Androniki Charalambous
Delft University of Technology
Introduction
Limassol is a city caught between tides—of history, migration, and memory. Once appreciated for its carobs, fishermen's songs, and Sunday walks along Molos (the waterfront promenade), today it rises in glass and steel, shaped by foreign direct investment and the language of luxury real estate. It is a city whose port has long welcomed the world—and now risks losing itself. This shadow theater piece, Songs Beneath the Skyline, draws from the traditional Karagkiozis play format—known for its satire, irreverence, and deeply rooted folk wisdom—to examine the cultural and economic metamorphosis of Limassol. Here, Karagkiozis is not merely a clownish figure in rags but a poetic witness to a city that relies on the sea yet forgets its fishermen, that reaches upward while uprooting the stories below. Blending humor, melancholy, and metaphors, the play invites the audience to consider: what does it mean to belong to a place that is constantly being bought, sold, and rebuilt? And what memories remain in the shadows of progress?
The Play
Prologue: A city of hierarchy, shadow and shine
(The screen lifts. Half of the scenery is ancient: cracked stone, wind-worn branches, the ghost of the Limassol castle. The other half glitters-glass, cranes, and LED skylines. A fig tree stands quietly, its branches like veins across the screen. The audience can hear the sound of waves crashing behind construction fences.)
Fig Tree (softly):
I was planted in soil touched by three empires.
I have grown in silence,
my bark learning the language of scaffolding.
Act I: The Spirit of Molos
(The screen lights up, shadows sway—children run, fishermen cast their nets, grandmothers peel oranges. Then, the shadows are cleared and replaced by a line of condos.)
(The Spirit of Molos drifts on stage—half sea mist, half Lefkaritiki (lace) umbrella. Children's laughter echoes faintly.)
Spirit of Molos (echoing):
Once I was your Sunday stroll.
Grandmothers in black, fathers with sunflower seeds, Lovers kissing beneath eucalyptus,
And fishermen cursing softly under their breath.
Now the stones are power-washed white.
And the fish?
They've moved to where the port doesn't spit fire.
(Karagkiozis squinting at the skyline, with his modest hut overshadowed by towering buildings.)
Karagkiozis: Ah, my little hut now enjoys perpetual shade,
thanks to these new glass giants!
Who needs the sun when you've got luxury towers blocking it?
Limassol used to hum.
Now she buzzes,
like a machine too polished to feel.
(The Tower, personified, speaks.)
Tower:
I stand tall, but I feel hollow.
My windows reflect sunsets I do not feel.
Built for tenants who never smell the salt below.
Each floor a vault, standing in silence.
Barba-Giorgos (enters with a bundle of vine leaves):
Do you remember, my Spirit,
when Saripolou smelled of souvlaki and zivania?
Now it's mojitos and stock portfolios.
Fig Tree:
And I—I saw it all.
From castle shadows where revolution once whispered,
to the hill above Kourion,
where gods once sat to watch plays like this one.
Act II: The Port Whispers
(The screen turns darker, stormy. The Port hobbles on stage, burdened with rusted chains and tired lungs.)
(A scruffy figure emerges, coughing smoke and salt. It is The Port, weathered and wheezing.)
Port:
I once sang to welcome the sails of Phoenicians.
I smelled of spices, of lemons from Limnatis,
Now I reek of logistics.
a promenade of promises,
no one sees me here.
Fig Tree (softly):
We trees remember.
Each breeze carries a language lost.
Each crack in the pavement is a story sealed in concrete.
(The Spirit of Molos returns, draped in salt and starlight.)
Spirit of Molos:
They paved the promenade,
but they could not silence the waves.
Children still race them to the shore.
Act III: The City Underneath
(The stage dims to a soft blue. The Fig Tree rustles quietly. The Port is still, asleep. A warm amber glow washes over the stage inside an old bar in Saripolou. A bouzouki twangs softly near the stoa. Mismatched chairs, cracked tiles. Shadows of locals raising glasses. The tavern speaks not with words, but through music and murmur.)
Spirit of Molos:
There are still places the cranes forget to reach.
In backstreets not marked on investors' maps,
the old bars flicker with soft resistance.
A sidewalk full of small tables, sighs.
Someone plays bouzouki off-key,
and no one minds.
Barba-Giorgos (raising a glass):
The chairs are wobbly.
The zivania cold.
But here, they still call you by your father's name.
Karagkiozis:
And the bread is torn with fingers, not knives.
Even the cats know which hands feed them gently.
The Fig Tree (final lines):
I do not dream of returning to the past.
I only ask that memory is not evicted.
Let the towers rise—if they must—
but leave room for shadow,
for soil,
for song.
Epilogue
Spirit of Molos:
Limassol, your voice is many-tongued—
But will your grandchildren retain your stories?
Karagkiozis (steps forward, hands open):
I am your fool, your shadow,
your cracked mirror.
If progress must come—
keep your towers, but leave me a courtyard.
Let my children chase cats in cobbled streets,
and speak our dialect.
They say Cyprus is a golden-brown leaf
tossed into the open sea—
το πέλαγος.
Not sinking,
not sailing,
just drifting...
with stories flowing through its veins.
A leaf cannot command the wind.
But it can remember
where it once grew.
(Behind him, shadows of old bars shimmer—Saripolou filled with music, a courtyard café, someone cracking open roasted almonds.)
Acknowledgments
This blog post has been written in the context of discussions in the LDE PortCityFutures research community. It reflects the evolving thoughts of the authors and expresses the discussions between researchers on the socio-economic, spatial and cultural questions surrounding port city relationships. This blog was edited by the PortCityFutures editorial team: Eliane Schmid.
