A Long Goodbye

August 1975, Argaki, Cyprus.

This was where my family had recently settled after we became refugees for a second time during the 1974 war. On the 13th, one day before I departed for the US for my higher education under a private sponsorship, I packed my suitcase. Then, I carefully selected a few photographs of my family and of myself to take with me to America. The same day I was packing, my mother gave me a few gifts. These gifts became my most valued possessions, and I am proud to say I still have them.

My mother was very accomplished at knitting and crocheting. Fittingly, as a parting gift, she knitted a woolen beret and matching shawl for me. They were white. Both the beret and the shawl had very fancy stitches, and a lot of work had gone into them. She said, “It will be cold in Washington. If you like them, perhaps they can keep you warm.” I thanked her and jokingly asked how she had been able to keep this project a secret. She said she had wanted to surprise me, so she had worked on them when I was not around.

My mother’s choice of this gift was not random, and although I knew the reason for this choice I did not reveal it to her that day, but kept it deep in my heart. All my life, I have been prone to easily catching bronchitis. So, at a deep level only mothers can understand, she was trying to equip me with some protection against the cold and wind in America. This was quite clear to me, but no words needed to be exchanged on the matter.

How could I have foreseen that August day that my mother would spend the next forty-three years—until her death—closely following the weather reports for Washington D.C. and worrying about my well-being from afar? For many years, she would search the newspapers to find weather reports for Washington. Later, when the local TV channels started to cover the US news, she would listen to the hurricane reports. Over the years, I learned from my siblings in Cyprus how she worried, so I began calling her and telling her how far those hurricanes were from where I lived. However, I knew that despite all my reassurances, the next time there was a hurricane threat in the Atlantic, she would still worry about me, her “American daughter.”

The second gift my mother gave me was so valuable (not in monetary terms, but for its sentimental worth) that I refused to take it. I said, “No, this is yours, I cannot accept it.” But she insisted, saying, “If you are ever in need and you have no money left, convert this into cash and use it without hesitation.” It was her gold pendant. As a little girl, I remember looking at the pendant and admiring it. Most of the time, it was around my mother’s neck. The pendant meant a great deal to her, and yet she wanted me to have it. Reluctantly, I accepted it and wore it around my neck. It bore a 1911 King George V gold coin. The sentimental value of the pendant had nothing to do with King George V, but it did have everything to do with the fact that her father had given it to my mother as a wedding gift.

I woke up early on August 14th, the day of my departure. After breakfast, I said goodbye to everyone in the family and got on the bus to go to Nicosia. The bus route passed in front of our house and that’s where I boarded the bus. Yes, at that time, the buses made house stops. The family would see me off and then go to work as they always did. My mother was not happy with this plan. She had wanted to go to Nicosia with me and see me off from there.

After I got on the bus, I sat in the very last row, and through the rear window I looked back to see my mother one last time. I had a one-way plane ticket to America, and had no idea when I might be able to return to Cyprus. My mother’s shoulders, wracked by the grief of departure, were shuddering, which meant she was still crying—probably more intensely after I boarded the bus. My siblings were trying to comfort her. The image of my mother standing there, in front of our house, overwhelmed by emotion, chiseled so deeply in my memory that it will never be erased.

A few minutes after the bus departed, my mother disappeared from view. I suspect her motherly instinct had told her, right there and then, that the chances of my returning to Cyprus were very slim and that she was probably losing me forever. Years later, after I became a mother myself, I began to understand how my mother must have felt that day. As the years passed, I started to feel her pain more deeply, both in terms of how she had felt during our initial separation and later, as I settled permanently in the US so far away from her.

-Aysel K. Basci

Aysel K. Basci is a nonfiction writer and literary translator currently working on various titles. She was born and raised in Cyprus and moved to the United States, in 1975. Aysel is retired and currently resides in the Washington DC area. Her writing recently appeared in the Michigan Quarterly Review, the Bosphorus Review of Books, the Adelaide Literary Magazine and Entropy.