Memories at the Paphos gate –Nicosia

photo from - Cyprus Island . net

The Paphos gate –Nicosia has held special memories for me, spanning from late 1995 to late 2000. When I first arrived in Cyprus, I lived just 100 meters from the gate, in a shared house with a few other students at 14 Favirios Street (now call Ayiou Marona) —right in front of the Maronite Church - "Our Lady of Graces".

​Every Sunday, I used to cross this gate more than six times, heading to the CYTA (Cyprus Telecommunications Authority) park to meet fellow Sri Lankans. At that time, more than 5,000 of our people—mostly Housemates and farm laborers—lived in Nicosia and the surrounding towns. For us students, meeting others from our homeland felt like therapy.

There were no mobile phones or social media back then. The only way to reach family was through a phone card, used in the CYTA telephone booths next to the park. Those hardworking women labored from Monday morning to Saturday night—their only day off was Sunday. On that day, they would emerge with joyful smiles, like birds flying free from a cage.

Usually, they’d start their sunday by attending the "Holy Cross" Catholic church next to the Paphos Gate, followed by phone calls to families, and then head to the Cyta park, where they'd spend the day chatting and sharing rice and curry. These moments were sweet—filled with laughter and connection—but always carried a quiet undertone of sadness, like a thin line running through the memory.

Since 2012, I’ve returned to Cyprus regularly. Each visit, I make it a point to walk through the same gate—a ritual that stirs memories, both distant and vivid. While the footpaths and surrounding area saw some renovation over a decade ago, the wooden gate itself has remained untouched since the end of the medieval era. Beyond it, the buffer zone—still marked by its familiar blue-and-white line—stands frozen in time, unchanged since the 1974 conflict.

Beneath the tunnel at Paphos Gate, artist Glyn Hughes created an installation titled Synergy. It stood as a quiet witness to the passage of time—much like my own memories.