Finding my Mukhtar – The Quest for Harmonious Coexistence

When we first arrived in Cyprus, my husband’s company assured us they’d take care of my residency visa as soon as I landed on a tourist visa. Comforting, right? Except… not true.

Apparently, there were extra steps no one mentioned before we left South Africa, like needing proof of residence — a rental agreement, utilities invoice, the works. Fine, we got that. Seven weeks later, after much waiting (and me quietly losing my mind), HR finally told us everything was ready. Except it wasn’t. They came back with the kicker: since my husband is a Cypriot citizen, they can’t apply for me at all. Their contribution? Handing us a form (I think it might possibly the wrong one) and an email address. I swear if I was someone who chewed their nails I would be bleeding right now.

The form itself is bilingual, which is reassuring — until I read the section requiring “the official declaration from the president of the community stating that my husband and I have declared our harmonious coexistence in front of him.”

Huh? Harmonious coexistence? Were they going to come do a home inspection to see how we interact? Perhaps check that both our clothes are in the same closet? Quiz us on who does the dishes?

After some frantic googling, I figured out where the community municipality offices were and went to ask. The staff scribbled a name and number on a scrap of paper, told me to “call this man,” and waved me away. That was it.

So I called him. To my relief, he spoke good English and said he’d text his address. We could come any day between 4pm and 6pm. No appointment system. Just show up. I still wasn’t sure why we had to meet him or what this visit would entail.

The address took us to a very eclectic street — an odd jumble of sleek offices, crumbling houses, and scrapyards. I was baffled. We had arrived at the home of the community president, better known locally as the “Mukhtar”.

I’d dressed up (even put on makeup, because it’s not every day one meets a president) and brought every document imaginable. Passports, rental agreement, utilities invoice. The Mukhtar, however, asked for none of it. Instead, he sat us down, smiled, and stamped the application form.

“Do we… pay you?” I asked.

“You can give 5–10 euro if you like,” he replied casually, gesturing to a bowl of €5 and €10 notes on the table.

And that was it. No questions about our marriage, no glance at a single paper, just a cash tip and a handshake. We had officially declared our harmonious coexistence — to a man we’d never met, who we’ll probably never see again — and I am now, apparently, one step closer to legally living in Cyprus.

(shoulder shrug).