Saro Varjabedian has published a book: Tim and Robot

 Vahe H. Apelian

Recently Saro Varjabedian published a book titled “Tim and Robot”. Whenever I hear or read the name Saro, I am reminded not of Saro from the opera “Anoush”; but of Saro Varjabedian and the circumstances I met by which I met his maternal grandparents in Beirut.

My father ran an inn in Lebanon, which was fairly well known among the Armenians of that era.  The upper two floors of a building in the downtown, in the immediate vicinity of the parliament building, constituted the inn. Its guests were mostly Armenians from all over, including from East Europe on their way to immigrate to the U.S. through the sponsorship of ANCHA, the Armenian National Committee for Homeless Armenians.  It was during one of those days, when I exited the elevator, I saw suitcases on the floor. It was not an unusual sight. Guests came with their suitcases and left them in the hallway until my father made the arrangements for their stay. I asked my father who were the guests and from where they had come. He told me that it’s an Armenian family from Bulgaria. 

Over the years I had become privy of the harsh reality of life behind the Iron Curtain. My father had  seemed to have become an unofficial liaison with the ANCHA’s office. This Armenian Bulgarian family too, stayed in the hotel until ANCHA completed the necessary documentation for their sojourn in Lebanon and covered the expenses for their stay in the hotel. After having their papers in order at the ANCHA's office, most of them left the hotel and rented a place. Many found employment mostly in Armenian held businesses until their departure.  Much like the rest, they too stopped by to let my father know that they will be leaving soon and bid goodbye. I remember to this day when this Bulgarian family let us know that they intended to settle in New York, the image of an Armenian family settling in that large city remained etched in my mind for many years and I would wonder how the Armenian family fared  in that impersonal metropolis. 

Fast forward. After much reluctance our son Daniel agreed to attend Camp Haiastan. But it did not take long for him to make friends. Among them was his friend Saro. After their camping session was over, I who drove our son Daniel from NJ to Saro’s parents’ house in Queens on many Saturdays and picked him the next day on Sunday afternoon. During one of such visits, Saro's maternal grandparents happened to be there. I got carried away conversing with his grandfather. One thing led to another, and his grandfather produced a journal he kept and read passages to me of their stay in Beirut. Lo and behold, I came across my father’s name. Suddenly it dawned on me that the Bulgarian Armenian family with two daughters my age l met, was the hospitable family who graciously hosted our son. Our sons had become best buddies. It would not take much to surmise that I felt a strong kinship with the family and especially with Saro.

In 1995 my job took me to Cincinnati to our sons’, especially to our elder son Daniel’s dismay. It was his friends from the Camp Haiastan and from the Armenian Presbyterian Church that kept Daniel going with their frequent phone calls especially during our first year in Cincinnati. And it was Saro among them who paid him a visit a few months after our settling in Cincinnati. 

More than a quarter of century has passed since Saro’s visiting us in Cincinnati. Both remain good friends and visit each other. Through these years Saro embarked pursuing his dream of becoming a cinematographer. A year or two ago, Saro wrote a screenplay and directed his first feature film “Respite”. He has directed eight feature films, one feature documentary, and several web-series and countless short films. 

Saro’s grandfather passed away a few years ago. Saro dedicated a short film he produced in his grandfather’s memory in Armenia.  "After Water There is Sand," has been screened at several International film festivals.

Along with Armenia, Saro has also directed and filmed internationally, in Cuba, France, Lebanon, Mexico and India. He holds a Master’s Degree in Fine Arts from the University of Columbia and has taught cinematography and directing at the New York Film Academy.

Recently Saro added to his accomplishments as a screenwriter, director and cinematographer, his authorship of a book titled “Tim and Robot”. Saro introduces his book in the first paragraph of his the preface he wrote, and says: “I embarked on this journey to write this book shortly after the Supreme Court decided to overrun Roe v. Wade in Dobbe v Jackson on June 2 2022. The ruling handed down by the conservative majority in the Supreme Court, many of whom were newly appointed seemingly for the very purpose of dismantling this right that had been afforded American citizens for nearly 40 years. This ruling was so shocking and disappointing to me, at that very moment, it compelled me to try to do something, beyond voting, irrespective of whether I had any impact or not.”

“Tim and Robot”, a Spiritual Agnostic’s Guidance to a Newly Formed Consciousness” by Saro Varjabedian retails on Amazon.com.

 

Translating "The Last Scion of the Mountaineers"

 Vaհe H. Apelian

  LRADOU, the newsletter  of the Armenian Evangelical College:

"Vahe Apelian has translated to English about Simon Simonian

by  Levon Sharoyan as "The Last Scion of the Mountaineers".

Yesterday, September 30 was International Translation Day.  The designation was adopted by UN General Assembly in 2017, for the role of language professionals play in connecting nations and fostering peace, understanding. The day was chosen because “30 September celebrates the feast of St. Jerome, the Bible translator, who is considered the patron saint of translators."

I was reminded of a blog I wrote about translating the book about Simon Simonian.

During the war and destruction in Aleppo, Levon Sharoyan wrote a very personal monograph about the eminent man of letters, Simon Simonian. He published it in installments first on his Facebook page, later on in a more expanded version in “Kantsasar” Weekly, the official newsletter of the Prelacy of the Armenian Apostolic Church in Aleppo. Levon’s monograph was his tribute to his elder compatriot. Levon’s grandfather, much like Simon Simonian’s father, hailed from Sassoun and was depicted among the stories Simon Simonian’s wrote about the struggles of the Sassountsi mountaineers on the plains of Aleppo.

 The monograph, which since then has been published as a book in Armenia, made for a fascinating reading. I thought that it would be unfair for those who do not read Armenian to remain deprived of such a reading. Consequently, I asked Levon’s permission to have it translated to English. He readily gave it.

I then contacted Sassoun, Simon Simonian's son, who resides in Beirut, for the same purpose. It turned out that Sassoun had also thought of the same. Not only that, coincidentally, having read my published translation of one of Simon Simonian’s most endearing stories titled, “He Was Different”, he had me in mind for the task for a fee. Naturally, I categorically declined the monetary offer while appreciating his trust. Hence the draft of my translation of Levon Sharoyan’s monograph came about. 

Upon Sassoun’s recommendation I sent a copy of my draft to Maria-Eleni Simonian, Simon Simonian’s granddaughter, who read the monograph and pointed out typos and offered suggestions. At the end of her review, she wrote the following to me:  "It was a great pleasure to be able to read and learn more about my grandfather. It is one of my aspirations to learn Armenian and read his work to get a small picture of who he was. I believe you brought justice to your endeavor. Thank you for your time and contribution." Her note validated the undertaking of this task. 

I also sent a copy to my final draft to my maternal cousin Jack Chelebian M.D. who lives on Padre Island, Texas. Jack graciously and ably edited the draft manuscript by painstakingly comparing my translation, line by line, to the original text. Jack spent no less time than I did in finalizing the translation. I can certainly attest that this translated piece is true to the original thanks greatly to Jack’s efforts as well.

Sassoun also read the draft translation and offered valuable suggestions in presenting the titles of Simon Simonian’s books as well as the personal names. He undertook the expense of publishing the book in Amzazon through The Simon Simonian Family Foundation.

Transliteration is an inherent part of translations. There arises a challenging situation because Eastern Armenians and Western Armenians do not necessarily transliterate similarly. Whenever possible I resorted to the Internet search engines to check on the common English transliteration of names and their sounding in Western Armenian. 

I hope that interested readers find the translated piece as enjoyable to read as I did reading the original work. The book is retailed on Amazon.

Last but not the least, the following individuals are acknowledged in the book for their labors of love.

Translating: Vahe H. Apelian, Ph.D.  (Loveland, OH) 

Editing: Jack Chelebian, M.D. (Padre Island, TX)                           

Reviewing: Maria-Ellen Simonian (Huddersfield, England)

Proof reading: Sassoun Simonian (Antelias, Lebanon)

Publishing: Hrach Kalsahakian (Dubai, UAE)

I lived in Eden once

Ara Mekhsian’s description of his immediate Aleppo  neighborhood surely evokes sentimental memories among those who experienced the once close-knit Armenian communities in Lebanon and Syria, made up mostly by the survivors of the Armenian Genocide and its first and second generations. Surely they are dwindling in number by the day taking with them their memories of the way it was once. Attached is my translation of Ara Mekhsian’s take. I took the liberty of changing the title by quoting a passage from his short story he posted on his Facebook page, titling it "My Paradise". Vaհe H Apelian

Ara Mekhsian, on the right, with is friend, Garabed Saghbazarian M.D., in  a Aleppo public garden.

The fog of fifty-six years has largely obscured my memories of Aleppo, but some memories remain indelible to this day. 

In the fifties and sixties, the Armenian-populated Nor Gyugh (New Village) town of Aleppo consisted of four neighborhoods, simply numbered first, second, third, and fourth. I don’t remember whether the streets that made up those neighborhoods had official names or not. I think most of them did not. The main avenues were exceptions. The main road, where the Karen Yeppe National Djemaran and the Sahakian National School were located, was named Yazji. Our house was on a secondary street, and there was no neighborhood or street name. Instead of the name of the neighborhood, there would be a fractional number on the envelopes, and under it in Arabic, Midan (the official name of Nor Gyugh), Halab (Aleppo), Syria would be written. As for the boundaries of the four neighborhoods, where they began and where they ended, I will leave that to a reader who like me was born in Nor Gyugh and lived there for a considerable time, and is more skilled in geography than I.

Although the neighborhoods did not have their own names, that did not mean that they were nameless. For example, our neighborhood was named after Bakhal (grocer) Andranig. It was also referred to by his endearing name, Anto, as Bakhal (grocer) Anto’s neighborhood. The grocer’s shop was located in the northwest corner of the neighborhood and it was run by Andranik and his wife Azniv. They were a diligent couple. 

However, it often is also happened, that another well-known shopkeeper was also located in the same neighborhood or at one of its corners. In that case, according to the descriptionist’s preference, the neighborhood could be named after that second merchant. In the southwest corner of our neighborhood, opposite the barber's shop, there was a very popular barber who could rival Picasso's skill with his razor and, if he had lived in the eighteenth century, would undoubtedly have aroused the envy of Figaro, the barber of Seville, with his mastery of the scissors. This venerable Armenian's name was Haroutiun; so many in our neighborhood called the immediate vicinity where the barber was located, as Haroutiun’s neighborhood, instead of grocer Anto’s neighborhood. If they wanted to appear a little more educated and refined than ordinary mortals, they referred to it as Mr. Haroutiun’s neighborhood.

So, it went. A neighborhood was named after Haygaz, who was a haberdasher, he sold a little bit of everything in his store. Another neighborhood was named after a baker who hailed from Sassun and hence the neighborhood came to be known as the Sassuntsi’s neighborhood.  Some of the neighborhoods were known by a person’s endearing moniker. Such as, a little further down was Karuch Ammi's – uncle Garouch’s neighborhood. Garouch was his endearing name. His name may have been Garabed. He sold “fool” (fava beans), humus, and licorice syrup. A little to the north was Langher Yaghoup's (he ran a cafe) neighborhood. No one I knew, knew why he was called Langher Yaghoup.  Another neighborhood was called Attar Artin's neighborhood. “Attar” in Turkish mean pharmacy. Although he did not run a pharmacy but ran a bit “upscale” store for general merchandizing, Attar Artin may have rhymed well, hence the name stuck. There also was Leblebuji Seto's neighborhood. He had grocery store selling, nuts, roasted chick peas and the like. There was Ghasab (butcher) Kevork's neighborhood, Postaji's neighborhood. His store also functioned as the post office; hence the person who ran the store came to be known as the postaji. There was Jizmejian's neighborhood. Mr. Jizmejian ran a book store and bound books - (note: my mother-in-law’s bible was bound by Jizmejian as the stamp attests - Vahe).  There was Makhfarin Kovi  - next to the police station - neighborhood. There was also the neighborhood in front of the mosque, the neighborhood behind the mill, the neighborhood of the public bathhouse, the neighborhood of Krikor Lusavorich Church, which was also the neighborhood of Sahakian and Djemaran schools. Opposite the gymnasium was the Zavarian neighborhood. The neighborhood was named after the Zavarian elementary school, located on a small hills, whose dedicates teaching staff educated the children of its immediate neighberhood and instilled in them the pride in being brought up as Armenians. The Nor Gyugh, whose residents had long forgone that its official name is Maidan, was made up of dozens, upon dozens of such neighborhoods, all known by their Armenian designations. They were popular although they were unofficial designations. But  they were more descriptive and much better known than their official names we did not know.

There are many people who believe in the existence of heaven. They pray that the Lord will send them to heaven after death. May God hear their prayers. I, too, believe in the existence of heaven. How can I not believe? I experienced it. Although my paradise was the slightly dusty, had slightly muddy streets and its neighborhoods were known by those strange, yet endearing names and were filled with the aroma of delicious food cooked by mothers and grandmothers. The sounds of craftsmen's tools conveyed vigor and vitality. The roar of cars at times, the sidewalks swaying with the quiet traffic of people, sometimes bustling with the lively chatter, permeated the neighborhood I lived. Along with them were our modest houses built of sundried adobe bricks. Finally, everything I, and everyone else I knew needed: roads, stores, artisan shops, churches, and schools were all there.

That four square kilometer was my Eden, where I lived the first nineteen years of my life without realizing that I was living in a paradise. Fifty-six years ago, I voluntarily and irrevocably exiled myself from the Eden I lived once

Remembering Armen Guirag this Sunday morning.

Vaհe H Apelian

For many and many years, every Sunday morning my father would play Armen Guirag’s recording of the Armenian Holy Mass, which is regarded one of the best renditions of the Holy Mass by a singer. I remember him in conversation talking about the efforts that were vested to include the sound of church bells in his record. My parents had forged a friendship with him during his stay in Hotel Lux, the inn my father ran in Beirut. He was in Lebanon to give a recital or maybe more but I only remember the one he gave in the Assembly Hall of the American University of Beirut.

For all I recall, he was from Latin America. Recently I came across a reporting in NY Times dated Feb. 2, 1959 and headlined “Tenor presents Armenian songs: Armen Guirag includes many composers in program at Carnegie Recital Hall” and wrote the following: “Mr. Guirag was born in Armenia, studied in Bucharest and Milan, and is now a citizen of Argentina. His New York recital debut in 1957 displayed a tenor voice of the Italian variety and on Saturday he often gave the impression of holding back a naturally exuberant theater-filling sound.”

My mother introduced him to her friend Rahel Chilinguirian, a Kessabtsi relative, and they got married and moved to the United States. In late 1960’s my mother visited her relatives in the United States and spent time with Armen and Rahel Guirag. So did when she came to visit me after my move to the U.S. in 1976. I do not remember if Armen Guirag was still alive. I often wondered what happened to him.

A few years ago, I read the following about Armen Guirag in an article by the late Tom Vartabedian in Armenian Weekly titled “Three Tenors Strike A Different Tune” (March 24, 2009).

“He (Armen Guirag) was Armenian and ran a record shop in New York City that doubled as his home. He would sell his music in front and sleep out back with a tiny refrigerator, table, and a couple chairs.

Armen Guirag lived from hand to mouth and was in no hurry to move his records. He once told me that everyone he sold was like “selling a child.” But did he ever have a voice, and became the greatest Armenian tenor of his generation back in the 1950’s. He was recognized as a classic concert and opera singer, produced a number of recordings, and performed near and far, including an appearance at Carnegie Hall that gained rave reviews in the New York papers.

I met him during the tail end of his career when he gradually began to mellow and lived like a recluse. The last concert I attended of his was a pity.

He appeared in Boston, well into his 70s by now, and sang like he never sang before. His voice carried to the very last row of seats as people were on their feet applauding his every note.

And then, the unsuspected occurred. The record he had spinning in the background got stuck while the audience sat mortified. Even before lip-syncing became popular, Armen Guirag appeared well before his time.

He dashed off stage humiliated, never to appear again. Last I heard, he died in that little record store with hardly a whisper from the scores who embraced his music.”

True to Tom Vartabedian’s words, I remember my mother telling me about their record store and their modest residence next to it in New York City. Surely, it was a sad ending for such a talented singer. I hear his singing every now and then and find his voice unusually clear, crisp. It is said that the Armenian community does not appreciate its artists the way it should. But I also wonder if our artists are victims of our inherent talent for music. For the relatively small community we are, we are unusually rich in talents be it as singers or players of different classical instruments, composers, for the community to support all the way it should. 

 We surely owe them a debt of gratitude for enriching our lives. Many of his songs are posted in Youtube, so is his recording of the Armenian Mass.

 

 

 

 

  

"From the horse's mouth":Avo voicing from Armenia (updated)

Avo and his wife have repatriated and have settled in Yerevan. We have been ideologues. Attached is my translation of his quotes from his Facebook page, today, in contrast to the biased reporting by mainstream Armenian Diaspora media.  Բնագիրը կցուած է ներքեւը։ Vaհe H Apelian

Courtesy Avo B Boghossian

“Whatever you want to say, one of the prime minister's most striking characteristics is his amazing diligence, determination, incredible energy, and goal-orientedness. He is an everyday presence everywhere.” September 13, 2025

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“Seeing the construction of infrastructure, roads, schools, hospitals, and the necessary implementations in all spheres in the country, you will come to the conclusion that no work had been done in the country for thirty years. It is a pity that those years were wasted.”  September 12, 2025

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“After Kirants, we reached the newly built school in the border village of Voskepar, which is right next to the border. It has 35 students but is designed for 100 people. To be honest, even in “Yerevan, until five years ago, I had not seen a state school with this beauty and amenities, halls, classrooms, and playgrounds. Two dozen houses have been built in the village to be provided to our displaced compatriots from Artsakh.” September 12, 2025

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“We had gone to the Tavush region, and we said let’s go see the Voskepar church near the border, to see it both from the outside and from the inside. This is the church for which Archbishop Bagrat, went  beyond opposition, marched all the way to Yerevan, accusing the authorities of handing it over to the Azerbaijanis and leaving it on the other side of the border. My wife also lit a candle.” September 12, 2025

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“I was sitting at home with a friend, the phone rang, it was my friend’s friend, they started talking and I heard that two different relatives of my friend had won green cards…

This is not a good ending.” September 12, 2025

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“I have the impression that many of the opposition group have already realized their mistake. I cannot say the same about the Diaspora, since opposition propaganda is dominant there.” September 12, 2025

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“The Ministry of Defense will send a program to the National Assembly to reduce military service by six months, balancing it with certain numbers of contract service. I don’t think the opposition can protest and criticize this program, since it benefits the people living in the homeland. Only the segment of the Diaspora that is opposed to the authorities can express their opposition to this program, since it is not the youth of the Diaspora who are subject to compulsory military service.” September 12, 2025

Բնագիրը՝

Ինչ կ՚ուզէք ըսէք, վարչապետի ամենաակնառու յատկանիշներէն է իր զարմանալի աշխատասիրութիւնը, կորովը, անհաւատալի եռանդը եւ նպատակաուղուածութիւնը: Ան ամէնօրեայ ներկայութիւն է ամէնուրէք:

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Տեսնելով երկրին մէջ ընթացող ենթակառոյցներու, ճանապարհներու, դպրոցներու, հիւանդանոցներու կառուցումը, ու ամէն ոլորտներու մէջ անհրաժեշտ իրագործումները, կուգաս այն եզրակացութեան որ երեսուն տարի ոչ մէկ աշխատանք տարուած է երկրին մէջ: Ափսոս վատնուած այդ տարիները:

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Կիրանցէն ետք հասանք սահմանային Ոսկեպար գիւղի նորակառույց դպրոցը որ ճիշտ կպած է սահմանին, ունի 35 աշակերտ բայց 100 հոգու համար նախատեսուած է։ Ճիշտը Երեւանի մէջ անգամ մինչեւ հինգ տարի առաջ այս գեղեցկութեամբ եւ յարմարութիւններով, սրահներով, դասարաններով եւ խաղավայրերով, պետական դպրոց չէի տեսած։ Գիւղին մէջ երկու տասնեակ տուներ կառուցուած են, տրամադրուելու համար մեր արցախցի տեղահանուած հայրենակիցներուն։

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Տավուշի կողմերը գացած էինք, ըսինք երթանք սահմանին կից Ոսկեպարի եկեղեցին տեսնենք թէ դուրսէն թէ ներսէն։ Սա այն եկեղեցին է որու համար Բագրատ սրբազանը ընդդիմութեան գլուխն անցած արշաւեց մինչեւ Երեւան, իշխանութեանը մեղադրելով որ ազերիներուն հանձնած են եւ թէ մնացած է սահմանին միւս կողմը։ Դէ մոմ մըն ալ վառեց կինս։

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Տանը նստած ենք ընկերոջ մը հետ, հեռախոսը հնչեց, ընկերոջս ընկերն էր, խօսելու սկսան ու լսեցի թէ ընկերոջս երկու տարբեր ազգականները green card շահած են... 

Ասոր վերջը լաւ չէ։

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Իմ մօտ տպաւորութիւն է որ, ընդդիմադիր զանգուածէն շատեր արդէն գլխի ինկած են իրենց սխալին: Սփիւռքի պարագային չեմ կրնար նոյնը ըսել, քանի այդտեղ ընդդիմադիր քարոզչութիւնը տիրական է:

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Պաշտպանութեան նախարարութիւնը զինուորական ծառայութիւնը վեց ամսով կրճատելու ծրագիր մը ԱԺ պիտի ուղարկէ, այն հաւասարակշռելով պայմանագրայն ծառայութեան որոշակի թիւերով: Այս ծրագրին դէմ չեմ կարծեր որ ընդդիմութիւնը կարենայ բողոքարկել եւ քննադատել, քանի որ այն կը շահագրգրէ հայրենաբնակ ժողովուրդին: Այդ ծրագրին դէմ կրնան արտայայտուիլ միայն սփիւռքի այն հատուածը որ իշխանութեանց ընդդիմադիր է, քանի սփիւռքի երիտասարդները չէ որ զինուորական ծառայութեան պարտադրանքին ենթակայ են:

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"From the horse's mouth":Avo voicing from Armenia

Avo and his wife have repatriated and have settled in Yerevan. We have been ideologues. Attached is my translation of his quotes from his Facebook page, today, in contrast to the biased reporting by mainstream Armenian Diaspora media. Բնագիրը կցուած է ներքեւը։

Courtesy Avo G Boghossian, LtoR; Public construction in Armenia
Kirants school, Voskepar church 

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“Seeing the construction of infrastructure, roads, schools, hospitals, and the necessary implementations in all spheres in the country, you will come to the conclusion that no work had been done in the country for thirty years. It is a pity that those years were wasted.” 

*

"After Kirants, we reached the newly built school in the border village of Voskepar, which is right next to the border. It has 35 students but is designed for 100 people. To be honest, even in Yerevan, until five years ago, I had not seen a state school with this beauty and amenities, halls, classrooms, and playgrounds. Two dozen houses have been built in the village to be provided to our displaced compatriots from Artsakh."

*

"We had gone to the Tavush region, and we said let’s go see the Voskepar church near the border, to see it both from the outside and from the inside. This is the church for which Archbishop Bagrat, went  beyond opposition, marched all the way to Yerevan, accusing the authorities of handing it over to the Azerbaijanis and leaving it on the other side of the border. My wife also lit a candle."

*

"I was sitting at home with a friend, the phone rang, it was my friend’s friend, they started talking and I heard that two different relatives of my friend had won green cards…

This is not a good ending."

*

"I have the impression that many of the opposition group have already realized their mistake. I cannot say the same about the Diaspora, since opposition propaganda is dominant there."

*

"The Ministry of Defense will send a program to the National Assembly to reduce military service by six months, balancing it with certain numbers of contract service. I don’t think the opposition can protest and criticize this program, since it benefits the people living in the homeland. Only the segment of the Diaspora that is opposed to the authorities can express their opposition to this program, since it is not the youth of the Diaspora who are subject to compulsory military service."

 

***

Բնագիրը՝

 

«Տեսնելով երկրին մէջ ընթացող ենթակառոյցներու, ճանապարհներու, դպրոցներու, հիւանդանոցներու կառուցումը, ու ամէն ոլորտներու մէջ անհրաժեշտ իրագործումները, կուգաս այն եզրակացութեան որ երեսուն տարի ոչ մէկ աշխատանք տարուած է երկրին մէջ: Ափսոս վատնուած այդ տարիները:»

 

*

 

«Կիրանցէն ետք հասանք սահմանային Ոսկեպար գիւղի նորակառույց դպրոցը որ ճիշտ կպած է սահմանին, ունի 35 աշակերտ բայց 100 հոգու համար նախատեսուած է։ Ճիշտը Երեւանի մէջ անգամ մինչեւ հինգ տարի առաջ այս գեղեցկութեամբ եւ յարմարութիւններով, սրահներով, դասարաններով եւ խաղավայրերով, պետական դպրոց չէի տեսած։ Գիւղին մէջ երկու տասնեակ տուներ կառուցուած են, տրամադրուելու համար մեր արցախցի տեղահանուած հայրենակիցներուն։»

 

*

 

«Տավուշի կողմերը գացած էինք, ըսինք երթանք սահմանին կից Ոսկեպարի եկեղեցին տեսնենք թէ դուրսէն թէ ներսէն։ Սա այն եկեղեցին է որու համար Բագրատ սրբազանը ընդդիմութեան գլուխն անցած արշաւեց մինչեւ Երեւան, իշխանութեանը մեղադրելով որ ազերիներուն հանձնած են եւ թէ մնացած է սահմանին միւս կողմը։ Դէ մոմ մըն ալ վառեց կինս։»

 

*

 

«Տանը նստած ենք ընկերոջ մը հետ, հեռախոսը հնչեց, ընկերոջս ընկերն էր, խօսելու սկսան ու լսեցի թէ ընկերոջս երկու տարբեր ազգականները green card շահած են... 

Ասոր վերջը լաւ չէ։»

 

*

 

«Իմ մօտ տպաւորութիւն է որ, ընդդիմադիր զանգուածէն շատեր արդէն գլխի ինկած են իրենց սխալին: Սփիւռքի պարագային չեմ կրնար նոյնը ըսել, քանի այդտեղ ընդդիմադիր քարոզչութիւնը տիրական է:»

 

*

 

«Պաշտպանութեան նախարարութիւնը զինուորական ծառայութիւնը վեց ամսով կրճատելու ծրագիր մը ԱԺ պիտի ուղարկէ, այն հաւասարակշռելով պայմանագրայն ծառայութեան որոշակի թիւերով: Այս ծրագրին դէմ չեմ կարծեր որ ընդդիմութիւնը կարենայ բողոքարկել եւ քննադատել, քանի որ այն կը շահագրգրէ հայրենաբնակ ժողովուրդին: Այդ ծրագրին դէմ կրնան արտայայտուիլ միայն սփիւռքի այն հատուածը որ իշխանութեանց ընդդիմադիր է, քանի սփիւռքի երիտասարդները չէ որ զինուորական ծառայութեան պարտադրանքին ենթակայ են:»

 

 

 

 

TALAMA

Բնագիրը կցուած է նեքեւը - Although, I spent all my summers in Keurkune, Kessab up to my high school years, going there from Beirut right after the school was over in June and returning right before the school started in October, I never had talama. But the boys, Missak, Papken, Vatche, Vahe who stayed in the village year long, would speak about it.  I was told that talma was made with milk from a cow right after giving birth. The animals would have given birth to their calves early in spring. By the time I came to the village, it would be too late. Milk, right after giving birth is called colostrum. The animals would produce it only for a few days. The colostrum would be rich in nutrients. This milk, when treated with the milky exudates of unripe figs, I was told, would curdle into a soft, yogurt like creamy consistency and was a sought-after delicatessen available only for those few days of the early spring. Hagop Cholakian narrates his tasting of talama from goats, in his village in the Karadouran valley, in the following story I translated. Vaհe H Apelian

 

Courtesy Hagop Cholakian, Facebook, September 6, 2025

"A huge herd of goats flowed like a black torrent from the slopes of the mountain onto the Gazents spring. It was the time for watering. At noon, we the boys of the neighborhood, would run there. Tigran, would take the pipe from his father’s belt, would blow the melody that invited the goats to drink water. The goats would dip their snouts in the water. The shepherd would be shouting “Kerr-kerr” calling the goats to drink. The long-horned, fearsome goats would bleat in the herd, and water would drip from their beards. Afterwars, under the soothing melodies of the shepherd’s flute, the goats would lie down in the shade of the cypress tree. The shepherd’s dog would have its head resting on its two front legs with its tongue hanging out, gathering its breath. 

Years later, when I was recording folk songs, I met Reverend Yesayi Saramazian in the Armenian Evangelical Church of Kessab. He was visibly emotional as he was about to leave for Canada. His pastoral memories in Aleppo or in Beirut would no longer move him as much as his real pastoral memories would, shepherding the animals in his youth  on the slopes of Mount Silderan at whose slope their village laid. The flute was in his bag. He took it out and played the melody for watering the animals he herded. I noticed that there were tears in his eyes. I recorded that melody had it notated, and had it published as the Kessap Shepherds' Watering Tune.

Nowadays, you won't find a shepherd's pipe in our area. It used to be a long metal tube they blew touching its end with their lips. They also called it a kavala. It could also be made of reeds and wood.

Oh, where did I start, where did we did I end up? We, the boys would line up along the bank in that deep gorge and wait for the shepherds to notice us.

- Hey, - Grandpa Hanno would say, - have you prepared the cup?

Yes, we would have prepared the cup. It would consist of two large two palm-shaped fig leaves sewn together with twine. The adults would do the same. Our neighbor Vahan brought bring the first figs of the year in such a bowl as well, and would give it to Rahel Nanar.

- Count this, girl, - he would say.

- Thank you, let it be so, man, - the woman would reply, and we would all laugh.

Grandpa Hanno would quickly milk the goat, squeezing the long teats of its udder. khush-khush, khash-khush,  the milk would be collected in a bowl. He would throw the figs into the bowl of the milk and would stir it with a fig branch. The white juice coming from the figs would curdle the milk like curd, like solid yogurt. We would eat it insatiably, spooning it with a bay leaf.

- Talama!... talama! -  grandpa Hanno would call out, looking at the shy girls standing on the far bank of the ditch.

Talama...

It seemed to us the most delicious thing in the world. I think, if we had sprinkled it with a pinch of sugar, it would have been something else!

Sprinkling sugar? But from where…?

Բնագիրը՝ 

ԹԱԼԱՄԱ

Այծերու հսկայ հօտը սեւ հեղեղի մը պէս կը հոսէր Կիւնիկ լեռան սալուտէն ուղղակի Գազենց աղբիւրի սուլաքները, այսինքն առուի այն բաժինը, ուր ջուր կ՛ամբարուէր թումբերու ետին։ Ասիկա ջրտուքի պահն էր։ Միջօրէ։ Մենք՝ թաղի տղաքս, կը փութայինք հոն։ Տիգրանը, ապպայի գօտիէն սրինգը հանած` կը փչէր ջրտուքի եղանակը։ Այծերը դունչերնին կը թաթխէին ջուրին մէջ, “կը՜ռ-ռը՛դ, կը՜ռ-ռը՛դ” կը կրկնուէր հովիւի ջրտուքի կանչը։ Ոլորուն, երկար եղջիւրներով ահարկու նոխազները կը գռւռային հօտին մէջ, ու անոնց մօրուքէն ջուր կը կաթկթէր։ Սրինգի մեղուշ գլգլոցին տակ այծերը կ՛ընկողմանէին սօսեաց անտառի շուքին ու կը մակաղէին։ Հովուական գամփռը գլուխը առջեւի երկու ոտքերուն վրայ դրած՝ կախ լեզուն շարժելով շունչ կը հաւաքէր։

Տարիներ ետք, երբ ժողովրդական նիւթեր կը ձայնագրէի, Քեսապի Հայ աւետարանական եկեղեցւոյ մէջ հանդիպեցայ վերապատուելի Եսայի Սարամազեանին։ Յայտնապէս յուզուած էր, որ կը մեկնի Քանատա։ Ո’չ Հալէպի, ո’չ ալ Պէյրութի իր եկեղեցական հովուական յուշերը պիտի յուզէին զայն այնքան , որքան Սալտրան լեռան լանջերուն պատանեկութեան տարիներու իր իսկական հովուական յուշերը։ Սրինգը պայուսակին մէջ էր, հանեց ու նուագեց ջրտուքի մեղեդին, ու նկատեցի, որ արցունք կար անոր աչքերուն։ Արձանագրեցի, նօթագրել տուի եւ հրատարակեցի քեսապցի հովիւներուն ջրտուքի մեղեդին։ 

Այսօր մեր կողմերը հովուական սրինգ չես գտներ, մետաղէ երկար խողովակ մը, որ շրթունքի մէկ կողմին հպելով կը փչէին։ Գավալա կ՛ըսէին։ Եղեգով ու փայտով ալ կ՛ըլլար։

Հա, ուրկէ՛ սկսանք, ո՛ւր փախանք։ Կը շարուէինք խորունկ խանտակի ափին ու կը սպասէինք, որ հովիւները նկատեն մեզ։ 

- Հը՛,- կ՛ըսէր Հաննո պապուկը,- ամանը պատրաստա՞ծ էք։

Այո , պատրաստած կ՛ըլլայինք։ Թզենիի ոստ մը կը կտրէինք, երկու ափաձեւ տերեւներ շիւղերով կը կարէինք ու փոքրիկ քթոցիկ մը կը շինէինք։ Մեծերն ալ նոյնը կ՛ընէին։ Մեր դրացի Վահան պապուկը այդպիսի ամանի մը մէջ տարուան առաջին թուզերը լեցուցած բերաւ տուաւ Ռահէլ Նանարին։

- Փոխ հաշուէ ասիկա, աղջիկ,-ըսաւ; 

- Շնորհակալ եմ, թող այդպէս ըլլայ, մա՛րդ,- պատասխանեց կինը, որ բոլորս խնդացինք;

Հաննո պապուկը այծի երկար պտունները սեղմելով արագ-արագ այծը կը կթէր, խաշ-խուշ, խաշ-խուշ, բուլը՝ տհաս թուզը, կը նետէր կաթին մէջ ու թզենիի ոստով կը խառնէր։ Բուլի կաթը՝ ճերմակ հիւթը, մակարդի պէս կը քարացնէր կաթը, ինչպէս պինդ մածուն։ Դափնիի տերեւով անյագօրէն կ՛ուտէինք։

- Թալամա՜․․․ թալամա՜,- կը կանչէր Հաննո պապուկը նայելով խանտակի ափին կեցած ամչկոտ աղջնակներուն։ 

Թալամա․․․Աշխարհի ամենէն համով բանը կը թուէր մեզի․ կը մտածեմ, պտղունց մը շաքարաւազ ցանէինք վրան՝ ուրի՜շ բան կ՛ըլլար։

Շաքարաւազը՝ ուրկէ՜...

 Յակոբ Չոլաքեան - Facebook, September 6, 2025

 

 

Three Tenors

Vahe H. Apelian

Let me first note that I used the word "tenor" in the title of this blog  for trained voices. I am not a connoisseur of voice.

Some time ago, on YouTube, I came across songs by Armen Guirag. Some of the songs were “viewed” a few times. Others had no views. I became reflective. Artists, such as Armen Guirag, entertain us with their songs, uplift our spirits and make our lives more pleasurable and then, much like old warriors, fade away. In its unmistakable forward march, time brings with it new norms, attitudes and likes and new artists come for a new generation who in turn experiences the same cycle of life. 

Along with Armen Guirag, the voices of Ara Guiragossian  and Kevork Gagossian have remained etched in my memory and I listen to them also, every now and then.

ARA GUIRAGOSSIAN. I have not met him in person. He remains in my mind as a tall and robust man. I have attended his performance on stage with my parents. He also used to sing in “Sayat Nova” restaurant in Beirut. Recently I translated Boghos Shahmelikian’s book that narrates Diaspora Armenian pop music. In it Boghos notes that Ara Guiragossian was the first to record an album of Armenian revolutionary songs. But he never caught the people’s fancy as a singer of such songs. I guess his voice was too trained, too structured for opera than for such songs on popular stage.

Recently I came across the following comments on YouTube that best summarizes Ara Guiragossian as a singer of revolutionary songs and also validates my memory of hearing him in the “Sayat Nova” restaurant. These two comments read as follows:

“When I was a young kid my parents used to take the family to Sayat Nova restaurant in Beirut Lebanon where Ara used to sing. Great memories” (Harout Hamassian).

“Once my mum went to a record shop to buy the disc of "Antranig" sung by Levon Katerdjian. There was a man in the shop, whom my mother didn't recognize. The shopkeeper tried to persuade my mother to buy Ara Guiragossian's version of that song, but mother said that she didn't like Ara's voice very much. Once she said this, she noticed that the man got emotional & hid his face in his hands. My mother then realized that the man was Ara Guiragossian. She felt very ashamed & bought both records.” (arayvaz6).

In vain, I searched for Ara Guiragossian’s biography on the Internet search engines. I do not know when and where he was born and when and where did he pass away. But surely his memory and his singing linger on. He can be heard on YouTube.

*****

KEVORK GAGOSSIAN. I knew Alex Mnagian as a famous accordion player. Again, thanks to Boghos Shahmelikian I found out that he was more than a famous accordion player and that he was an artist of the highest caliber and has had his input in the artistic life in Lebanon be it as an Armenian and as Lebanese through his association with the famous Rahbani brothers. 

Mnagian brothers had a music store next to Sourp (Saint) Nshan Church and it's one-time namesake school I attended. The neighborhood was an Armenian hub. Next, to the Mnagian’s store, my friend Garbis Baghdassarian’s brother Zareh, had a bookstore. On that very stretch of the street my classmate Haroutiun Hadsagortzian’s father had a barber shop who spoke with a distinct Dikranagerd accent and would attentively follow us students wondering how well we were doing in our studies and would encourage us to study hard. There was also a gun store whose owner married one of my classmates in Sourp Nshan. We lived a short walking distance from the church and that neighborhood was a hangout for us boys. Alex was a short and stocky guy. Another short and stocky young man would be in the store every now and then. His name was Kevork Gagossian. The community was shocked to hear that he passed away after his concert in Cairo at the age of 27.

 I pieced together the following about Kevork Gagossian from an article penned by Hagop Mardirossian that appeared in Hairenik Weekly on July 17, 2014, forty-five years after his untimely death as a testament of the enduring legacy of this gifted but short-lived young man.

Kevork Gagossian was born on July 9, 1942, and passed away in Cairo, Egypt on November 25, 1969, a day after his concert. After finishing his studies in the Lebanese Conservatory, he had continued his studies in Italy. He had not yet produced any recording letting his friends know that a singer’s voice matures after the age of 35 and that he is yet too young to record for posterity. After his untimely death, his friends produced a record from the recordings of his concerts. He was deemed to be an unusually gifted bass tenor. His teachers, friends, and classmates from Lebanon, Italy, England and Japan mourned his death. His Japanese colleague Takao Okamura held a memorial concert in Beirut and ended his repertoire by signing in Armenian “I heard a sweet voice”  (Ես Լսեցի Մի ԱՆուշ Զայն) dedicating it in memory of Kevork Gagossian.

Kevork Gagossian's rendition of Kamar Katiba's Lerets Ambere - The Clouds Went Silent.

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ARMEN GUIRAG My parents had forged a friendship with him during his stay in Hotel Lux, the inn my father ran in Beirut. For many and many years, every Sunday morning my father would play his recording of Armenian Holy Mass, which is regarded one of the best rendition of the Holy Mass by a singer. For all, I recall he was from Latin America. My mother introduced him to her friend Rahel Chilinguirian and they got married and moved to the United States. In late 1960’s my mother visited her relatives in the United States and spent time with Armen and Rahel Guirag. I often wondered what happened to him.

A few years ago I read the following about Armen Guirag in an article the late Tom Vartabedian wrote in Armenian Weekly titled “Three Tenors Strike A Different Tune” (March 24, 2009). 

“He (Armen Guirag) was Armenian and ran a record shop in New York City that doubled as his home. He would sell his music in front and sleep out back with a tiny refrigerator, table, and a couple chairs.

Armen Guirag lived from hand to mouth and was in no hurry to move his records. He once told me that everyone he sold was like “selling a child.” But did he ever have a voice, and became the greatest Armenian tenor of his generation back in the 1950’s.

He was recognized as a classic concert and opera singer, produced a number of recordings, and performed near and far, including an appearance at Carnegie Hall that gained rave reviews in the New York papers.

I met him during the tail end of his career when he gradually began to mellow and lived like a recluse. The last concert I attended of his was a pity.

He appeared in Boston, well into his 70s by now, and sang like he never sang before. His voice carried to the very last row of seats as people were on their feet applauding his every note.

And then, the unsuspected occurred. The record he had spinning in the background got stuck while the audience sat mortified. Even before lip-syncing became popular, Armen Guirag appeared well before his time.

He dashed off stage humiliated, never to appear again. Last I heard, he died in that little record store with hardly a whisper from the scores who embraced his music.”

Surely, it is a sad ending for such a talented singer. I hear his singing every now and then and find his voice unusually clear, crisp. It is said that the Armenian community does not appreciate its artists the way it should. I often wonder if our artists are victims of our gene pool. This may be true because we are unusually rich in talents be it singers or players of different classical instruments for the community to support all, the way it should. 

 We surely owe them a debt of gratitude for enriching our lives.

With Mr and Mrs. Armen and Rahel Guirag