Seferis once wrote that no matter where he traveled, Greece hurt him. When it comes to Cyprus, perhaps something different could be written. That no matter where one travels, one hears the footsteps of those who never returned. One hears the stalks of Mesoria whispering in the wind; one hears bells ringing at Apostolos Andreas.

I don’t know if this will be our last chance. I only know that if these days are being written into the history of Cyprus, they don’t deserve to be accompanied by the clatter of petty politics. It deserves the silence of responsibility and hope.

I grew up in a family where the Cyprus issue was part of our daily conversations. In the daily stories passed down from generation to generation, with the promise that we would not let oblivion defeat us.

Perhaps that is why I follow developments regarding the Cyprus issue with a strange feeling—neither optimism nor pessimism, but a sense of responsibility. We do not know what will come of this new momentum. We don’t even know if there will actually be any progress. But what troubles me is something else.

The rush. To create a climate, to jump to conclusions about intentions, to assign blame, to divide ourselves once again, before we even know the true nature of an effort that is still in its early stages.

Caution is legitimate. Perhaps even inevitable for a people who have suffered, been deceived, betrayed, and experienced (and continue to experience) invasion and occupation. But skepticism is not the same as jumping to conclusions or fostering a climate that rejects every possibility out of hand, before there is even anything to evaluate.

At times, I feel as though I am observing developments in two parallel universes.

In one is the Cyprus that remembers we are under occupation, that still carries the memory of the missing, the refugees, our occupied villages, and our churches. The Cyprus that knows that every serious effort regarding our national issue is a moment that demands we act responsibly.

At the same time, I see the Cyprus of everyday noise, of petty politics, of power struggles. Of hasty conclusions, personal conflicts, the need for everyone to take sides, and the blame game.

And that is where I feel alienated and hurt.

Because, as a child of refugees, I refuse to accept the Cyprus issue being turned into a battleground for the advancement and consolidation of (petty) political careers. For our pain to be turned into a battle for public perception, where “hollow hands clap with hollow hands” “meager applause,” as the late and iconic Costas Montis wrote.

If there is even the slightest chance that these days will prove to be historic, the first thing we are called upon to do is simply to rise to the occasion. With a clear mind. With level-headedness. With the awareness that love for one’s country is not measured by slogans, but by how responsibly you judge when the time comes to act.

I don’t know where this effort will lead. But I do know that total defeat will not necessarily come from a possible failure in the negotiations, but it will certainly come if we lose the ability to grasp the weight that certain moments carry.

We refugees, after more than half a century of waiting, deserve more than just noise.

* Margarita Kaimaklioti is a political scientist, Deputy Secretary for International Relations of the Democratic Alarm and a member of the Executive Council of the Glafkos Clerides Institute.