Sartorius-Rezension, "Mein Zypern"

Rezension:

MEIN ZYPERN,  Joachim Sartorius,

ISBN 978-3-86648-174-9

Mare-Verlag, 1. Auflage 2013, 18,-- Euro 

"Mein Lieblingshaus steht auf Zypern".... 

....schreibt Joachim Sartorius. Für Mittelmeer-Fans hat er ein handliches Buch mit hohem Wiedererkennungswert verfasst. Der Autor hat von 1984 bis 1986 drei Sommer in Türkisch-Zypern verbracht. 2012 kam er für drei Wochen als Tourist zurück und vollendete seine Aufzeichnungen von damals. "Was ich tue, ist im Grunde eine neue Abmischung zweier Zeiten". 

Joachim Sartorius war mit 28 Jahren gerade ins Auswärtige Amt eingetreten, als sein Vater, der Deutsche Botschafter in Nikosia, 1974 den rechtsextremistischen griechischen Sampson-Putsch mit der anschließenden türkischen Intervention der halben Insel erlebte. Sohn Joachim nahm während der folgenden 20 Jahre verschiedene Aufgaben im Bonner Auswärtigen Amt wahr und war bis 1986 in New York, Istanbul und Nikosia auf Posten. Anschließend übernahm er leitende Funktionen bei DAAD und Goethe-Institut. Bis 2011 war er  Intendant der Berliner Festspiele.  

Obwohl er mehrere Jahre auf Zypern gelebt hat, ist doch sein Blickwinkel von seinem Arbeitsplatz im griechischen Teil der Insel geprägt. Seine Freunde dort, meistens Künstler, haben diesen Blick offensichtlich stark beeinflusst. So sieht er sich selbst als schöngeistiger Außenseiter.  

Einfühlsam und oft voller Poesie sind seine Schilderungen des sommerlichen Zyperns und seiner historischen Kulturstätten. Auch fast 30 Jahre nach seinen Erlebnissen in Paphos, Lapithos, Kouklia oder Bellapais fühlt man einen emotionalen Elan in Sartorius' Sprache.  

Als Reiseführer ist das Buch allerdings unbrauchbar, denn Sartorius benutzt für alle - seit fast 40 Jahren - türkisch-zyprischen Orte konsequent nur die nicht mehr gültigen griechischen Bezeichnungen und spricht - wie es der griechischen Seite gefällt - permanent vom "türkisch besetzten Norden".  Kein Wort verliert er zu der Tatsache, dass im Norden inzwischen ein eigenes funktionierendes Staatswesen existiert und die dort stationierte türkische Armee für griechische Zyprer möglicherweise eine Bedrohung, für die türkischen Zyprer aber vor allem einen wichtigen Schutz bedeutet.  

Nur ein einziges Mal scheint in seinem Buch eine erfrischende Einsicht auf: "Ich wagte nicht, meinen Freunden zuzurufen, dass dieser vehemente Panhellenismus die türkische Minderheit in die Enge getrieben hatte. Ich wagte auch nicht zu fragen, ob diese Revolte gegen Großbritannien, angeführt von einem Pistolero und einem Prälaten, nicht schon den Keim der späteren Vergiftung in sich trug".  

Da fragt sich der informierte Leser: Warum tat es Sartorius nicht? War es Diplomatie am falschen Platze? 

Das kommt besonders krass zum Vorschein, als er arglos und anscheinend ohne Unrechtsempfinden beschreibt, wie er sich in Türkisch-Zypern auf den antiken Böden von Salamis und Vouni die Taschen mit antiken Scherben vollstopft.  

Wenn sich Sartorius jedoch poetisch seiner Auslandserfahrung nähert, dann sind seine Textstellen und Gedichte am besten. Dabei versucht er als veritabler Schöngeist, alles Politische auszublenden. Das kann ihm aber auf dieser Insel nicht gelingen, wo Weltgeschichte Inselgeschichte bedeutet und das tägliche Leben der Menschen beider Inselstaaten davon extrem geprägt ist.   

Heidemarie Blankenstein,

Berlin, 20. September 2013

TRAVELLING THROUGH TIMES

Searching for Happiness through 8,000 kilometres

 

Travelling? What urges us to go far from home? Is it the search for that overwhelmingly wonderful feeling that we feel when we encounter a beautiful landscape or a crystal beach of whitewashed sand? Or is it a search for happiness - for that simple and personal, but transient, feeling - a feeling which does not last, but sometimes emerges again in memory.   

Transient also was our stay at the Sultanate of Oman, from 2002 to 2006….  Four years went by far too fast. When our tour in Oman as an ambassadorial couple came to an end, we considered travelling home by road: “Travelling back in time, a journey from Muscat to Munich.” Our friends, our family too, did warn us: “Eight thousand kilometres with only the two of you!? You might face dangers which will prevent you from any further journeys for the rest of your lives!”  Dangers? Bad roads? Bad people? Highwaymen? Corrupt police? Bad shelters?  

We did not care about all these questions.

 

But we had to care about papers: A valid passport including visa, a carnet de passage for our small VW Golf (from the Oman Automobile Association); and we had to care about a Bank Warranty for the value of our car. 

 

Finally, after midnight, the Iranian ferryboat, Hormuz 12 set out from the port of Sharjah with us and our diesel car. When, hours later, a shining sun began to illuminate the Strait of Hormuz, I saw happily jumping dolphins and flying fishes.  What a cheerful contrast these creatures made with my thoughts of the serious history of this globally important waterway!

 

When the sun was already giving off an enormous heat, we arrived at the very modern harbour of Bandar Abbas. Here we spent five hours running after stamps and seals and photocopies. This boarder procedure was worse than our well-known and detested process of admission for a new car in Germany.

 

Travelling back through time  - It was dark when we came to Shiraz after a journey of 685 km through the heat-saturated ochre landscape, through thirst, desert sand and desert storm.  “We are in Shiraz.” I repeated this sentence with contentment; indeed, we had turned up in a town of education and poetry, of roses and nightingales, and of love.  Shiraz reached a cultural zenith in the Middle Ages when the Poet Aramgah-e Hafez wrote his famous Divan. Aramgah-e Hafez is an Iranian folk hero who is both loved and revered. Every Iranian can quote his work. His marble sarcophagus is a meeting place for young and old Iranian citizens.  And what astonished me a lot was that young people were not embarrassed to show their true sentiments to each other.

 

From Shiraz, we took a taxi 40 km to Parsa, the town in Persepolis, which until 1935 gave the country its name - Persia. Parsa is one of the marvels of the classical world.

 

Travelling through time… 2,500 years ago, the Achaemenid Empire endured under kings Xerxes and Darius. During their glorious reigns the world was trembling; but it was also received in a lavish and extravagant way as diplomats and delegations of ancient people came to the fabulous Achaemenid court. But then Alexander the Great arrived with a catastrophic result.  In 330 BC he burned the whole precious place down. All that remains of four centuries of history are ruins. Many archaeologists have been attracted by the remnants of sculpture and architecture in this beautiful place. My husband and I were only passing by, but still the genius of the lost classical city was apparent.

 

How did we manage to get to the centre of Esfahan?  I do not know. It took us a very long time to read sign posts in Farsi language while driving. Suddenly there was a huge highway crossing and too much traffic. Which direction should we take? Iran’s most important transportation links are the streets, always noticeable on our journey. We decided to flow along with the endless stream of cars and lorries. And oh wonder! We approached the city centre where the river Zayandeh-Rud runs through with its eleven stone bridges out of a fairytale. It was a glorious view illuminated by a golden afternoon sun. Not a single European city could compete with the architectural beauty of Esfahan.

 

Travelling back though time -  It is unbelievable to think that Esfahan was completely destroyed by the Mongolian Emperor Timur Leng in the 12^th  Century and remained empty and desolate for two hundred years. It was in 1598 that the illustrious and brilliant Shah Abbas I rescued the city; and, over many years, built Esfahan once again into a jewel. 

We continued to the  city of Taebriz, ignoring important cities like Qom, Teheran and Qazvin. We felt quite at home in Taebriz because we could hear the Turkish tongue again, just as we hear it so often in Berlin.

 

Thanks to the kind Turkish Consul-General, the boarder crossing into Turkey was easy.  We suddenly became aware of the colossal mountain, Ararat, an extinct volcano 5,137 metres high. This famous mountain has many names, an Assyrian name (Urartu); a Turkish name (Büyük Agri Dag); and an Armenian name (Uurhu Masis). Many different cultural groups jealously claim this mountain, but it is in fact on Turkish ground.

 

Next we stopped at the city of Kayseri, the main town of Central Anatolia in Turkey. From there we visited Cappadocia with its breathtaking landscape strewn with stones and its vivid history, including conquest by a chain of aggressors from 6,500 BC onwards.

 

We crossed the 4000 m high Taurus Mountains and stopped over at Cyprus on the Turkish side of the island.  From there we journeyed back to the Turkish mainland where we saw Pamukkale, a fantastic white formation of calcium hydrogen carbonate and took a bath in the natural hot pools.  

Again Travelling back in time, we visited the ancient Roman town of Hierapolis. Via the lovely peninsula of Bodrum in Turkey (and the pleasant Hotel Princess) we took a three day ferry trip to Italy from Cesme City. From there, a highway took us straight to Munich and on to Berlin, where the Ambassador of the Sultanate of Oman to Germany, HE Al Harthy, received the former Ambassador of Germany to Oman with these solemn words, “This is the first car with an Omani number plate which I have the honour of welcoming to Berlin”.  

Our journey back through time, as I think about it now, was a happy one and much easier than expected. 

 

 Heidemarie Blankenstein/ Berlin, May 2007