A few years ago, I was enjoying the Gulf of Mexico breeze on the third floor of my cousin’s three stories spacious town house on the Padre Island, when he handed me a book to read. My maternal cousin Jack Chelebian M.D. is a practicing psychiatrist in Corpus Christi but resides on Padre Island. He is an avid reader and would make a superb writer as well—should he engage in writing. Handing the book he let me know that it was a must read. The book was authored by Murad and was entitled Raffi, The Prophet from Payajuk.
After I returned home, I began reading the book. I remained fascinated and captivated by the author’s knowledge and his superb narration of the eminent novelist and of his times that in many ways were no less a product of Raffi’s pen, as the literary and the political soul of the 19th century Armenian renaissance.
Throughout my reading, I thought of Murad and said to myself, “this is a man I should befriend.” After reading the book, I wrote to him, noting the serendipitous turn of events that led me come across his book and my impressions. I also asked him to donate—on my behalf—a signed copy of his book to the Armenian Museum of America. I wanted a personalized copy of his book to grace the shelves of the library there.
Henceforth, we communicated on and off. At times, he would comment having read an article I wrote. It is through such correspondence that I came to find that he was born in Iraq. His parents were from Govdoon village of Sepastia.
This past October, I accompanied my wife attending a yearly weeklong nursing conference in Chicago. I contacted Murad beforehand and set a tentative date for a quiet evening with our families to confirm upon my arrival. I sent him an email the evening we checked in, alerting him of our presence and readiness to have dinner together during the week. I did not hear from him that evening.
The next day I received an email from his wife Knarik letting me know that yesterday Murad was taken to the hospital because of sudden medical complications. Two days later, she let me know that Murad had passed away and that his viewing would take place at the Armenian Apostolic Church. Instead of a dinner, my wife and I drove to offer our condolences to Murad’s family.
There I saw Murad for the first time. His body lay in an open casket with a copy of his book placed next time. Having offered our condolences to Knarik, I felt the futility of staying any longer. Unexpectedly, life had run its course on Murad and the evening with him I had envisioned all along was not to take place. As we exited the sanctuary, we came across a young man in the hallway greeting those present. We figured he is related to Murad. We approached him and introduced ourselves. His immediate response was whether we are related to Daniel Apelian. My wife let him know that Taniel is our elder son. We could tell that we had caught the young man in utter surprise for it turned out that our son and Sevan have been good friends since their days at Camp Haiastan. There was no doubt that was the case for Sevan knew not only about Taniel and his wife Nicole, but also knew our names and about us as well in ways that only trusting good friends would share each other, that Taniel's mother Marie had served the U.S. Army as a reservist for a quarter of century and retired as a Lieutenant Colonel. The moment became a bitter and a sweet reminder for me. Surely Murad would have been pleasantly surprised as well learning that well before our exchanges, our teenage sons, one from suburban Chicago and the other from suburban Cincinnati had met each other in Franklin, Mass. long, long before we did and had forged a lasting friendship. What was not meant to be ours will become our sons’ lifelong friendship.
It is not farfetched to imagine that Murad’s Sepastatsi parents named their son after the legendary freedom fighter Sepastatsi Murad. Little did his parents know that one day their son would also become a legend in his own right, for Murad’s book about the eminent novelist Raffi is a definitive work for all times.
Putting aside the countless hours Murad had spent reading and rereading Raffi’s novels over the past many decades, he spent seven years for the preparation of the book, a year of which he spent in Armenia. Murad was a chemist in pharmaceutical industry, Not only its scientists are expected to dot every “i” and cross every “t,” but are expected to verify whatever they commit on paper even if they were from a trustful source. Murad’s book about Raffi is the sum total of the sentimental and the scientific Murad meshed into one.
Seeing Murad’s body in the coffin reminded me of the epilogue of his book where he wrote about Raffi in his coffin, who “seemed to be asleep. He appeared as if his thoughts glowed on his finely furrowed wide forehead.”
There are few Armenian first names where we make a mental connection with the most prominent person bearing that name. Among the latter prominently stands out the name Raffi, a name coined by Raffi himself. Another name is Murad, immortalized by the legendary freedom fighter and a compatriot of the Meneshian family from Govdoon, Sepastatsi Murad.
May Raffi and Murad rest in peace.
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