The view of others (original) (raw)

They say we don’t like progress. That we want buildings demolished, villages left to rot, the countryside abandoned, and our towns frozen in time. That we are allergic to prosperity, to the regeneration of rural areas, to urban development, to the future in general.

And yet, every time I drive down the motorway towards Limassol and take in the skyline as it has taken shape over recent years, I find myself asking: why do I find this sight so ugly — when I would cross the Atlantic to admire the extreme version of it?

Now that the noise around the controversial Trozena development appears to have died down, it is worth looking at the issue for what it actually is. And worth examining what lies behind the reactions that erupt every time the word “development” appears in a headline, an announcement, or an ambitious land-use plan. The common thread connecting Trozena with coastal Limassol, the Akamas with Akrotiri, Pegeia and Tsiflikoudia with Miliou. The bigger picture.

And the bigger picture is this: we live neither in Dubai nor Qatar, nor in nineteenth-century New York. We live in Cyprus in 2026. A country where public infrastructure projects have been stumbling for decades over bureaucratic, political, and financial obstacles. Where a square, a public space, or a park takes years to complete. Where buildings collapse and people are killed. Where the Polis Chrysochous campsite has been out of action for years. Where villas sprout up in seaside caves. Where sprawling developments in Akrotiri damage the wetland ecosystem. Where we are still fighting for the Akamas and taking to the streets to protect Athalassa Park. Where monstrous constructions keep mushrooming and multiplying unchecked, reshaping the landscape, the city skyline, the environment — at breathtaking speed.

All of them developments that, in reality, serve a small and privileged slice of the population — or not even citizens of this country at all. When we hear about retirees enjoying donkey rides in Trojena, who actually pictures their own parents or grandparents? When we look at the towers of Limassol dominating the horizon, how many of us can even begin to imagine buying a flat with a prime view — or any view at all — in one of them?

Or consider Miliou, where the area’s therapeutic waters — a natural asset that formed part of the local heritage for centuries — are now bound up with the luxury resort operating in the restored monastery of Agioi Anargyroi, built in 1649. A place where a single night’s stay costs roughly a third of an average monthly salary.

Given that this is the reality we live in, no one should be surprised by the scepticism that greets every grand private scheme — whether it comes from Israel or the Netherlands. Because alongside our own lives, another reality is unfolding — one we can only watch from a distance. One that treats citizens as spectators, the environment as an obstacle, and cultural heritage or natural resources as tradeable commodities.

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