Those of us with the privilege of growing up in middle class Cyprus of the nineties, especially in socially progressive – it’s called leftist, say it, nothing bad is going to happen – households, had the luxury of asking the question: what do we owe to others? For some, such as myself, this launched a life-long quest to balance demands for freedom and equality. For me, this pursuit is manifested through a commitment to democratic socialism.

No doubt, the commitment to social justice created a messiah complex for many leftists of my generation, but I would take it any day: social justice is a good motivator and filter for action. The same applies to me. I filter most decisions in my life, both micro and macro, through this lens. The micro level being to whom do I give priority to exit from a side road? The answer is simple: to the modest, run-down car, since its driver possibly does not have the luxury of time, and certainly could use a little bit of kindness. The macro level covers bigger personal decisions with long-term implications, such as what to study and what vocation to pursue.

Enter the kids. This abstract concept – how to act in a way that promotes justice and equality – suddenly became soberingly concrete. The question turned personal. It is no longer “what do we owe to others?” but rather “how can I contribute to a more just and equal society for my children?”. And in the face of my children I now see all children; both those looking like my children and, even more so, those of other backgrounds and origins who, inevitably, will have to endure the nastiness of being in Cyprus while diverging from the norm.

It is with this mindset that I experienced and processed the latest political developments, which signified a new all-time-low in the history of our country. I experienced these developments, which I will list below, as a direct attack to the future of my children. Let’s look at them one-by-one.

Firstly, a big part of Limassol’s mountains were burned to ashes, amounting to 1% of Cyprus gone. The government proved absolutely ineffective in containing and promptly responding to the fire. They failed at multiple levels, both technical and political, and even after the calamitous event, none of the three concerned ministers resigned, and even padded themselves on the back with the audacity of those who know that they are untouchable.

The second development indicative of the fact that we live in a quasi-developed state is that, in the absolute highs of the most brutal Cypriot summer, the government was forced to implement electricity cuts, unable to meet the energy demands of the country. The energy precariousness has long been predicted by analysts, yet the government did what it does best: nothing. Perhaps worse, not only did they do nothing effective to ensure energy sufficiency, they purposely decided to prioritise funding for military and border management all the while people remained without air-conditioning in the scorching heat of the (otherwise glorious) Cypriot summer.

The water shortage and corresponding cuts is the third development that triggered my desperation. Over the summer, the authorities had to rely on donations of mobile desalination units to cover the needs of the country. Desalination units which have not yet been fully operational or integrated into the grid. From a personal perspective, a few days ago we experienced the indignity of not having water to even wash the dishes. Hardly an indicator of a developed country.

Such were my thoughts as we were driving towards Sunshine’s village, Omodos, which was nearly burned to the ground in the recent fires, and only spared on the last moment because of the wind changing direction. These thoughts intensified a few days later when we visited a nearby village, Koilani, a lovely area in the woods. Now, all the vegetation that was covering the areas surrounding Koilani has been replaced by an endless black carpet. Seeing the blackness extending to the horizon, I could not fathom how none assumed any responsibility for this tragedy; a tragedy that will span down multiple generations.

It is fairly obvious that the governmental structures are – to put it mildly – largely lacking, and we, the citizens, are all alone, only able to rely upon each other. You can therefore imagine my panic when, mere days after the big fires and as I was chilling under the vine in Sunshine family’s house in Omodos, I realised that a fire broke out some 100-150 metres away. I rushed and called the fire service, loaded the kids in the car, drove by and picked up Sunshine’s almost centenarian grandfather, and evacuated the village. I was absolutely panicked and failed to mask it, not only because of our proximity to the fire (we could barely breathe and ashes were pouring from the sky) but also because I could realise the high likelihood of multiple failures in the government’s response, which may have resulted, yet again, in destruction and loss of life (“if we exclude the two deaths, we had no other loss of life,” the Minister said).

Thankfully, the fire was put out fairly quickly and a few hours later we returned to the village. In the interim, we resorted to Trimiklini; a nearby village with a big café attached to a supermarket where we spent the afternoon. Johnny was topless since we left in a rush without his t-shirt, but none questioned us. We had ice cream and tried to foster a calm and pleasant environment for the children, alas with little success considering Johnny’s statements the following days when he was recounting how afraid he was after seeing us hastily abandoning the village.

During my teenage years, my parents often said that I should do whatever would make me content, wherever that might be, and that I should not feel obliged to return to Cyprus after my studies. They were effectively saying: return to Cyprus if you will, but don’t feel obliged to do so for us. At the time, although I didn’t say anything, I perceived this statement as something not very nice to say. Looking back, this statement is possibly their greatest act of love; they prioritised my well-being, released the anchor and granted me ownership of my decisions.

Just to give a bit of context to understand how difficult this statement must have been for them, I’ll recount a story from my first year in university. My mother and father accompanied me to the UK in order to help me settle in; something that is a bit of a tradition among pampered Cypriot kids from Nicosia. A few days later I was promptly settled in, and my parents had to depart for the airport, some hour and a half drive away. We exchanged goodbyes and my mum was struggling to remain composed. She succeeded, with tears only showing after she got into the taxi. Years later, my dad told me that she cried all the way to the airport.

I can very easily see myself doing the exact same thing. I often jokingly say to Sunshine that I’ll be devastated when the kids leave the house, a scenario only marginally better than the alternative – them not ever leaving the house. I reckon similar feelings were also felt by my parents. And to say “go and don’t feel that you have to come back” must have been absolutely devastating for them, liberating as it may have been for me.

It is only now, nineteen years later, that I realise the political dimension of this statement. Some say that pessimists are those who appreciate hope the most. I am both a pessimist and one who stubbornly refuses to lose hope. Yet, I am very close to accepting defeat. The realisation that, in all likelihood, Cyprus will continue to be this quasi-democratic, quasi-developed state full of self-centred, individualistic extremists, is sobering. What makes it even worse is that things can, and most possibly will, get much worse.

That’s when I got the flashback of my parents saying that if I didn’t want to return to Cyprus, I should not feel obliged to do so for them. Considering that Cyprus is becoming an all-around nasty place, maybe it would be better if my children eventually leave and never come back, returning only for holidays. If such is the case, then the only thing remaining is to devise a cunning plan on how to move next door to their new location.

This is part of a series of entries titled Fatherhood Diaries where I record thoughts on life as a new dad. Click here for all the Fatherhood Diaries.