Some places carry tears beneath their beauty. And some names, when spoken aloud, refuse to remain part of a closed chapter—they reopen wounds, making dried tears flow once again. The name Georgios Grivas is one of them.
As January 26 marked the 52nd anniversary of his death, Georgios Grivas was commemorated in the Greek Cypriot Administration of Southern Cyprus. But who was Grivas? And why does the mention of his name still revive pain?
Georgios Grivas was the leader of the EOKA terrorist organization and the commander-in-chief of the Greek Cypriot National Guard. Under his leadership, attacks were carried out against Turkish Cypriot settlements in Erenköy in 1964, and Geçitkale and Boğaziçi in 1967, resulting in massacres where civilians—children and infants included—were killed solely because of their ethnic identity.
Even today, walking through the warm and seemingly peaceful streets of Cyprus, one can sense a silent echo of injustice and grief. What happened on the island is not confined to history books; it lives on in the walls of homes, on gravestones, at checkpoints, and within an enduring silence. EOKA and its leader are not distant symbols of a bygone “struggle,” but living reminders of loss, fear, and broken trust woven into everyday life.
Remembering Grivas is not a neutral historical act. It recalls the moment when shared coffee between neighbors was replaced by the sound of gunfire. In this sense, commemoration goes far beyond remembrance—it becomes a political and moral statement.
The issue here is not whether the past should be discussed. On the contrary, confronting history is one of the fundamental conditions of peace in today’s world. Yet there is a crucial line between reckoning and glorification. Honoring the leader of an organization that targeted civilians, normalized ethnic violence, and turned coexistence into hostility denies the grief and trauma of the victims.
Peace rhetoric gains meaning not when wounds are ignored, but when they are acknowledged.
If the Greek Cypriot Administration were genuinely committed to living in peace with Turkish Cypriots, it would not celebrate one of the architects of unresolved suffering on the island as a “hero,” waving Greek flags in public commemorations. Publicly honoring figures associated with violence only deepens the divide between collective memories and makes genuine reconciliation more difficult.
Without bridging this gap, a lasting and just solution remains unattainable.
Peace should not remain an abstract hope directed only toward the future. It must be a concrete responsibility toward the past. Who we choose to remember also determines who we choose to hurt. And for that very reason, if peace is truly desired, memory must cease to be selective.
Because real peace is built not by those who glorify the past—but by those who are willing to confront it.
Zeynep Çınar
Guest Columnist
