Our House in Canada

I dedicate my translation of the late Rev. Hovhannes Sarmazian's story of their house in Canada to Ara Mekhsian for his superb translation of  Hovhannes Toumanian's poem "The Finest House" (attached).Vahe H. Apelian.

Our House in Canada

"After long family discussions and arguments, last October finally we also got a house in Canada. Our house now has its owner, its own address and its unique telephone number. Our children are very happy as if they achieved a victory. They also seem to be a bit proud of their new house. Enthused they call friends a little bit everywhere and herald to them the news of their new house and invite them to come and see their new residence.

Buying a house had become an issue of contention lately in our family and cause for frequent arguments. My elder son who has an aptitude for mathematics had always tried to convince me of the benefits of buying a house citing figures and letting me know how beneficial purchasing a house can be over renting one.

- “Instead of wasting your money paying rent, you can allocate the same amount towards a mortgage and years later the house will be yours.”  My son used to tell me confidently. His sister and brother would join to confirm his saying. I, on the other hand, with my Middle Eastern mentality, used to ask myself,

- “Am I going to go in hundreds of thousands debt? That is not possible. In a situation like that I would lose my sleep during the nights. No, that’s impossible. It is not possible to buy a house when there is no available money for it”, would be my conclusion.

After all this commotion, I would look forward sitting in front of our television during the weekends and enjoy the Armenian “New Horizon” program. During airing of the program, a spokesperson from an agency that deals with buying and selling properties would invariably appear announcing in support of my children.

- “Are you tired of paying rent? Do you know how easy it is to become the owner of your own house? To know how we can be of help to you, call us”.

And then their business address and their telephone number would appear on the screen.

- “Let us take Dad to the office of the real estate agency, and ask him to stay there until evening so that he will come to realize how beneficial is buying a house instead of renting one”, used to say my daughter to her two brothers.

It is fair that I confess that as a student I also have been pretty good in the subject of mathematics. However, I have not been “open-eyed” when it came to matters of buying and selling. That is why I have always felt that people can easily take advantage of me and thus be able to sell me something they have set at a higher price than it is actually worth.

Finally, being left on my own in my viewpoint, I accepted my defeat and gave in enabling us to get a house for our own. Admittedly our new house is a pretty house with an appealing front yard laden with flowers and a fenced backyard filled with newly planted fruit bearing trees. With its garage and neatly arranged rooms, it is a very livable house. Everything pertaining to the house has been thoughtfully planned.

The previous owner was a former villager from Portugal who is now engaged in construction. What struck me odd is the following: after living in the house for the previous five years and with his own efforts planting the flowers and fruit bearing trees, with total ease and a little bit happy and without showing the slightest sentiments, handed us the keys of the house and walked down the streets during the sunset hours. For a brief moment I wondered if I was deceived this time around too. Why would the man look so happy for having sold his house?

Why should I lie, lest I sin? For some time my old car remained idle on the street as it was not operational any more. Three months ago, abiding to the order of the municipality, I called a special agency to tow it away. When they came and tied our old car to their special truck and started hauling it away like the carcass of a dead domestic animal, for a brief moment I followed them and then suddenly an overwhelming sadness overtook me. That iron thing without a soul had been my companion for many years and had served me well. How was it that the Portuguese villager could let go of the house he had tended with his own hands and without slightest emotion hand us the keys and walk away without even taking one last glance?

                                                            ***

Rev. Hovhannes Sarmazian is the retired (2019) Pastor of the Armenian Evangelical Church in Cambridge, Canada, where he pastored since 1990. Formerly he was a teacher and a pastor of the Armenian Evangelical Church in Anjar. He was also the principle of the Kessab Educational Association’s evening school in Lebanon during his study for ministry in the Near East School of Theology (NEST). The attached piece is from his book “Can The Land Be Sold?” (Հողը կը Ծախուի՞)  published in 2006). 

( http://vhapelian.blogspot.com/search?q=rev+sarmazian )

***

We are already in our new house. My children are happy and negotiate among themselves as who would occupy which room. Household utensils, furniture, personal items are being placed in their proper spots.

Everyone in the family appears to be happy and enthusiastic. I also am happy to a certain extent. But the source of my happiness is not the house but the result of my children’s happiness. I have to confess that our new house in Canada does not lift my spirits. I do not know why I do not feel at home in the beautiful and comfortable house. It is not because I have accumulated debt that will take years to pay. Some inexplicable, mysterious and mystifying feeling keeps me from embracing without reservation our new house. I liken myself to the young village migrant in the big city who after leaving his first love back in the village, marries maybe a more beautiful but nonetheless a strange city girl.

Why is it that everything appears to be artificial and illusory to me in this remote land? These thoughts take me to a distant place, at the northwestern corner of Syria, to Kessab where, at the foot of the Seldran mountain, there is a small Armenian village called Baghjaghaz and to a small house in that village. That small house is our ancestral house. It is modest but entirely and really ours. My grandfather had built it with his hands.

In 1909, during the Adana Massacres, marauding Turkish mobs sacked and torched also Kessab and its surrounding villages. My grandfather returned to his demolished ancestral home once more, and with a renewed faith and with an Armenian stubbornness, had cut the huge pine tree in its yard and from whose trunk and thick branches he had fashioned logs and wood panels to build our house anew.

My father tended the house every fall and did the repairs so that its earth-covered roof and its thick stone-walls would stand the fury of winter rain and snow. I remember the blue stone quarry not far from our village. We called the blue stones Kuyruk. Every autumn the able-bodied men of the village would go to the quarry and bring the blue stones and lay them over the roofs and then go over them with large stone-rollers to crush and pack them on the rooftop against the rain.

Our Bagjaghaz house had history as to who was the carpenter who made the wooden windows and its shutters and who was the master mason who had laid down its thick wall and layered it with kirej - a special cementing material the villagers prepared. My father would tell us such things about the house with supreme patience.

The wooden logs supporting the roof extended approximately a foot or so beyond the walls. Over the extension stones were placed to contain the blue crushed stones on the rooftops. At times the stones from the perimeter of our roof would fall casting the image of an old person some of whose front teeth are missing. Below these stones, along one of the walls, three chicken coops were placed for the hens to lay their eggs. It was so pleasant to hear the hens vocalizing after laying their eggs and expecting my mother to offer them extra feed.

It is not possible not to remember the mulberry tree in our courtyard. In the evenings Uncle Elesha would come and lean against the trunk of the tree while holding his pipe and waiting for my father to step out of the house to chat under the moonlight of bygone days.

Our house consisted of two rooms. One was at ground level and was used as the stable. The other room was over the stable. On a June day I was born in a corner of its wooden floor without the assistance of a nurse or a medical doctor. Our unschooled but expert midwife Hannoush Nanar (grandma) had helped my mother give birth.

My mother would tell of the episode as if it was a fairly tale. “It was in late June; the fruits of the apricot tree in our yard had barely started ripening. It was harvest time and all of us had gone to the fields. I started feeling not well. I came home early and had people summon Hannoush Nanar. That evening, before sunset, you were born.”

Our ancestral home in the village, where I have first opened my eyes and uttered my first cry has anchored an unbreakable bond in me. I maintain a spiritual connection with its stones, wooden logs, and its cozy hearth however inanimate objects they are. I realize that the residence that resonates the most sentiments in the person is one’s ancestral home where the person is born and raised.

I liken myself to the restless lad in the poem who ventured out of their modest home at the foot of the hill, next to a creek in search of better accommodation. He went onto the world and saw many large and beautiful houses but in each one of them he found something amiss and longingly returned to his modest home at the foot of the hill, next to the creek.

And now in our new and beautiful house in Canada, I do not know why, I feel a stranger. I wonder why my joy is not genuine and unbound? Why is that, things on these Western shores appear alien to me? When? Why? And how is that I lost my ability to acculturate anew?

I direct my thoughts to our ancestral home in the village and wonder; what is that it is so magnetic and so profound that continues to attract me to it even half a century later? Small memories from my ancestral home continue to stir emotions in me and I revert to that little child I was who recited the poem proclaiming the sweetness of his home.  " 

*****

The Finest House

By Hovhanness Toumanian

(Translated by Ara Mekhsian)

Where the winds frolic and toy

And the waters roar and froth

Lived a very restless boy

With his mother kind and fond,

In a drab hovel,

In an old hovel,

Along the river,

Beneath the trees.

One day said the restless boy,

“My kind, loving mother dear,

This place affords me no joy,

I must go away from here -

This drab hovel,

This old hovel,

Along the river,

Beneath the trees.”

“Let me roam from place to place.

When I've found the finest home,

I Will return, and with haste

We will escape away from

This drab hovel,

This old hovel,

Along the river,

Beneath the trees.’’

He saw many a fine dwelling

In the course his long voyage,

But the hovel kept on calling,

So, he returned to his village,

To the drab hovel,

To the old hovel,

Along the river,

Beneath the trees.

“Did you find it?” asked the mother,

Happily beholding her son.

“I saw houses filled with wonder,

But the most enchanting one is

This drab hovel,

This old hove,

Along the river,

Beneath the trees.”

ԱՄեՆԻՑ ԼԱՎ ՏՈՒՆԸ

Յովհաննէս Թումանեան

Էնտեղ, ուր հովը խաղում է ազատ

Ու ջուրն աղմըկում, անվերջ փըրփըրում,

Էնտեղ իր բարի, իր սիրող մօր հետ

Մի շատ անհանգիստ տղայ էր ապրում,

Մի գորշ խըրճիթում,

Մի հին խըրճիթում,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին։

Մի օր էլ եկաւ անհանգիստ տըղան,

Կանգնեց իր բարի, իր սիրող մօր դէմ.

«Մայրիկ, էստեղից պէտք է հեռանամ.

Միակ ձանձրալի տեղը, որ գիտեմ,

Էս գորշ խըրճիթն է,

Էս հին խըրճիթն է,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին։

Թո՛ղ գընամ շըրջեմ աշխարհից աշխարհ,

Ճամբորդեմ լաւ-լաւ տըներ տեսնելու,

Ամենից լաւը ընտրեմ մեզ համար,

Գամ քեզ էլ առնեմ ու փախչենք հեռու

Էս գորշ խըրճիթից,

Էս հին խըրճիթից,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին»։

Ու գնաց, երկար թափառեց տըղան,

Մեծ ու հոյակապ շատ տըներ տեսաւ,

Բայց միշտ, ամէն տեղ պակաս Էր մի բան...

Ու հառաչելով ետ վերադարձաւ

Էն գորշ խըրճիթը

Էն հին խըրճիթը,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին։

«Գըտա՞ր, զաւա՛կըս», հարցըրեց մայրը,

Ուրախ, նայելով իր տըղի վըրայ։

«Ման եկայ, մայրի՛կ, աշխարհից աշխարհ,

Ամենից սիրուն, լաւ տունը, որ կայ,

Էս գորշ խըրճիթն է,

Էս հին խըրճիթն Է,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին»։

Keurkune's Historic Church: The Sanctuary - 1

 Vahe H. Apelian

Figure 1: Armenian Evangelical Church of Keurkune
Courtesy George Azad Apelian 

The Armenian Evangelical Church of Keurkune is one of the oldest Armenian Evangelical Churches, outside Turkey, that is in use to this day. It was built in 1898/1899  and thus bridges three centuries. There is a plague on the upper section of the front wall (Figure 2), that bears the following inscription in Armenian character reading Turkish that reads – “My house shall be called a house of prayer” Math: 21:13; Keurkune’’; Armenian Evangelical Church; January 8.98 foundation; July 21.99 completion.” 

Figure 2: Front Wall Inscription in Armenian Characters Reading Turkish
Courtesy George Azad Apelian

The church is situated on an elevation at the southeastern corner of the village. An arched entrance leads to the courtyard. The sanctuary is right across the arched entrance. The pastoral dwelling is situated on the right-hand side. The bell tower is positioned at the back right hand side corner of the church. The sanctuary was built by master mason Hovsep Terterian, from the neighboring village of Chakaljuk. He was the grandfather of the late Archbishop Ardavast Terterian. 

The construction is typical of the era. It consists of two layered walls erected by depositing carved stones resulting in thick walls and in deep windows. The pastoral complex was built in 1903 during Rev. Kevork Kassarjian’s tenure. The sanctuary has two entrances. Up to the time I attended the church, the men used the door on the left-hand side, and the women used the door on the right-hand side, irrespective of their marital status. There are three olive trees in the church courtyard. They seem to have always been there and are regarded as part and parcel of the church. On one of these trees had a resonating piece of a metal that was hung alerting the children of the village the start of  Sunday school services. The ringing of the bell was reserved for the grown up alerting them of the church service.

Yervant Kassouny, the former editor of the Armenian Evangelical Monthly Chanasser, edited Dr. Albert Apelian’s graduation thesis about Kessab into a well-documented and foot noted book. Albert was a 20-year-old student at Aintab College when he wrote his study as a requirement for his graduation. Dr. Albert Apelian is Dr. Soghomon Apelian’s son who is the first Kessbtsi to graduate as a  Medical Doctor from the American University of Beirut.

Dr. Yervatn Kassouni quoting Rev. Mardiros Marganian noted that the construction of the church of Keurkune’ commenced without securing a permit. When the authorities planned to halt the construction, the villagers participated and completed the covering of the roof almost overnight and thus secured the viability of the sanctuary. Ottoman regulations forbade the destruction of an erected building with a roof on it. Subsequently, the Sultan’s High Porte issued the permit for the church. This important historical document, however, has been lost.

The logs that covered the roof of the church were made of trees from a forest some 8 miles from Keurkune’ renowned  to this day for its tall and erect pine trees. Soghomon Kerbabian,  the late Rev. Ardashes Kerbabian’s father, accompanied the cavalcade and played the flute all the way to inspire the able-bodied young men and distract them from their heavy loads as they carried the logs on their shoulders. 

The long-trimmed logs extended across the two opposing walls of the church. On these logs wood was fastened and on which the villagers spread keuruk  giving the church roof top the same bluish color that colored the roof tops of all the houses in the village. The bluish, light weight, easily crushable stones ideal to cover the roof tops. Each roof top had a stone roller that was used to pack the stones, which was replenished frequently from local veins.  As to Soghomon Kerbabian, he is the only person seen  playing the flute while the rest of his contemporaries posed with their rifles and belts laden with bullets (Figure 3).

The church has undergone major renovations. The logs that covered the ceiling of the church have now long gone into oblivion and a cement ceiling covers the roof. The old pews have been replaced with newer ones. The front wall is now covered with yellow stone bearing the following inscription “Renovated in memory of Khatchig Apelian”, who was tragically killed during boar hunting in December 1988. 

Anectodes about the church

Rev. Hovhannes Iskijian, whose late grandson found the Iskijian Museum in Ararat Home in California, was the first pastor to be ordained in Keurkune’’ and Ekiz Olouk. His ordination became an issue of contention between villagers. They could not agree whether his ordination would take place at the church In Keurkune’’ or at the church in Ekiz Olouk. They came to a workable compromise and agreed to have the pastor’s ordination done in open air, mid way between the two villages, under a tree, which came to be known as Badveli’s (the pastor’s) tree. The tree was still erect when I spent my summers there in my youth.

Reverends Mardiros Marganian, Hanna Sarmazian, Hagop Sarkissian were also ordained in Keurkune’. Rev. Ardashes Kerbabian is the only native son of Keurkune’ to serve as a pastor of the church. Rev. Hanna (Hovhannes) Sarmazian, a Kessabtsi, is the church’s longest serving pastor. He served the church from 1959 to 1981. 

On June 12, 2015, Rev. Haroutune Selimian officiated the dedication of the renovated church and its sacking and torching and had Rev Jirayr Ghazarian instilled as the pastor of the church.

The sanctuary also has a Roman period like carved headstone. No one knows where it was found and who placed it in the sanctuary. It has remained next to one of the entrances, as a silent witness of the church. (Figure 4)

Figure 4: Roman Period Like Head Stone

Keurkune’s church is the spiritual center of the village and plays a vital role in the lives of the inhabitants of the village and safeguards the kinship among its one-time inhabitants and their descendants spread across the globe.

The picture of the church posted above (Figure 1) was taken by the late George Azad Apelian. It depicts the church before the March 21, 2014, occupation of Kessab by terrorists who infiltrated from Turkey; and during their occupation of Kessab, that lasted almost 88 days until June 15/16, 2014, they  desecrated graves, sacked, plundered, destroyed, torched houses, business, churches, including Keurkune’s church.

Courtesy Sevan Apelian
The  Renovated Armenian Evangelical Church of Keurkune After its Sacking and Torching by extremists.
(Note the difference between the crosses in comparison to Figure 1.)

 

Rev. Hovhannes Sarmazian: An Unconventional Path.

Vahe H. Apelian

Rev. Hovhannes Sarmazian

Much like all Kessabtsi, I knew of  Yesai and Hovhannes Sarmazian brothers.  Even though Yesai was the younger brother, it appeared that at the time he was more known than his elder brother because of his calling. He was to be a Badveli, a postor. In fact, I recall the occasion when I first met Rev. Yesai. It was in Keurkune and it was in Kourken Bedirian’s parent’s house. I singled Kourken among his brothers and sisters because, it turned out, that Kourken and Yesai were friends. Both had ventured out of Kessab in pursuit of their own callings. Kourken became an internationally acclaimed scientist in his field and Yesai became known for his vibrant pastorate. Both, Kourken and Yesai, immigrated to Canada. I do not recall the occasion that brought them together over an extended family lunch that day.

I met Hovhannes Sarmazian in person in very early 1970’s when we both taught in the Beirut Kessab Educational Association evening school. All the teachers were students. Rev. Hovhannes attended and lived in the Near East School of Theology (NEST) dormitory which was a just a block or two from the Khanamirian School where the evening classes were held. It was obvious for us that he was a decade senior to us but we struck a personal friendship that continued to the very end. When he was ordained in Anjar, my mother and I attended the ceremony. It was his younger brother Rev. Yesai who extended the hand fellowship into their fold as ordained pastors. 

I immigrated to the U.S. in 1976. After he and his family immigrated to Canada our ties resumed although we seldom met each other in person. He customarily gifted me a copy of the books he wrote. A few years ago, I happened to be  Los Angeles staying with my mother when he called me to let me know that he will be landing in LAX airport. He was invited to be speaker at the yearly Mousa Daghtsi yearly festival in Fresno. I picked him up and together we visited a few of the former evening school staff in L.A. That was the last time I met him in person.

Some two weeks before his death I called him to follow on the status of his last book. He had told me that his last book was ready for printing. From the description he had given me, the book entailed a collection of 52 sermons, one for each Sunday with accompanying hymn. He said that he had prepared the book as an aid to lay preachers or to small congregations who may not have a pastor on board. I had found the idea fascinating and the book very useful for use in the Diaspora as well as in Armenia. I called him to find out about the upcoming publication. To my surprise his daughter Zela answered and let me know that her father is being hospitalized in intensive care. Not long after I heard the sad news of his passing away on June 3, 2020.

He was indeed a gentle soul, a humble and a dedicated servant of God.

I took the liberty of sharing Rev. John Khanjian’s reflections about  Rev. Hovhannes Sarmazian’s depicting his unconventional but determined path towards his calling, (Jan-Feb-March 2018 issue of AMAA News).  

“REV. HOVHANES SARMAZIAN

By Rev. John Khanjian, Ph.D.

Rev. Hovhanes M. Sarmazian was born in June 1934 to Minas and Marie Sarmazian of the beautiful Baghjaghaz Village, located at the foot of Mount Sildran in Kessab, Syria. He attended the village elementary school but for intermediate education, he had to walk 14 km to get to school in Kessab!

His roadmap to Christian ministry did not follow the traditional path of high school, college and seminary. Being the eldest son, he had to interrupt his education and join his father in cultivating the land. In 1951, he was asked to teach at his village elementary school, which he undertook with great love and joy for three years. Then the order came to join the Syrian Army as a conscript. Upon the completion of his military service, he was offered a teaching position at the Armenian Evangelical Elementary School in Damascus, Syria where he served from 1959-62. During this sojourn, which he refers to as “his Damascus Road Experience,” his future vision for the Christian Ministry was solidified and he began the process of applying for full-time ministry.

However, there was still one more hurdle to overcome ̶ a high school diploma. In 1962, I met him as a student at the Armenian Evangelical College of Beirut, Lebanon where he sat in class with teenagers and became a successful student. Now the road map was clear, he became a full-time college and seminary student. With diligence, he completed his studies and received from Haigazian College, a B.A. in Psychology in 1967, and B.D. from the Near East School of Theology in 1969.

During his seminary days, he served in Sunday Schools, Youth Work, and preached from pulpits of churches at various locations. Prior to his graduation, because of a vacancy in the Armenian Evangelical Church of Anjar, Hovhanes was appointed to serve the Church on an interim basis, which later became a permanent position. He began his work after a stormy period in the Church’s life, but with his calm and loving approach, he brought peace and stability to the situation and served the Church for 22 years.

In 1972, he married Marie Janbazian who was a member of the Hilfsbund Mission that was serving the Anjar School and its Boarding Department, as well as Muslims in the surrounding villages. Marie was educated in Germany and served as a nurse, translator, and social worker, and became Pastor Sarmazian’s right arm in his ministry. On July 1, 1973, he was ordained by the Union of the Armenian Evangelical Churches of the Near East as the Pastor of the Armenian Evangelical Church of Anjar.

When the Hilfsbund Mission transferred its work in Anjar and the surrounding area to the Armenian Evangelical Union of the Near East in 1976, Rev. Sarmazian’s responsibilities grew exponentially. It included the Directorship of the K-12 School, which included a large boarding population, teaching Armenian and religion courses, Presidency of the School Board of Majdal, whose students were Muslims, and overseeing and helping the Armenian refugees who escaped from Beirut during the 16 year long Civil War.

In December 1990, Rev. Sarmazian, his wife, two sons and a daughter moved to Canada to serve the Armenian Evangelical Church of Cambridge, Ontario. In November 2002, the family lost their mother and great supporter to illness. After 50 years of faithful service, Rev. Sarmazian officially retired from this Church as of January 2018, but continues to serve when called upon. He enjoys the company of his children and four grandchildren. He has written many short stories, sermons and articles on various topics. He has published three books:. A Play on Mousa Dagh Events of 1915, A Guide Book for the Christian Armenian Family, and Short Stories About Life in a Kessab Village.

The boy who walked 14 km to school continues his journey in the service of His Lord and his people.”

Rev. Hovhannes Sarmazian interment took place on Wednesday June 17, 2020. The service was held in the Toronto Armenian Evangecal Church. It had been Badveli’s wish that his burial services be attended by the immediate family members. Given the times it was an appropriate request.

Donations in his memory in lieu of flowers may be made in support of Armenians in Lebanon, in Anjar or in Kessab and may be posted electronically at aec.cambridge@gmail.com or the checks mailed to the following address.
Armenian Evangelical Church of Cambridge
1620 Franklin Blvd
Cambridge, ON
N3C 1P2
Canada

 

Some pictures:

http://vhapelian.blogspot.com/2020/01/our-house-in-canada.html

 

Our House in Canada

Translated and abridged by Vahe H. Apelian, February 2016

Rev. Hovhannes Sarmazian is the retired (2019) Pastor of the Armenian Evangelical Church in Cambridge, Canada, where he pastored since 1990. Formerly he was a teacher and a pastor of the Armenian Evangelical Church in Anjar. He was also the principle of the Kessab Educational Association’s evening school in Lebanon during his study for ministry in the Near East School of Theology (NEST). The attached piece is from his book “Can The Land Be Sold?” (Հողը կը Ծախուի՞)  published in 2006). 

( http://vhapelian.blogspot.com/search?q=rev+sarmazian )

Our House in Canada

"After long family discussions and arguments, last October finally we also got a house in Canada. Our house now has its owner, its own address and its unique telephone number. Our children are very happy as if they achieved a victory. They also seem to be a bit proud of their new house. Enthused they call friends a little bit everywhere and herald to them the news of their new house and invite them to come and see their new residence.

Buying a house had become an issue of contention lately in our family and cause for frequent arguments. My elder son who has an aptitude for mathematics had always tried to convince me of the benefits of buying a house citing figures and letting me know how beneficial purchasing a house can be over renting one.

- “Instead of wasting your money paying rent, you can allocate the same amount towards a mortgage and years later the house will be yours.”  My son used to tell me confidently. His sister and brother would join to confirm his saying. I, on the other hand, with my Middle Eastern mentality, used to ask myself,

- “Am I going to go in hundreds of thousands debt? That is not possible. In a situation like that I would lose my sleep during the nights. No, that’s impossible. It is not possible to buy a house when there is no available money for it”, would be my conclusion.

After all this commotion, I would look forward sitting in front of our television during the weekends and enjoy the Armenian “New Horizon” program. During airing of the program, a spokesperson from an agency that deals with buying and selling properties would invariably appear announcing in support of my children.

- “Are you tired of paying rent? Do you know how easy it is to become the owner of your own house? To know how we can be of help to you, call us”.

And then their business address and their telephone number would appear on the screen.

- “Let us take Dad to the office of the real estate agency, and ask him to stay there until evening so that he will come to realize how beneficial is buying a house instead of renting one”, used to say my daughter to her two brothers.

It is fair that I confess that as a student I also have been pretty good in the subject of mathematics. However, I have not been “open-eyed” when it came to matters of buying and selling. That is why I have always felt that people can easily take advantage of me and thus be able to sell me something they have set at a higher price than it is actually worth.

Finally, being left on my own in my viewpoint, I accepted my defeat and gave in enabling us to get a house for our own. Admittedly our new house is a pretty house with an appealing front yard laden with flowers and a fenced backyard filled with newly planted fruit bearing trees. With its garage and neatly arranged rooms, it is a very livable house. Everything pertaining to the house has been thoughtfully planned.

The previous owner was a former villager from Portugal who is now engaged in construction. What struck me odd is the following: after living in the house for the previous five years and with his own efforts planting the flowers and fruit bearing trees, with total ease and a little bit happy and without showing the slightest sentiments, handed us the keys of the house and walked down the streets during the sunset hours. For a brief moment I wondered if I was deceived this time around too. Why would the man look so happy for having sold his house?

Why should I lie, lest I sin? For some time my old car remained idle on the street as it was not operational any more. Three months ago, abiding to the order of the municipality, I called a special agency to tow it away. When they came and tied our old car to their special truck and started hauling it away like the carcass of a dead domestic animal, for a brief moment I followed them and then suddenly an overwhelming sadness overtook me. That iron thing without a soul had been my companion for many years and had served me well. How was it that the Portuguese villager could let go of the house he had tended with his own hands and without slightest emotion hand us the keys and walk away without even taking one last glance?

*****

1. Sarmzian's house. 2. The village school

We are already in our new house. My children are happy and negotiate among themselves as who would occupy which room. Household utensils, furniture, personal items are being placed in their proper spots.

Everyone in the family appears to be happy and enthusiastic. I also am happy to a certain extent. But the source of my happiness is not the house but the result of my children’s happiness. I have to confess that our new house in Canada does not lift my spirits. I do not know why I do not feel at home in the beautiful and comfortable house. It is not because I have accumulated debt that will take years to pay. Some inexplicable, mysterious and mystifying feeling keeps me from embracing without reservation our new house. I liken myself to the young village migrant in the big city who after leaving his first love back in the village, marries maybe a more beautiful but nonetheless a strange city girl.

Why is it that everything appears to be artificial and illusory to me in this remote land? These thoughts take me to a distant place, at the northwestern corner of Syria, to Kessab where, at the foot of the Seldran mountain, there is a small Armenian village called Baghjaghaz and to a small house in that village. That small house is our ancestral house. It is modest but entirely and really ours. My grandfather had built it with his hands.

In 1909, during the Adana Massacres, marauding Turkish mobs sacked and torched also Kessab and its surrounding villages. My grandfather returned to his demolished ancestral home once more, and with a renewed faith and with an Armenian stubbornness, had cut the huge pine tree in its yard and from whose trunk and thick branches he had fashioned logs and wood panels to build our house anew.

My father tended the house every fall and did the repairs so that its earth-covered roof and its thick stone-walls would stand the fury of winter rain and snow. I remember the blue stone quarry not far from our village. We called the blue stones Kuyruk. Every autumn the able-bodied men of the village would go to the quarry and bring the blue stones and lay them over the roofs and then go over them with large stone-rollers to crush and pack them on the rooftop against the rain.

Our Bagjaghaz house had history as to who was the carpenter who made the wooden windows and its shutters and who was the master mason who had laid down its thick wall and layered it with kirej - a special cementing material the villagers prepared. My father would tell us such things about the house with supreme patience.

The wooden logs supporting the roof extended approximately a foot or so beyond the walls. Over the extension stones were placed to contain the blue crushed stones on the rooftops. At times the stones from the perimeter of our roof would fall casting the image of an old person some of whose front teeth are missing. Below these stones, along one of the walls, three chicken coops were placed for the hens to lay their eggs. It was so pleasant to hear the hens vocalizing after laying their eggs and expecting my mother to offer them extra feed.

It is not possible not to remember the mulberry tree in our courtyard. In the evenings Uncle Elesha would come and lean against the trunk of the tree while holding his pipe and waiting for my father to step out of the house to chat under the moonlight of bygone days.

Our house consisted of two rooms. One was at ground level and was used as the stable. The other room was over the stable. On a June day I was born in a corner of its wooden floor without the assistance of a nurse or a medical doctor. Our unschooled but expert midwife Hannoush Nanar (grandma) had helped my mother give birth.

My mother would tell of the episode as if it was a fairly tale. “It was in late June; the fruits of the apricot tree in our yard had barely started ripening. It was harvest time and all of us had gone to the fields. I started feeling not well. I came home early and had people summon Hannoush Nanar. That evening, before sunset, you were born.”

Our ancestral home in the village, where I have first opened my eyes and uttered my first cry has anchored an unbreakable bond in me. I maintain a spiritual connection with its stones, wooden logs, and its cozy hearth however inanimate objects they are. I realize that the residence that resonates the most sentiments in the person is one’s ancestral home where the person is born and raised.

I liken myself to the restless lad in the poem who ventured out of their modest home at the foot of the hill, next to a creek in search of better accommodation. He went onto the world and saw many large and beautiful houses but in each one of them he found something amiss and longingly returned to his modest home at the foot of the hill, next to the creek.

And now in our new and beautiful house in Canada, I do not know why, I feel a stranger. I wonder why my joy is not genuine and unbound? Why is that, things on these Western shores appear alien to me? When? Why? And how is that I lost my ability to acculturate anew?

I direct my thoughts to our ancestral home in the village and wonder; what is that it is so magnetic and so profound that continues to attract me to it even half a century later? Small memories from my ancestral home continue to stir emotions in me and I revert to that little child I was who recited the poem proclaiming the sweetness of his home.  " 

*****

Ամէնից Լաւ Տունը

Էնտեղ, ուր հովը խաղում է ազատ

Ու ջուրն աղմկում, անվերջ փըրփըրում,

Էնտեղ իր բարի, իր սիրող մոր հետ

Մի շատ անհանգիստ տղա էր ապրում,

Մի գորշ խրճիթում,

Մի հին խրճիթում,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին։

 

Մի օր էլ եկավ անհանգիստ տղան,

Կանգնեց իր բարի, իր սիրող մոր դեմ.

«Մայրիկ, էստեղից պետք է հեռանամ.

Միակ ձանձրալի տեղը, որ գիտեմ,

Էս գորշ խրճիթն է,

Էս հին խրճիթն է,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին։

 

Թո՛ղ գնամ շրջեմ աշխարհից աշխարհ,

Ճամփորդեմ լավ-լավ տներ տեսնելու,

Ամենից լավը ընտրեմ մեզ համար,

Գամ քեզ էլ առնեմ ու փախչենք հեռու

Էս գորշ խրճիթից,

Էս հին խրճիթից,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին»։

 

Ու գնաց, երկար թափառեց տղան,

Մեծ ու հոյակապ շատ տներ տեսավ,

Բայց միշտ, ամեն տեղ պակաս Էր մի բան…

Ու հառաչելով ետ վերադարձավ

Էն գորշ խրճիթը,

Էն հին խրճիթը,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին։

 

«Գտա՞ր, զավա՛կս», հարցրեց մայրը,

Ուրախ, նայելով իր տղի վըրա։

«Ման եկա, մայրի՛կ, աշխարհից աշխարհ,

Ամենից սիրուն, լավ տունը, որ կա,

Էս գորշ խրճիթն է,

Էս հին խրճիթն Է,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին»։

 

Յովհաննէս Թումանեան