I feel only gratitude – and pride in the legacy he left behind.” Her in-depth research on the invasion, both as therapy and as a duty to future generations, also holds healing value. A new detail? “The landing at Pentemili could have been intercepted if, among other measures, Second Lieutenant Engineer (P.P.) had completed the landmine placement on the shore where the landing occurred. This work was halted at 11.45 p.m. on July 19, by order of the National Guard General Staff (GEEF).”
Maria Kalbourtzi is clear that she won’t abandon her duty. What drives her? “The right of 780 families to know the truth. Our goal is for these people not to be forgotten, to eliminate the ‘shame list.’” In reality, since 2017, Turkey and the authorities of the breakaway state have increasingly obstructed the work of the Committee on Missing Persons. “The lack of progress is due to Turkey’s refusal to provide information from the invading army’s archives. Seventy percent of the occupied territories are now classified as military zones, while targeted relocations of remains from original burial sites are ongoing. Time is our enemy, as those who know the facts are passing away. Turkey is ruthlessly exploiting time,” Kalbourtzi notes. Along with time, it buries its responsibilities.
If Eirini Mandoles feels anger, it is toward the way the international community deals with Turkey. “In Cyprus, we have a saying: ‘The fire burns where it falls.’ These people gave their lives to protect their families, their homeland, and to preserve Hellenism on this edge of the Mediterranean. I can’t imagine a solution in which the invasion’s consequences are legitimized. That would be disrespect and an affront to our dead.”