Unforgettable Mukhtar Nshan
In memory of Khachig and Garo Apelian
Vahe H. Apelian, 10 December 2011
Kessab
was literally a world onto its own when I spent my youthful summers there. Its
umbilical chord to the world beyond was the one thoroughfare that the French,
the once colonial power over Syria, had laid down sometime in late 1920s or early
'30s. The thoroughfare snaked its way from Lattakia and passed through its
north-westernmost point of Kessab onto Turkey. The Kessabtsis referred to it as
the “Zifton jampa”, which means the asphalt road. Cars veering their way from that artery to the dirt roads of the
villages were a rarity then. Living in Kessab in those years and its subsequent
evolution into the recent bustling summer resort, may very well be indicative
of the way life would have been and evolved on that Mediterranean coastal prime
real estate we left behind. We call it Kilikia – Կիլիկիա - the Armenian Cilicia, whose
longing in earnest constitutes the central theme of the Catholicosate of
Cilicia’s anthem.
Through
the passing years in and out of Keurkune I came to know or know of four mukhtars of the village. All
of them hailed from the Apelian family. However, Mukhtar Nshan, known to us
then as Mukhtar Baboug, was the gentle giant for us youngsters. He will always
remain etched in my memory. The three subsequent mukhtars of the village are
related to him in one way or another. Baboug and Naner are affectionate
Kessabtsi terms for grandpa and grandma.
Mukhtar
is an Arabic word and it means chosen. However, it seems the name has acquired
official status during the Ottoman Empire as the representative of the village
and the host to the visiting dignitaries. Its very name indicates that the
mukhtars are elected to their office. However for all I know, the mukhtars of
Keurkune have not been elected by balloting but by a participatory consensus.
Rev. Garabed Tilkian in his book titled Kessab from 1846 to 1945 indicates that Nshan Apelian
had been the Mukhtar of Keurkune since 1932, having taken over the mantle from
his deceased brother Garabed, who prominently stands as a member of the post 1909 massacre salvation committee (third from right on third row).
We, the youngsters, spending our carefree summers in Keurkune, were the heralds of the generation known in the West as baby boomers born on and onward 1946. By the time we started being aware and know those around us, we had already learned that Mukhtar Baboug and his wife Anna Naner had lost their only child during the Genocide. After their return, Mukhtar Baboug had embarked on search trips tracking back their caravan route into the interior of Syria looking for the son he had lost. George Apelian narrates Mukhtar Nshan’s poignant search for his lost son Khachig in his “Martyrdom for Life” Armenian book.
Keurkune - Kessab
Few
steps separated Mukhtar Nshan’s house from my maternal grandmother’s house, in
that cluster of Apelian households in the village up the hill. My maternal
grandmother, Karoun Chelebian, was also born into Apelian family and had moved
into her parental vacant house after her marriage to Khatcher in 1918 on their
return from their 1915 ordeal. My mother has told me that for
years, while she was growing up, during the Christmas and Easter celebrations, Anna nanar would tidy their house,
make up the bed for her lost son and assume and radiate an air of
self-deceptive optimism that her son’s coming home is imminent. By the
time I got to know them, both Mukhtar Nshan and his wife Anna seemed to have
long given up on the hope of ever seeing their son and only child again and lived
quietly. We would always find them together. In their old age they always did
things together with a slow motion that inevitably comes with advancing age.
Mukhtar baboug and Anna naner lived out of their land. During the summer, they would
leave their house in Keurkune and move to the village below, Douzaghadj, where they would put a hut.
Intertwined Kessab native himka evergreen bush stalks, tree branches and leaves tightly covered
the hut. In the hut they had their bedding, cushions and few utensils where
they cooked their meals over fire made from dry woods fetched from nearby. I
had been in that hut with my uncle Joseph. Our paternal grandfather’s land was on the
other side of the brook that halved Douzaghadj. Coziness and warmth emanated in that bare hut that filled the
air. Since then I also have had occasions of staying in lush hotel rooms and
sat in well-furnished living or guest rooms but I cannot say that their
hut was any less comfortable. It definitely remains the more memorable. Mukhtar
Nshan’s nephew Hrant, wife Sara, their son Garbis and their four daughters
lived also in Douzaghadj during the summer. The family tended their apple orchard that was
adjacent to Mukhtar baboug’s land and kept a caring watch over the aging
couple.
Mukhtar
Nshan and his wife Anna, who was also endearingly called Mukhtar nanar, may have had good reasons to be hopeful and optimistic
in their old age. They had made a pact with Nshan’s nephew Hrant and his wife Sara. Should
they ever have another son and named him after their lost son, they would pass
on their land holdings on to him. Indeed Hrant and Sarah became blessed with another
son whom they named Khachig.
Mukhtar baboug passed away not long after. In time Khachig grew up into a fine and
handsome young man and got married. In the later part of December 1988, Khachig,
an expectant father for his first child, a daughter to be Tamar, took leave of
his pregnant wife in her first trimester of pregnancy and joined a hunting
party from the village for a very early dawn to dusk boar hunting excursion.
During the hunt, in the twilight of the early morning, he was mistakedly fatally shot. The
news of this tragic accident arrived to the village along with the
news of my brother’s untimely death in America having succumbed to his illness. It was customary whenever a member of that
age-old village passed away, wherever that might have been, the bells of the church tolled to break the news. This time around it was Steve, my paternal cousin, who rang
the church’s bell and broke the news of the untimely deaths of these two young
men in the prime of their lives. They were friends.
I
have not visited the village for decades. However, I know that one day when I
do and head to the church, I will face its facade renovated in memory of Khachig
Apelian. He is buried ancient cemetery where Mukhtar Nshan and his
wife Anna are also buried. His tombstone reads:
Աստ Հանգչի Խաչիկ Աբէլեան
(Here rests Khachig Apelian)
Ծն. Քէորքունա. 1958-1988
(Born in Keurkune, 1958-1988)
Կեանքս Էր բուրումնալի
(My life was sweet-smelling)
Վար յոյսերռվ հիանալի
(Full of marvellous hopes)
Անգութ արկածն բեկանեց
(The cruel accident ended)
Գարուն կեանքս խաբանեց
(Put an end to my life in its spring)
Բարեկամներ,
(Friends,)
Գիտցէք արժէքը կեանքին
(Know the value of life)
Ապրեցէք յոյսով, սիրով լի
(Live full of hope and love)
