He Was Different

He Was Different

 Simon Simonian

Translated and abridged by Vahe H. Apelian

Note: The original piece, titled "Ան Ուրիշ Էր" ("He Was Different”), appeared in Simon Simonian’s “Լեռնականներու Վերջալոյսը” ("The Mountaineers' Twilight”).

“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, that is to say 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 take a 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 heart.

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. That is to say 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.”

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.”

 

 

Thank You For Making me a Triumphant Blogger

Vahe H. Apelian

Blog,Blogging and blogger.

Merriam Webster dictionary defines blog as “a regular feature appearing as part of an online publication that typically relates to a particular topic and consists of articles and personal commentary by one or more authors”. Blog is used both as a noun and as a verb. As a verb blog means,” to write a blog”. That makes “blogging” the act and the person who wrote the blog, a “blogger”. 

The word blog is a relative newcomer into the English language lexicon. According to Wikipedia the term ‘blog” was first used as a noun and  as verb on April or May 1999. I became a blogger on March 4, 2017 when I posted my first article in my personal blog site I initiated on the same date. Little did I know then that my blog site would also tell me how many read a blog I posted and from where and how many times my blogs were read in total. 

This new word as a noun or as a verb is liberating because the “blogger”, in this instance I do not need to measure my blogs by a writer’s yardstick. There is also one fundamental aspect that all publishers have aspired to it, and that is to have their own voice, unconstrained by others. In fact, in hindsight, I realize that it is what Simon Simonian and  Antranig Zarougian achieved. They were masters of the  journals they published. Simon Simonian and Antranig Zarougian were the editors and the publishers of their weekly journals. The former’s was called “Spurk” and the latter’s was called  “Nayiri”. Surely, they were at the mercy of the readers of their journals, and naturally so. Without the subscription fees, they could not continue financing their weekly journals.  Fortunately, new technology has made my blog free. The only return I draw is the satisfaction seeing my blogs are read. 

As of today, my 278 blogs have been read for a grand total of 142,701 times by readers from Armenia to America and thence to Australia and in many countries in between.  In fact, the site does not assure that the blogs are actually read. It merely notes there are so many “page-views”. I assume a reader viewing a blog implies reading the blog. 

I thank all those who have opted to read my blogs instead of doing something else at that moment. Hopefully you found something there that made the time you devoted worthwhile.

And in doing so, you made me a triumphant blogger!

Ara Lezk, the Village Named After a Legend.

Vahe H. Apelian

The story of the Assyrian Queen Shamiram's infatuation with the most handsome Armenian King, Ara the Beautiful, is a commonly known legend. The Armenian King Ara, loyal to his wife Queen Nvart, had refused the powerful Assyrian Queen's advances enraging her. 

 I had thought that the legend of the most handsome Armenian king Ara, had only persisted in our history books until I stumbled upon a book in my late uncle Dr. Antranig Chalabian's extensive library. The books is titled "From Van to Detroit: Surviving the Armenian Genocide" and is authored by Souren Aprahamian. It turns out an Armenian village had sprung around that small hill on top of which, tradition held that Queen Shamiram placed Ara's body so that the gods would come and lick his wounds and bring him to life. The Armenians called these gods, which were thought to be in the form of dogs, haralez (հարալեզ). 

After accepting Christianity as their state religion, the Armenians erected a chapel on that very hill top, where pagan gods once supposedly descended. The village that has sprung around that hill was called Ara Lezk which, literally means Ara Lick, much like the legend claimed.

I quote the following passage from the book: 

"I was born in 1897 in all Armenian village named Lezk, which is a couple of miles north of the city of Van and an equal distance east of Lake Van. Lezk is at a higher elevation than the city and the lake. Present day geography places this area in Eastern Turkey, just west of the Iranian border.

Ara Lezk acquired its name as a result of historical as well as legendary events. In the ninth century B.C., Queen Sameramis of Assyria, following the death of her husband, King Ninos, offered marriage and joint rule to the young King of Armenia, Ara. Because of his beauty, he was called Ara Keghetsik (Ara the beautiful). King Ara rejected the queen's offer, saying he was already married to his beautiful Queen Nvart, and it was not the customs of his people to have more than one wife. Monogamy was prevalent not only among the royal family but throughout the pagan Armenia of those days.

Following Ara's refusal, Sameramis invaded Armenia. In the battle that followed, Ara was killed. The Armenians fought valiantly even after their kind fell. Sameramis to discourage the Armenians had one of her soldiers wear Ara's armor. She then declared that she captured the Armenian king and that resistance was futile. The Armenian army was scattered, and Samiramis placed Ara's body on the altar atop the citadel of solid rock, now known Amenaperkitch, so that her sacred dogs could lick him and restore life in him. The word lick in Armenian is lizel, thus the name Ara Lezk, the licking of Ara. The village has carried this name for centuries, to this day. We left it for the last time in 1918.

The citadel Amernaperkitch is a solid rock formation, above three hundred feet high, perpendicular on three sides –north, east, and south. An earthen ramp on the west side comes close to the summit. From there, steps carved in the rock make it possible to reach the top and the ruins of the castle that once adorned it. A long time ago, a small chapel consisting of a single room, approximately twelve by twelve feet had been built. Turkish law forbade building places of worship, but once built, they were not destroyed. The villagers had built this chapel in one night. It was called Amenaperkitch, the Savior of All, and this was the name given the citadel. The neighboring villages participated in its annual feast day. The southern face of the citadel rock served as the northern wall of the village's main church."

Gravure: The Lezk (current Kalecik) village (Source: Jean Marie Chopin, César Famin, Eugène Boré, L'univers, vol. 2, 1838) (Houshamadyan)

As to the Assyrian queen Sameramis, she is known in Armenian history as Queen Shamiram. The eminent poet Roupen Sevag named his younger child and only daughter after her. Shamiram Sevag passed away in France on October 17, 2016, at the ripe age of 102. 

The late Simon Simonian speculated on King Ara rejecting the Assyrian queen's infatuation if nor her love, in his book titled "Ge Khntrvi Khachatsevel", which literally means, "Please Overlap". In that book, Simon Simonian had luminaries of the Armenian history come on stage to a full capacity filled audience and dwell upon as to  what could have been to the course of our history if only their actions were heeded. Queen Shamiram, in her turn, stated the following:

"Ara refused my love. I had promised him my kingdom along with my heart. He would have become the king of two countries, the kingdom of Ararat and Assyria because these two countries would have ceased fighting each other to extinction. Handsome Ara rejected both the throne and my heart.

Had Ara joined me, the great majority of the oil wells of Mosul, some 95%, would have belonged to the Armenians. With Calouste Gulbenkian's 5%, the Armenians would have owned all. Just for the sake of Nvart khanoum (lady), Ara lost two kingdoms and the oil wells of Mosul"

I leave upon the readers to contemplate as to what could have been the course of our history if  King Ara would not have been faithful to his wife Queen Nvart to a “fault”.

The location of the once Armenian village and its current designation.

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 

 

My First Job Interview

Vahe H. Apelian

Robert Glockler and I in Orlando, Florida 

My first job interview in America remains the more memorable among the many first-time experiences I had in the New World, after I landed in the J.F. Kennedy Airport on July 9, 1976, as another immigrant. The Bicentennial Celebration had barely ended. 

The interview was with the American Cynamid Corporation, which has long folded away. According to Wikipedia it was a leading American conglomerate that became one of the nation's top 100 manufacturing companies during the 1970s. Apprehensive as I was to be punctual and yet not too early, I lingered around the building and presented myself to the receptionist just few minutes before the appointment time. I was asked to wait, but the wait was getting longer than I thought it would. An ominous sign I thought to myself. Who, I wandered, would take genuine interest, and offer a job to a newcomer like me who is not a local graduate and has no local work experience? Let alone to the fact that I had no experience in the field I wanted to make a career – pharmaceutics – other than relevant education.

I was immersed in my thoughts when a very distinguished looking gentleman stepped out and met me. He apologized for the delay and escorted me to his office and had me seated on a chair across his desk. He then welcomed me in Arabic to my total surprise. I asked him how is that he has learned Arabic. Adding further excitement to my initial surprise, he told me that he was born and raised in Lebanon and that his father was a longstanding employee of the American University of Beirut (AUB), my alma mater.  We started chatting about Lebanon and AUB to break ice, but I remained distracted at the sight of his nameplate on his desk facing me. It spelled his name, Robert Glockler. The last name appeared very familiar to me, even though it is not a common name one would ordinarily encounter. Looking back, I wander if my natural inclination to wander off had not become all too evident by my distraction to my detriment.

Let me deviate from the interview in the next paragraph.

My late maternal uncle Dr. Antranig Chalabian had collaborated with Dr. Stanley Kerr’s in the publication of his book titled “The Lions of Marash”. The Kerrs resided in Trenton, NJ. It turned out they socialized with the Glocklers. Henry Wilfrid Glockler was an employee of the American University of Beirut and was deported at the onset of the World War I into the interior of the Ottoman Empire because he was a British subject and Great Britain had declared war against Turkey. He thus had become an eyewitness to the atrocities committed against the Armenian subjects of the Empire. He had his eyewitness accounts penned down. The manuscript that was written in 1918 had remained dormant in Henry W. Glockler’s archives. Upon the recommendation of Dr. Stanley Kerr, he had sent his manuscript to Antranig Chalabian who had it edited, found sponsors, and had the memoirs published as a book.

Having made a connection to the name on the nameplate I was facing, I digressed from the conversation and in the spur of the moment blurted out if he was, by any chance, related to Henry Glockler. From the looks of his face, it became apparent that he was caught by surprise. He told me that Henry was his father and wondered how was it that I had heard of his name. Without going into the details, not mentioning that I had accompanied my uncle to the printer’s shop, nor did I mention that I had read the book, I said instead that Antranig Chelebian is my uncle. He responded something to the effect that it was a small world indeed and that he had heard so much about him from his father.

“Interned in Turkey 1914-1918” by Henry Wilfrid Glockler was published in 1969 by Simon Simonian’s Sevan Press in Beirut. It is 154 pages long. The book is “Dedicated To the thousands of innocent Armenian men, women and children of Ourfa, Turkey, who perished amid the horrors of the infamous [Armenian] genocide of 1915-18.”

My interview with Robert Glockler took a new turn. The formalities for the job interview gave way to a new discovered familiarity. He invited me for lunch at the company’s cafeteria and I stayed with him in his office long after that.

Not too long after my interview, I got an invitation to the company’s research facility in Princeton, NJ. When I presented myself there, I found out that all the department heads were lined up to interview me for a job opening commensurate with my education and the level of experience I had. I am sure that Robert Glockler had made that possible for me. I do not know how my interview went. Almost right after the interview I noted to the company that I received a job offer from the Schering-Plough Corporation, that ceased to exist as well. This time around it was thanks to Henry Apelian, a relative, who was the director at the company’s international division. He had recommended and presented me for an interview. I was offered a job that set me in my career path.

My first job interview in America became a source of comfort for me. My immediate and extended family members were still in Lebanon. I was away from home and by myself, but I felt that I was not all alone.

Decades passed and my career during the following more than three decades spanned in pharmaceutical companies. 

In January 2013, I had an article posted in Keghart.com regarding my first job interview. I had titled the article “Memorable Interview’. A few months after the posting of the article, I received an email. At first glance it did not dawn on me as who could the sender be. The name  did not seem familiar. Reading the email, I was stunned to find out that it was from the very person with whom I had my first interview. The sender of the email was Robert Glocker. In the email, he had noted to me that friends had brought the article to the attention of his brother. His brother in turn had sent him the link. After reading the article he had tracked down my email and contacted me letting me know that he was very pleased to read my article.  

Having thus connected, we continued corresponding with each other. I found out that he had retired and moved to Florida with his wife. 

One thing led to another and in December 2014, we met in Orlando, where we had gone for an end of the year family vacation. It was Robert who drove to meet me. Our paths had crossed once and that was thirty-eight years ago. But we acted as if we were old friends who met with each other to catch up on things that had transpired in their lives during the past many and many years. I thus ended up spending a memorable day with Robert as old friends would.

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.