The day the Irish mislaid their friend, Cyprus

THE WAY THINGS ARE

Colette NiReamonn Ioannidou

Relations between the two small islands that bookend Europe have always been very cordial and good. Language and climate apart, Ireland and Cyprus have much in common. It has always been easy to be Irish here because, as one Bangladeshi chap I knew said, ‘Ireland doesn’t make war on any other country.’ Claiming the green isle as land of birth usually evokes a wide smile of ‘good people’ radiance even though some of us have murdered others of us over the years with our own personal ‘Troubles’.

We didn’t always have an on-the-spot ambassador on the island; at one time our representative covered several countries in this region. We did have a consulate, however, doing a staunch job, and Irish produce made its presence felt in local markets. Those of us who married Cypriots were, in our small way, ambassadors within the communities that adopted us.

I imagine every country has a navel-gazing, self-image of its own place in the world and its singular importance on the global scene; more on that later. Both Irish and Cypriots are scattered over the planet hopefully doing a good job of giving their races an amiable reputation.

Recently, I’ve been going through old boxes trying to Marie Kondo my life. In the past, moving houses while working flat out meant throwing things into boxes or plastic bags and dumping them into cupboards until there was time to sort and throw. That was a while in coming. Thus, I have rediscovered many things I’d forgotten.

Cyprus has enriched the philatelic world with some wonderful stamps. As a youngster I learned to save stamps for charities, and it became second nature to hoard them. My son when young also collected and my friend Edgar, over years, sent me first day covers from Ireland. I found my son’s collection that he ‘kindly’ left with me for posterity when he moved out and married. I also found an album of stamps Andreas had collected during the 60s when his parents were sending him registered letters to London. Edgar’s first day covers emerged and as I went through them, some remarkably beautiful, guess what I picked up?

Inside a faded brown envelope, a pristine white one informed me that Ireland was occupying the 2004 Presidency of the European Union and a stamp had been issued in celebration of the EU Accession of Cyprus and other countries that had attained new membership of that club. And there it was on the top right-hand corner – the EU states in blue on blue with that lovely word of welcome in Irish – Failte, greetings! Aww!

Until one looks closer and realises Cyprus is nowhere to be seen. Along with the stamp was a cutting from a newspaper written by a Carl O’Brien, but no reference as to which publication it came from. The author tells us that the issue had incorrectly identified Crete as Cyprus. Philatelists and collectors, he goes on, were quick to note that the distinctive shape of Cyprus was absent. More than 300,000 copies came off the printer.

A spokesman made matters worse by saying, “What appears to be Crete is in fact Cyprus.” Given how far down we are, the map ‘had to be tweaked’ and we did not fit into the perspective and had to be moved. Cartographer’s licence was the excuse and – “The map is only a representation of what the new Europe should look like. …but it is not intended to be a map of Europe.” Now, that’s Irish! Hadn’t we just joined?

The abundant stamp at 65 cents would not even be an item of value. An Post had egg on its gob that it turned into a large, drooly omelette by concluding there was no mistake, and said – “the area in question was barely noticeable.” Its defence was that Europe is large and a representation of it wasn’t easy. Wouldn’t it have been more correct to make the bloody stamp a little bigger and charge more?

At times, we Irish are as deluded as Cypriots when it comes to how important we are in the wider world. Ireland’s An Post, securely embedded in the EU establishment, felt little Cyprus was ‘barely noticeable’. Tell that to our politicians.