My name is Konstantin Kalyagin. I am the director of a financial company in Limassol. Eight years ago, I moved to Cyprus from Moscow, where I worked as an investment banker. I fell in love with this island for its nature, atmosphere, and people. Here I also met my future wife, and two years ago we got married.
In February of this year, we finished building our new home in the village of Souni, a quiet, picturesque place surrounded by pine forests and with views down to the sea. It has a large, friendly Russian-speaking community.
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The day of the fire, July 23rd, started like any other day. I was working from home. Around midday, I noticed firefighting planes heading north. In summer, I see them almost daily, so I didn’t pay much attention to them. Later that afternoon, however, the sky began to fill with smoke. I checked my social media channels to find out what was happening.
The first message in our village chat, at 15:41, read: “The village of Mallia is burning. It’s serious, but far enough from us.” Mallia is about 17 km away.
As hours ticked by, the smoke kept getting thicker. I called my wife to ask when she would be home from work. Our dog was in a pet hotel in the village of Kivides, about halfway to Mallia. Just in case we would need to evacuate, I gathered our documents. By the time we left to get our dog at around eight, the sky was already completely covered in smoke, and breathing was becoming difficult. The sun had turned red. A government motorcade passed us going in the same direction, which put us on high alert.
We were lucky — just past the place where the dog was, a police roadblock was already stopping all traffic. It was no longer possible to go further north. On the way back to Souni, it was already dark, and we saw for the first time the scale of the disaster. In the darkness, the glow above the horizon was visible, and even the first tongues of open flame.
When we returned home, we went up to the roof. The entire northern horizon of Souni was glowing a bright orange-red. We reassured each other in Messenger chats with neighbors that the wind was blowing east and that the fire would bypass us through the ravines. But very soon, as a yachtsman, I felt the wind shift sharply, hitting me directly in the face. Within minutes, the northern horizon was no longer just a glow — it became a multi-kilometer wall of fire moving straight toward us.
We grabbed whatever valuables we could and jumped in the car. We ended up with documents, handbags with jewelry, computers, a rifle, and our dog.
At 20:42, a message appeared in the village chat: “URGENT EVACUATION FROM THE VILLAGE OF SOUNI DUE TO THE FIRE.” This was not from the official Municipality authorities. It was from a random Greek Facebook group, which I had never heard of before. So the fact that this message reached residents via our neighbors’ chat could be considered a miracle.
I ran through the streets, knocking on doors and warning everyone about the evacuation. Then we got back into the car and headed for Limassol. A large traffic jam had already formed at the exit of the village. Neighbors were reporting fire on Souni’s northern streets. We passed fire trucks on the road into the city, but none were headed toward our village. There was almost no mobile service.
In Limassol, we monitored the state of our home via cameras. The entire street and horizon were painted in the colors of the flames. Then the electricity went out. By 1:00 am, messages began appearing in the village chat from several men who had stayed behind to defend their homes, urging others to return. They wrote that Souni was burning, there were no firefighters at all, and that we could only rely on ourselves. I reassured my wife, got in the car, and headed back.
At the main highway exit toward Souni, a police roadblock was in place. When I insisted they let me through to defend my home, they refused sharply and even threatened arrest. I had to turn around and take a detour through the mountain villages — there, no one stopped me. The sight was terrifying. At times, I drove through a tunnel of fire, with burning bushes and trees on both sides.
When I reached Souni and my street, I breathed a sigh of relief. The wall of fire had not reached our houses. The fire had come right up to the houses through a small forest, but hadn’t jumped across. Still, burning embers and debris were constantly falling from the sky. I spent the next few hours rushing about, extinguishing ignition spots all along the street and keeping watch for new flare-ups. First, using a fire extinguisher, then buckets from swimming pools — there was no water in the hoses due to the power outage. Breathing was very difficult, so I wrapped my face in a wet cloth.
Soon, my neighbor arrived to help defend our street, and I headed to the northern part of the village to help others. They were far less fortunate.
It was truly hell in the northern part of Souni. Many homes on the largest residential street, Zinonos, were ablaze; some were already smoldering inside. During my entire time there, I saw only one large fire truck. It was extinguishing fires in the forest. The big fires in our village were being fought by a few local civil defense crews in pickup trucks with water tanks. But everything was burning, so residents had to do the rest themselves. We climbed over fences carrying buckets. If a house or neighboring yard didn’t have a pool, we had to move on to the next one. There was no other water source.
Everyone was helping — Cypriots, Russians, Ukrainians, English, Tatars. Everyone came together in that moment. Local Cypriots, heroes really, even arrived on a bulldozer and spent the night digging firebreak trenches right along the fire line. This went on until morning.
In the morning, I returned to Limassol to get a few hours of sleep. By noon, my wife and I were heading back to the village to assess the damage. Our beloved village had been transformed. What was once Souni’s pride — the surrounding green fields and forests — had turned into blackened fields of dead ash. Entire rows of houses, cars, and boats were burned to the ground. People were still putting out the last of the fires, and, for the first time, I saw a large fire truck in the village for the first time.
We spent the whole day fighting potential new flare-ups, clearing anything that could potentially catch fire. That night, we coordinated with neighbors via messenger and took shifts guarding against looters. That first night of watch duty was a bit chaotic. There was a lot of fear; everyone was on edge, and people kept overlapping each other’s patrols. But literally the next day — and even now, two weeks later — the village has become incredibly united. Patrols are now organized with radios, flashing lights, and even thermal imagers. We have two or three base stations where food is cooked daily for anyone who needs it, and necessary medicines and supplies are collected. Neighbors help each other with clearing plots, removing debris, and providing transport.
Unfortunately, from the state authorities, the help has been much smaller. Many residents are unhappy with the actions of the local municipality during the fire and in the aftermath.
Personally, I also reached out to a private sponsor willing to finance the creation of a volunteer fire brigade on a private basis, with equipment, training, and on-site coordination.
With this proposal, I approached the Office of the President of Cyprus, expressing hope for a meeting and the possibility of integrating such an initiative into a broader civil protection plan.
I hope that this story is not only about tragedy, but also about the practical steps we, as citizens, can take, without waiting for someone from above to save us.
Despite the catastrophe, I have never felt such a sense of unity, humanity, and genuine mutual aid as I have in these past days. And I will never forget it.
