Keghart: How imbecile can a people be?

Vahe H Apelian

Courtesy Keghart.com 

I owe my blogging to Kehart.com (henceforth Keghart). I made my foray in “writing” to keghart and found it cathartic. For a while I was a regular contributor there. From there I transitioned to my blog. I feel much more comfortable being a blogger of my blog than assuming hefty terms such as “writer”, “editor”, ‘analyst”, “activist”, "Publisher:",  etc.. My blog and my blogging remind me of the eminent writers Simon Simonian and Antranig Zarougian who, against all odds, managed to have their own voice through their own journals they published. “Spurk” Weekly in case of Simonian and “Nairi” weekly in case of Zarougian. Technology has enabled me to have my forum at my fingertips, through my blog whose reaches at times surprise my imagination that it can go that far onto this world,

After going through changes, I read that recently an anonymous group, who for reasons of their own apparently do not trust the public to know their names. They prefer to be called “Friends of Keghart” and post in anonymity. These friends have come together and apparently put their financial resources together and assured the financial well-being of the online journal. But in the process have seized the online journal and set it on a deteriorating course. The one who pays, plays the duduke, say a Turkish saying.  But Keghart continues to note that it allegedly continues to be a “non-partisan website devoted to Armenian affairs, human rights and democracy.”

Obviously, the friends of keghart have found that democracy has its own tempo that surely has disturbed the friends of keghart, who have taken upon themselves to present the “blunders” of the Nikol Pashinyan (NP). They began by posting the “thirty-three” blunders of Pashinyan and assured the readers that they remain vigilant counting as others are surely on their way. They depicted Nikol Pashinyan - posted above as a nasty looking man wearing a Turkish fez and a strange and a scary looking coat where “creeping crawlers” have weaved a network of some sort. Surely, the readers need not read the 33 blunders. The sum total of their message is visibly present if they can stand looking friends of keghart’s depiction of the PM of Armenia.

The barrage of the assault does not end with the 33 blunders. It could be that the number of blunders, by design and not by a heavenly providence, add to the same number of years that Jesus lived on this earth as he was crucified. In NP’s case there does not appear a Pontius Pilate among the friends of Keghart, who surely have not washed their hands. They leave the impression that they would feel contend that the thrice democratically elected PM of Armenia is crucified. There is not a single “non-blunder” that the friends of Keghart list, to give some a modicum of the benefit of doubt. 

Obviously, Dikran Abrahamian from Canadas, has given his blessings to see the crucification takes its course and Armenians, even those in Diaspora who did not - as they are not entitled to vote but can vote for Trudeau, in case of the Canadian Armenians to whom Keghart owes, its existence - to elect the PM of Armenia, see that NP take his last breath. Surely, no rupture will happen in the world. But the friends of keghart will surely vie to thrust their spear to see if the body is truly lifeless or not, for they espouse a new vision. 

Their vision is “Wilsonian Armenia PLUS”. Their cartographer, with a few strokes of pen and coloring of the map of the region has invited Armenians to put their act together “to recover Artsakh and Western Armenia”. They even placed President Wilson's face, in an impressive colored montage, without securing permission from the Wilsonian estate, whether the good president would have wanted to look endorsing his ever expanding Wilsonian map. I wonder if Dikran and most of the Keghart's readers have set foot in Artsakh and Western Armenia. I am implying set foot as sight-seeing tourists and not on a mission to recover the lands we lost. 

Courtesy Keghart.com

Surely Keghart’s vision is the liberation of Western Armenia and to annex it to the 29,800 square km Soviet Armenia handout as the present Republic of Armenia, which keghart deems secure and dominant. But Keghart has done away with the Western Armenian orthography, even though it vows to recover its real estate. I do not get the impression Keghart advocates a free Western Armenia, next to an Eastern Armenia. Two of each is very Armenian. 

"Wake up” says its most recent editorial. It says, rightly, the final decision is for the citizens Republic of Armenia to make. It writes, “Արթնացե՛ք՛ վճռական որոշուշումը ՀՀ-ի ժողովրդինն է». But not in the Western Mesrobian Armenian orthography. Simply because the title is not quite spelled like that in Western Armenian. In the accompanying cartoon, there is an Armenian spelled Turkish sounding word. It sounds strange to me. It sounds more Eastern Armenian and does not seem to sound the Turkish word . Does anyone know what “ղարտաշ» (ghardash) mean? At least, I can credit keghart that it acknowledges that there are bulls in the region.

But I remain grateful to Keghart not only for letting me start posting there but also for introducing me to a young journalist named Nikol Pashinyan. I had not heard the young journalist’s name before. I was surprised to find out that at the young age of 24 or so he had become an influential editor.

I quote what keghart posted on November 27, 2010

“27 November 2010

We, Armenians living in the Diaspora and our non-Armenian friends, are deeply concerned in the imprisonment of Nikol Pashinyan, editor-in-chief of Haykakan Zhamanak (“Armenian Time”) daily in Armenia, and his treatment in jail. While Mr. Pashinyan’s voluntary surrender to law enforcement agencies should have been duly noted by the Armenian authorities, the veteran journalist has experienced coercion behind bars. We attest that these reprehensible acts of the authorities–aimed at silencing Mr. Pashinyan and punishing him for his political views–will have the opposite outcome, making the editor’s voice heard more forcefully in Armenia and in the Diaspora. Deeply concerned with the treatment of the journalist, we are following the “judicial process” with vigilance, hoping that he will be released soon. Meanwhile, we demand that the Armenian authorities put an end to the unlawful acts against him and ensure his security.”

The rest is history. 

Surely the friends of keghart do not need to retain similar attitudes towards the journalist. But for God’s sake, are there not a few “non-blunders that the trice elected PM may have contributed to his native land?. Does not the appearance of impartiality dictate so? 

Apparently not for the friends of keghart.  It is all “doom and gloom” the friends of keghart claim, the voters of Armenia have brought upon themselves, not once, not twice but three times. 

Go and figure that out. How imbecile can a people be?

p.s. Edited for typos and spelling errors. VHA 

 

Archbishop Mesrob Ashjian and Mughni

 Vahe H Apelian 

I recently purchased from the Eastern Armenian Prelacy bookstore “Living Faith: The Life & Service of Archbishop Mesrob Asjhjian.” The book is edited by Iris Papazian. 

The book fits the description for a coffee table book whose “Pages consist mainly of photographs and illustrations, accompanied by captions and small blocks of text, as opposed to long prose. Since they are aimed at anyone who might pick up the book for a light read, the analysis inside is often more basic and with less jargon than other books on the subject.”

I knew of the archbishop from my days in Lebanon. He taught us religion in my elementary schooling at Sourp Nshan school. He was a graduate of the same school. I have no recollection of him at the school given that he was older than I. His sister Hripsime was a classmate. 

I emigrated to the U.S. in 1976, when Karekin I Sarkissian, the Catholicos of All Armenians, was the prelate of the Eastern Prelacy. In 1978, archbishop Mesrob Ashjian arrived to the U.S. as the newly appointed prelate. I met him in New York and for a while worked with him organizing exhibitions he put together and as the representative of the Land and Culture Organization, a French based organization that did renovations in Armenian communities including in Kessab.

The archbishop moved to Armenia in 1998. My job had moved me and our family from NJ to mid-west in 1995, to Cincinnati, OH where we would remain for the next almost quarter of a century, 

Reading the book, I came to learn the wonderful services Srpazan Mesrob rendered to the Armenian nation and church, well beyond and more than what I had imagined. The editor, Iris Papazian is related to him and met the archbishop when he came to the U.S. to study in Princeton. She knew and worked with Archbishop Mesrob Ashjian for forty years. “Twenty of those years, from 1978 to 1998, I worked with him on nearly every event the Prelacy sponsored, every press release and every publication issued. From 1998 to his death in December 2003, I continued to assist him in whatever capacity, but primarily in public relations and publications.” The book is a heartfelt rendering for documenting and preserving the legacy of the archbishop.

The cover of the book "Living Faith: The Life & Service of Archbishop Mesrob Ashjian

I associate Sprazan Ashjian to Mughni, a village in Armenia. I learned the name of the village from Archbishop’s writings and ever since I have remained captivated by that village in Armenia, where a friend moved from Canada and established residence. I also have wondered what attracted the Archbishop to Mughni. He had said that after his ecclesiastical duties were over, he wanted to lead a monastic life in Mughni and had expressed the same to the Catholicos Karekin I of All Armenians with whom he worked in organizing the 1700th anniversary of the Armenian Christendom. For which the Catholicos had responded that he too would like to lead a monastic life in Oshagan but they had tasks to fulfill.  

Unfortunately, I did not find out how Srpazan Mesrob came to learn about Mughni and remained attracted to Mughni. But it becomes obvious Mughni had been in his mind all along. Iris wrote noting that “in order to continue his many charitable endeavors in Armenia, Srpazan established St. George Charitable Fund. Wikipedia notes that “Mughni is renowned for housing the 14^th-century Saint Kevork (George) Monastery.” In the November 22, 2000 issue of Asbarez daily, we read about the “rededication of St. George of Moughni Armenia”, that was set “to coincide with the feast of  St. George and it attracted many of the donors to this projej from New York-New Jersey-Providence-Los Angeles -Washington DC and other cities.” The dedication was officiated by Catholicos of All Armenians Karekin I Sarkissian  with Archbishop Ashjian taking part. The list of the donors is telling of the the of role of Srpazan has placed in the rededication. It is said that the monastery attracts young couples committing themselves to each other. 

Archbishop Mesrob was with the Catholicos Karekin I during the latter’s last days. Right after the Catholicos’s death, Archbishop  Ashjian eulogized him in a moving tribute that had remained etched in my memory and I had always wandered where the obituary would have been posted. I found the eulogy along with a few of his writings reproduced in the book. It is titled “The last day of Catholicos Karekin and his last days.” (Գարեգին վեհաբառին վերջին օրը եւ վերջին օրերը». There are few descriptive sentences that had remained etched in my memory. I found them there. I reread the all time moving eulogy of the last Catholicos, Archbishop Mesrob Ashjian wrote so poignangtly  as well as insightfully. 

Srpazan was a gifted writer and narrator since his early days and personally appreciative of those who helped the Armenians survive. He wrote. “It was my pleasure in the last two year to meet him (Bayard Dodge) and relive with him the period when caravans of destitute Armenians would arrive and find shelter in orphanages”, wrote Srpazan in Simon Simonian’s “Spurk” weekly on December 31, 1972, paying homage to the Bayard Dodge.   After moving to Armenia and assuming the responsibility of organizing the observation of the 1700^th anniversary of the Armenian Christendom and doing his charitable works,, “his own support of books and publications continued unabated” wrote Iris Papazian and noted that Srpazan established “Moughni Publishers”. He is the author of many books

“Mesrob Srpazan died on the evening of December 2, 2003, in the lobby of Plaza Hotel where he was to meet friends” wrote Iris Papazian. “Archbishop Oshagan accompanied the remains of the late Archbishop to Lebanon where in accordance with Mesrob Srpazan’s expressed wishes he was placed in the Mausoleum of the Catholicosate of Cilicia.” 

The statue of Archbishop Mesrob Ashjian
Courtesy Harout Kalaydjian, Mughni, Armenia

But, I may sat that his spirit lives more in Mughni, Armenia than anywhere else. “I do not want to be seen as a member of this or that brotherhood or catholicate, but as a servant of God and of the Armenian Apostolic church”, he had said once.  His statue in Mughni / Moughni depicting him as a lone clergyman holding a cross and facing the winds, can be said that embodies the very image by which Srpazan Ashjian would have wanted to be remembered and now it is where he wanted to be, Mughni.

Iris Papazian, as the editor made the "Life & Services of Archbishop Mesrob Ashjian" come live in this highly readable book she ably edited. 

Pakine 60th Anniversary:: A voice from the Diaspora - 1 -

Vahe H. Apelian

 

“In the history of our literature, especially in circumstances that do not bestow the backing of a state, sixty years is a long time for a literary periodical. Pakine’s 60 years coincides with an opportune period of that history, when our nation was budding again in the different conditions of the Middle East and the literary tradition was living the beautiful days of its flowering which were characterized a little everywhere, especially in Beirut.” (Pakin 60^th anniversary issue).

Yesterday or the day before it, I received the special edition of the Pakine Armenian literary periodical. It seemed it was mailed from Beirut. This special edition of Pakine (which means alter), turns of to be a roster of pieces from 60 of those who have contributed to the eminent literary magazine during its 60 years of existence. Surely, the sixty writers who were selected to have a sample of their literary work placed in the 60^th anniversary commemorative edition of Pakine, were not all who contributed. I know that my cousin Ara Apelian MD, during his medical studies, contributed to the magazine regularly but for a brief period of time.  

The editors in their introduction - the customary “Two Words – Yergou khosk” - outlined the what were the considerations that drove them to select pieces from the sixty of the contributors to the Pakine. The earliest piece in the commemorative issue, appeared in in 1962, the latest in 2022. Consequently, almost all of the sixty years of Pakine’s existence is adequately presented to the readers. The selected pieces do not seem to have been included in a chronological order, or apparently in any order, other than maybe giving priority to the prominent well known established writers and regular contributors.

The editorial staff rightfully notes that it has no illusion to consider this special issue a bouquet of the Diaspora literature. The special issue is anthology of literary pieces published in Pakine during its sixty years of existence.  The editorial notes that the founding of Pakine periodical came about in an opportune time when the Armenian literature was budding again in foreign lands, such as in Middle East, America and in Europe, but especially in Beirut. Along with  Pakine there were other literary magazines as well in Beirut, such as Antranig Zarougian’s “Nairi”weekly, Simon Simonian’s “Spurk”Weekly, “Chanasser” of the Armenian Evangelical community and for a few years “Ahegan”, an independent literary periodical for an  avant-garde, if I may say so, community of writers. “Pakine” and “Chanasser” have endured, the rest have not.

Pakine, for me, distinguishes itself by its hallmark as the eminent forum of Armenian lettered literature. There was a time when I regarded Pakine as THE eminent voice of Diaspora Armenian literature. Pakine now is a voice of the Diaspora Armenian literature. During the last few decades non-Armenian scripted, mostly Latin lettered Armenian literature, has colored the Armenian Diaspora literature. That trend will continue. With language, inevitably different mindsets come about. It is undisputed that language influences thinking, norms and values. After the second world war, the young and upcoming Japanese seemed to espouse western social values when responding to an English language questionnaire. But a statistically similar group of young Japanese seemed to uphold to traditional Japanese socially conservative leaning norms, when they were similarly tested to the same questionnaires in Japanese. 

Recently, I read a remarkable and uniquely readable book titled “We Are All Armenian – Voices from the Diaspora”. The book presented literary pieces of eighteen Armenian American authors whose native language of expression is English. The book is ably edited by Aram Mrjoian, who claims, “My name, yes, is Armenian. My heritage, yes, is Armenian, But I don’t speak the language. I don’t attend the church. I’ve never spent much time in Armenian communities. I’ve never traveled back to the land of my ancestors.  I am still constantly learning the basics of diasporan Armenian culture, feeling simultaneously distant from and near to this part of who I am.” But Aram Mrjoian edited one of the most captivating books I am reading.

Reading about the authors I also came to learn of an “International Armenian Literary Alliance” (IALA) that “supports and celebrates writers by fostering the development and distribution of Armenian literature in the English language.”

The visualization of the Armenian literature naturally is not what it was when Pakine was founded in 1962. One of its founders Yetvart Boyadjian was our Armenian language teacher in Sourp Nshan Armenian school during the years I attended it. I have no recollection of having any other Armenian language teacher up to my graduation in 1962, the year Pakine was founded.

Life goes on, Diaspora evolves, so does the Armenian literature. Pakine may continue to remain steadfast on its mission as the premier Armenian lettered literary magazine perpetuating the vision of its founders. It may continue to be the forum where the young and upcoming Armenian Diaspora writers, aspiring to make inroad in Diaspora Armenian lettered literature, would look forward having their literary work published in Pakine, for charting their course in Armenian literature.

 

An Ourish Er; He Was Different

 Attached is my translation of Simon Simonian’s poignant story about his mother. The story is titled "He Was Different" - "An Ourish Er - Ան Ուրիշ Էր. The story  appeared in his Simon Simonian's book titled  "The Mountaineers' Twilight” - “Լեռնականներու Վերջալոյսը”. Vahe H. Apelian

Bédo was my mother’s first husband and my father’s bosom friend. My father and Bédo had worked together in the same mill. After Bedo’s death my father married his wife, my mother.

After his death, Bédo has continued living in our house and continues to live as a husband, as a father and as a friend, but as a foe of a friend. My father, who had loved him as a brother, is the only one who is discontented with Bédo coming back to life. His animosity started after Bédo’s interment. I remember well, during my childhood, every time there was bad feeling between my mother and my father, the person responsible for the trouble was Bédo who worked in mysterious ways after his death much like all the great souls, saints and heroes do after their deaths.

Bédo was not a saint or a hero. He was a mere Sassountsi from the Dalvorig village. He was the son of an ironsmith. His father had worked in the Dalvorig mines extracting iron from the rock veins and melting it to make plows, hatchets, shovels, pickaxes, and rifles. The guns were muzzle type with which he, his brothers and the villagers had defended themselves against attacks by Kurds and Turks. The leaders of the Armenians were Mourad (Hampartsoum Boyandjian), Mihran Damadian, “Baron” Vahan, Kevork Chavoush and other luminaries of the time. It is in honor of Bédo’s father and his comrades that the once popular patriotic song, “I am a Brave Son of Dalvorig”, was sung.

At twenty Bédo had left Sassoun and after working in mills, had settled in Aintab much like many Sassountsis. At twenty-five, he had married my mother Ménnoush who was barely eighteen then. Bédo, a handsome, brave young man, had captivated my mother’s heart.

“Mother, was Bédo handsome?” I used to ask my mother in my childhood as she recounted stories about him.

“There was no other like him,” my mother would say and continue: “He had dark eyebrows and moustache; a handsome posture, a proportioned face. He dressed like a bég. All the girls in our town noted his manly handsomeness. Lucky you, the women would tell me…..”

To validate her description, she would open her old chest, the dowry chest, which along with her and much like her, was becoming a worn down witness of old and happy days. From underneath the moth laden, malodorous, dark blue, apricot and pearl-colored worn out clothes, she would pull out her photo bundle, unwrap its silky shroud and hand to me her wedding picture so that I would look at Bédo, her Bédo.

My mother’s recollection would fill my soul with fascination towards the man who had once been my mother’s husband. To further stress so that I would not waver from the impression I harbored of the dead man, my mother would add: “In this picture he does not look as handsome as he was. Hey, bygone days. We took this picture in haste. He had just returned from the mill and was covered with flour all over. The neighbors were having their pictures taken. In our days, women did not go to the photographer’s shop. We had this picture taken on the spur of that very moment because he refused to change his clothes”

At times, during these mysterious viewing sessions, my father would happen to suddenly step in the house. My mother, with tears still in her eyes, would wrap the picture and place it back. My father, silent and sad, would sit at a corner and inhale the smoke from his cigarette more deeply than usual. My father’s sad silence would last for days, sometimes for even weeks during which time he would not speak with my mother. That absent person beyond the grave thus caused a lot of heartache between my father and my mother. My father’s sadness, my mother’s tears and the omnipresence of the departed would fill my childhood soul with an unexplainable mystery.

During winter, whenever my father would be absent for months on end working in the mills, my mother would sit around the oven area during the evenings and tell us about Bédo who had told her father “let your ‘yes’ not be a ‘no’”. After long deliberation, her father had consented to give his daughter away in marriage to Bédo. After their engagement, during which they had seen each other only once, seven years of blissful marriage followed.

“He was an out of the ordinary man”, my mother would tell us;  “whenever he missed home, whether there was snow or blizzard, he would walk for four hours in the cold of the night just to come home.”

Of course my mother was the repository of his joy. They thus lived happily but without a child. My mother had believed that on the seventh year of their marriage, she would conceive and carry his child. The seventh year brought with it the unexpected, Bédo’s sudden death in the mill during work. There is no need to visualize my mother’s torment and agony. My mother would recount his elaborate funeral procession and the overwhelming sadness among the Sassountsis and would particularly emphasize my father’s inconsolable lament over the loss of his bosom friend. Time did not heal my mother’s wounds. There had remained only one thing for my mother, visiting her husband’s gravesite even in the dead of the winter.

“I remember well,” my mother would say. “It was Vartanants Day and I needed to visit his grave at any cost. Our cemetery did not have walls or guards. There was the fear of wolves. My mother was with me. As I was walking among the graves, suddenly Bédo appeared in front of me in the same dress we had him dressed for his interment. I froze. He looked at me and said, ‘return home and do not come here anymore’. My mother arrived and saw me standing still. I told her nothing about the occurrence. I grabbed her arm and we returned home. We had not reached Bédo’s grave yet. My mother remained perplexed.”.

That day became a turning point for my mother. From there on she found refuge in her needlework. From a whole year’s labor she raised enough funds to place a tombstone on Bedo’s grave, on which she had inscribed:

However, the thick tombstone with all its weight has not been able to contain Bédo’s heart that continues to live on this earth, that is to say, in my mother’s bosom.

A year passed. My father proposed to marry her. They got married. They started having children. My mother devoted herself to raising her children. But she never forgot her Bédo. The passing years and responsibilities crystallized Bédo’s love like a diamond that my mother keeps in her heart. In fact, it’s the only crystal she carries in her heart. She raised her children in memory of Bédo. My mother is convinced that we are Bedo’s children for, as a matter of fact, Bédo had appeared to her the day before her conception. Without the apparition of Bédo, she claimed, she had never conceived. Bédo had become our Holy Ghost

My mother had willed that when she died, she should be buried next to Bédo. However, her exile put an end to that vow. But my mother had taken another solemn vow that neither exile nor war or anything earthly would deter her from that solemn vow. In her after life she would be with her Bédo. My father knew about my mother’s alarming preference. That is why he remained melancholic the rest of his life. He knew that there was a fateful separation in store for him in afterlife.

My mother’s preference had me ponder. I have thought that her first love, Bédo’s handsomeness and bravery, the loss of her youthful happiness influenced her decision to make her preference known to us. But there was something different with my mother. Whenever I quizzed her, she would only say: "He was different.”

My mother admits that my father, her second husband, has been virtuous, God-fearing, good natured, just and has always treated her kindly. But all my father’s virtues have given way to the appeal of the deceased. My mother, in her essence, remains the spouse of the deceased. My father carries a wound that never healed because of my mother’s total devotion to Bédo. That is why his once bosom friend Bédo, has become his foe after his death for whom he can do no harm with his living self. The other, on the other hand, from the beyond, continues to aggravate my father on Earth.

We, the children, presented alternating stands towards our two fathers. In our childhood, through my mother’s tales, we deeply loved Bédo. When we grew older and realized our father’s pain, we sided with him and pounded Bédo, who through his interference from the world beyond, caused so much grief to our father. Our assault for a while bore fruits. Bédo’s downfall started. But we could never dethrone him for my mother continued to open her wooden chest, unwrap the bundle and with her fingers caress the pictures while murmuring softly “He was different.”

We ended our teens, rounded our twenties and became more mature. We ceased to side with either of my parents. It was the period of our neutrality. We let our mother receive her extraterrestrial visitor in our home and continue her affair with him. But we did not let her verbalize her preference to us.

There remains the last chapter for us that will start in the afterlife. We are sure that a separation will take place, our mother will re-join with her Bédo who is surely waiting impatiently for her. We will remain with our father. Separated from us, our mother will miss us. She will vacillate between her Bédo and us. She will want to join us with Bédo in a threesome arrangement of sorts. My father who despised the francophone triangle and the ghostly presence of Bédo will not want to have his erstwhile friend turn his foe in our midst. We, who were not accustomed to such things on Earth, will reject our mother’s proposition. With each passing day, our mother will miss us more and more. She will eventually concede, leave her Bédo behind and join us, and we will have our family anew.

                                                             *****

I wrote this piece after a long delay and reader be mindful that my mother is an old woman as I write about her Bédo. She has heard from my brothers that I write about Sassountsis. She confronted me once and said: “Son, let it not be that you write about Bédo. He was not like Mano or Magar. He was different…..”

Forgive me mother, for I wrote about your Bédo.”

 

 

The Unsung Hero of "The Lions of Marash": Antranig Chalabian

The first sentence of Dr. Stanley Kerr's acknowledgment in his book "The Lions of Marash" reads as follows: "Access to documents prepared nearly fifty years ago has enriched this volume. For cooperation in locating such material I wish to thank Mr. Antranig Chelebian.........I am indebted to Mr. Antranig Chelebian for translating into English practically all of the Armenian documents which appear in the text."

Antranig volunteering his cooperation to Dr. Stanley Kerr's endeavor,  culminated into friendship. When Antranig and his wife visited the United States, the Kerrs invited them as their two days overnight guests in their house in Princeton, NJ. All those who are interested as to how the discovery of those documents, young Stanley Kerr had prepared as a volunteer in the American Near East Relief, came about may read the link attached below.

It was indeed a historically serendipitous event.  I was a student in AUB then and I accompanied my uncle Antranig many times in search of references to supplement Dr. Stanley Kerr's research. I distinctly remember visiting Movses DerKaloustian in Anjar. I drove our family VW Beetle. Antranig did not own a car yet. I also remember us visiting Vahe Setian's extensive private library. Setian's office was not far from Hotel Lux, the inn my father ran on Allenby Street in down town Beirut.  Antranig Chalabian is indeed an unsung hero.

Only those who know the meticulous and fastidious Antranig Chelebian, whose daily washing his hands was akin to a surgeon cleansing his hands prior to surgery, and whose pursuit of Armenian history I find unmatched, may have an appreciation of the discovery that would result in the famous book and cement a lasting relations between the estimable Kerr family and the Armenian nation as a whole. 

Antranig Chalabian (Chelebian) was born in Keurkune, Kessab on March 11, 1922. As his name indicates, he was the firstborn son of Khatcher Chelebian and Karoun Apelian who were married in late 1918 in their makeshift camp in Deir Attiyeh, Syria on their way to their ancestral village having survived the horrid ordeals of the 1915 Armenian Genocide.

He and his siblings, Zvart, my mother, Hovhannes, and Anna were orphaned at their tender ages having lost their father on February 2, 1930, at the age of 38. Antranig was a brilliant student and remained so until the twilight of his later years. After graduating from the Armenian Evangelical School of Keurkune he was awarded a scholarship to continue his education at Aleppo College. He graduated with distinction and won the coveted Altounian Prize. After graduation, he taught in his former school in Kessab for one year then returned to Aleppo College where he taught English and mathematics to the middle school classes from 1945 to 1949.

In 1949 Antranig moved to Beirut where his family had settled four years earlier. He taught English for one year at the AGBU Hovagimian-Manouginan High School. He then took a position in the Physiology Department of the American University of Beirut (AUB), where he remained for twenty-seven years as a research assistant and physiology laboratory instructor to the medicine, pharmacy, and nursing students. During the last fourteen years in the American University of Beirut, he worked as a free-lance medical illustrator and calligrapher. He single-handedly illustrated three medical textbooks, countless research papers, and theses and calligraphed many medical school graduation diplomas. Meanwhile, he contributed articles to the Armenian Evangelical community’s periodical “Djanaser,” Simon Simonian’s weeklly “Spurk”, and Antranig Zarougian’s weekly “Nayiri”. 

In 1977 Antranig immigrated to the United States with his family and settled in Detroit where his paternal uncle Garabed (Charlie) had settled in the early 1920s having survived the Genocide. He assumed the position of Public Relations Director of the AGBU Alex Manougian School and continued to contribute articles to various Armenian periodicals. In 1984 he published his first bi-lingual book "General Antranik and the Armenian Revolutionary Movement". The book became an instant best seller and was printed in 75,000 copies in Armenia. He donated the proceeds from that print to the Karabagh freedom fighters. In 1989 the History Department of the University of Armenia invited him to defend his exhaustive historical study. Upon a successful defense, he was awarded a doctorate degree in history.  The book was later translated into Turkish and Spanish.

In 1991 Dr. Antranig Chalabian published his second book in Armenian titled, "Revolutionary Figures". Dr. Ara Avakian translated the book in English. In 1999 he published his third book, "Armenia After the Coming of Islam" in English. The book became a very popular reading and had two printings. In 2003 he published his fourth book in Armenian titled "Dro". The book traces the feats of the legendary Armenian freedom fighter, Trasdamat Ganayan. In a February 2006 letter, Dro's son Martin M. Kanayan of Spring TX, wrote to Antranig noting "Our entire family and our non-ideologue friends believe that your work on Dro has been the best and most accurate to date", and provided unpublished family stories. His son, Jack Chelebian M.D. included them in his translation of the book into English. In 2009 Indo-European Publishers printed the book. 

Dr. Antranig Chalabian was also an invited contributor to the internationally acclaimed "Military History Magazine" where he published articles dealing with Armenian history. Without any assistance, he prepared the print ready manuscripts of his books by typing them both in Armenian or in English, proofread them without resorting to spelling check, painstakingly prepared the indices and drew the maps that appear in his books. 

Before writing and publishing his books, Dr. Antranig Chalabian collaborated with Dr.Stanley Kerr after discovering Dr. Kerr’s personal notes in the attic of the Physiology Department. Dr. Stanley Kerr had moved to New Jersey after retiring in 1965 from his distinguished career as the Chairman of the Biochemistry Department of the American University of Beirut. However, he had left his notes behind assuming that the notes were long lost through the years. Stanley Kerr had kept his notes and taken hitherto unpublished pictures while serving in Near East Relief. In 1919 Stanley was transferred to Marash, in central Anatolia, where he headed the American relief operations. The outcome of their collaborative work was the publication of Dr. Stanley Kerr’s "The Lions of Marash" in 1973. The Kerrs hosted the Chalabians as their overnight houseguests during the latter visiting America in 1971.

While collaborating with Dr. Kerr, Henry Wilfrid Glockler, a one-time controller at AUB and a neighbor of the Kerrs in Princeton, entrusted Antranig Chalabian his personal memoirs. Chalabian edited the memoirs and had it published in Beirut in 1969 by Sevan Press. The book is titled "Interned in Turkey".  In private conversation, Antranig Chalabian noted that he heeded to Kersam Aharonian’s call in 1965 urging Armenians to encourage non-Armenian authors to publish about the Armenian Genocide. Kersam Aharonian is the late eminent editor of Zartonak Daily in Beirut.

Dr. Chalabian received numerous accolades and recognition. Armenian organizations in various states invited him to lecture. The mayor of Southfield designated in 2005 a day as Dr. Antranig Chelebian Day in recognition of his goodwill ambassadorship of the city through his readers worldwide. He continued to live in Southfield, MI with his wife Seran (Tootikian) who preceded him in death in 2010. In 1995, his compatriots, the Kessabtsis, honored him as a noted professional and dedicated the 2003 Edition of the Kessab Educational Association’s yearbook and directory in his honor.

My earliest childhood impression of my maternal uncle Antranig is vividly embedded in me when he interrupted an ongoing traditional Kessab circle dance during a festivity in Keurkune and took the guns away from two dancers who had joined the dance with their hunting guns dangling from their shoulders. I realize now that my very first childhood recollection of him was a reflection of his innate total aversion of guns and anything remotely violent and by the same token his instinctive appreciation of those who, as a last resort, resorted to the gun as Armenian freedom fighters. He made the preservation of their legacy his cause. Years earlier he prepared the graphical presentation of my first Master of Science thesis.

Antranig passed away on April 12, 2011. The Good Lord had bestowed upon him unusual talents, which he put in good use as an accomplished medical illustrator, calligrapher, cartographer, and historian, and foremost as a devout Armenian. He leaves behind a void and a legacy of extraordinary accomplishments. He exemplified the indomitable spirit of the first post Genocide generation who were mostly born to parents orphaned during the Genocide.

Courtesy Mike Apelian who said.  "I came accross  this picture  while visiting  
Haykaz Khederian and his wife Sirvart" Haykaz and Antranig were classmates
in Aleppo College. 

Link: https://vhapelian.blogspot.com/2021/07/antranig-chalabian-big-books-little.html

A language Beehive: Bourj Hamoud (3) -When customs started changing

My abridged translation of Armenag Yeghiayan’s sequel (Լեզուական Փեթակ՝ Պուրճ Համուտ -3-). The original is linked.  Vahe H Apelian

Courtesy Garo Konyalian

The popularity of Armenian songs did not silence the Turkish songs, nor curtail the Turkish language in Bourj Hamoud. There was still a long road ahead.

Turkish song records were a steady and inexhaustible source that found their ways into our social customs, especially during our feasts. I did not know who and from where these records were procured, much like I do not know who procures Turkish supplies or goods to the Nor Marash shops just before the holidays; you may even say during the 12 months of the year. These Turkish records were many, diverse and were very popular both for individuals and especially for banquets that did not have to wait for any special occasion to take place.

During those happy-go-lucky years in Lebanon, a few people in Bourj Hamoud always found an opportunity to buy one or two bottles of oghi and organize a party. Chikofta or khyma, shish kebab, along with other trimmings were no exceptions, giving a special flavor to these impromptu banquets. In the absence of records, which rarely happened, singers would emerge. They were crooners who volunteered their talents and who, after a few cups, would sing like nightingales and brighten up the colorful days of Bourj Hamoud. Along with the singers came the dancers, at time of both sexes, who after moving their feet while seating down to the song’s tempo, gave free rein to their legs and arms and joined the singers with boundless movements stirring the jealousy of those who remained seated savoring the food. 

Sometime later, television became common whose screens were flooded with Turkish film series, which the Armenian women adored

New phenomena appeared with time.

*****

One by one, Turkish pilgrims began to appear in our neighborhoods, who, on their way to Mecca for pilgrimage, came off the ship at the port of Beirut just to see the city. Some met old Armenian acquaintances and were hosted in their homes. On an occasion of such a hospitality, which I attended with my father in the house of one of our family friends, I saw a Turk for the first time. I was completely surprised to find out that he was an ordinary human creature like the rest of us. He also had two ears, two eyes and one nose. and a mouth, while I had a completely different visualization about the representatives of that monstrous tribe, who became the subjects of conversation around us for the twelve months of the year.      

I found out from the ongoing conversations that this current Turk had used all his means to save the family who was hosting him. He had sheltered its members during the years of war, that is, during the Yeghern – genocide -, and after the end of the war, he had escorted them to a safe harbor to go abroad.

A more remarkable event also happened.

*****

We confirmed that we knew the family. Their apartment was a few steps further from ours. The husband was dead. His widow and their children lived there.

"Then, take us to their house," asked the visitor.

We escorted them to that family.

The foreigner was a Turkish pilgrim. He introduced himself and respectfully greeted the hostess. After expressing his condolences, asked a few names, made a couple of checks and asked very politely.

- Has your husband ever talked to you about a green handkerchief?

- Yes, - answered the landlady bewildered - he had told us how on the day of the deportation, they had given their gold in a green handkerchief to their Turkish friend asking him to keep it "until their return"...

The Turk put his hand into his pocket and took out a palm-sized green bundle.

- This is the bundle that I have never opened before. I thank you for removing this burden from my soul. Now I can continue my pilgrimage and die in peace.

Having said this, he handed the bundle to the stunned widow, who looked around, once at the person and then to the rest of us present, as if she was looking for words but could not find them.

*****

One day, one of my classmates, who lived next door to us and who was also a playmate, said:

- Do you know that in Turkey, I have a grandmother who is married to a Turk?

This was quite a complicated situation, for which I did not have a solution. How could an Armenian girl, born and raised here in Bourj Hamoud, with a well-known Armenian mother and father, have a grandmother married to a Turk in Turkey?

Little by little, later than sooner, I also understood the crux of the matter. My friend’s father, uncle Margos, was a five- to six-year-old child when the war ended and an armistice was signed in 1918. He was sheltered in one of the orphanages, and after a year or two, along with the rest of the orphans, he was also brought to Lebanon while his mother remained in Turkey, where she married a Turk and had children. But uncle Margos, for decades, had not known about the fate of his mother until one day he received a letter from a Turk, who had somehow found out his address as a stepbrother and had written to him letting uncle Margos know that their mother is old but is healthy and how happy she would be if she found him again and that her other children themselves would be equally happy if uncle Margos is willing to visit them Turkey so they could host him in their home.

The writer earnestly pleaded uncle Margos to respond to the letter.

One day, a nice Turkish-speaking old woman appeared at Uncle Margos's house. The resemblance between the two was striking. She was his mother. All us neighbors witnessed the loving care the old woman showed towards her son and her grandchildren. The cruel Armenian fate had deprived them of the joy. 

She stayed in Bourj Hamoud for quite a long time. Slowly and to some extent she restored her broken Armenian, until one day she said:

- I miss my children and grandchildren.

She was referring to her Turkish children and grandchildren in Turkey.

*****

As to the third language, the dialect, its acquisition was conditioned by the presence of the dialect speaking elder in a given family. With the elder’s presence in the household, the rest became easier. The mother tongue and the dialect were equally absorbed by the younger generation. But it surely is tacitly understood that if there was no such elder person in the household, a neighbor’s, or a friend’s elder could not be useful to someone else, simply because the dialect the elder spoke was not necessarily the same dialect. A bouquet of dialects was spoken in Bourj Hamoud.

It would not be out of place to note the last linguistic feat of the residents of Bourj Hamoud, who are already endowed with a magnificent linguistic laurel wreath; their knowledge of Eastern Armenian. 

Yes, Eastern Armenian.

Our first textbooks, including the "Aragats" series prepared by Onnik Sargisian and Simon Simonian, offered carefully, at least from 3rd grade and on, selected pieces in Eastern Armenian by Raffi, Ghazaros Aghayan, Kourgen Mahari, Stepan Zorian, Hovhannes Shiraz and others. No one would point out the difference between Eastern Armenian and Western Armenian. It thus became completely normal for us to come across a language that sounded different from our "known" Armenian and adopt it. And we would graduate easily reading and understanding their works.

Our generation(s) growing in Bourj Hamoud acquired all these languages without any difficulty, by hearing them spoken in the house, on the street, in the workplaces or in any public place. We learned aurally, without having the slightest notion of the theoretical grammar. The language was handed down by a generation and was transmitted by speaking and learning by hearing without attending a Turkish school and without having the slightest idea about theoretical grammar. 

Weren't all the languages of the world transmitted in the same manner for thousands of years, in ancient times, when "writing" did not exist in any form?

*****

And what about Arabic, the official state language of the country?

E^~h, it was the big absent from the unique mosaic of the Armenian, Turkish and the colorful dialects that constituted our life in Bourj Hamoud. Knowing the official language of the country did not serve any purpose for us, therefore it had no role in our daily life in Bourj Hamoud.

The state teacher who taught an Arabic class a day, with the attitude state teachers of those years had, was completely powerless to make us have any interest in learning the language, especially when outside of the school, there was no need for Arabic at all simply because in all of Bourj Hamoud there were no Arabs save only two families of state functionaries.

This was the situation until the 1950s.

The repatriation left behind many unoccupied houses in Bourj Hamoud which were bought by locals fleeing to the city from the south. That and the onslaught of Palestinian refugees completely changed the ethnographic situation of Bourj Hamoud which began to take on an Arab face, not counting other foreign nationals that fled there later. Kurds, Sri Lankans and Indians and many others in their colorful languages, all of which is familiar to the present-day residents of Bourj Hamoud.

Along with them, the dialect-speaking elders gradually passed away. A strong struggle against Turkish began. All these caused us to wrap up our Armenian identity, at times preserving it with difficulty, only to become Arabized with our newer generation rushing to attend public schools.

Արմենակ Եղիայեան 

armenag@yeghiayan                                                            

Բնագիրը՝ http://vhapelian.blogspot.com/2023/01/3_29.html