Missionary William Goodell Among the Armenians.

By Vahe H. Apelian

During family discussions in my formative years, I would hear the elders of the family say that the American missionaries, failing to evangelize a single Turk, resorted to evangelizing the Christian Armenians.

Some time ago I came across the memoirs of Rev. William Goodell who played a prominent role in establishing the Protestant community in the Ottoman Empire. The book, titled “Forty Years in the Turkish Empire or Memoirs of Rev. William Goodell D.D, Late Missionary of A.B.C.F.M at Constantinople”, was edited by his son-in-law, E. D. G. Prime. It was published by Robert Carter and Brothers (New York). Its fifth edition, posted online by Google, is dated 1878. The quotes below are from the online book. (see excerpts from the book below).

Rev. William Goodell left the United States and embarked on his overseas mission in 1822. After a long sojourn in Malta, Lebanon, and Syria, he arrived in Constantinople, as Istanbul was known then. He had embarked on his mission on behalf of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions (A.B.C.F.M.), which was the premier and the most influential and far-reaching American missionary organization.

I was surprised to read that Rev. Goodell’s primary, if not sole, mission was evangelizing the Armenians. I quote “When Mr. Goodell went to Constantinople, his mission was to the Armenians”. Mr. Goodell was entrusted with the mission to Turkey proper because of his knowledge of Armenian and Turkish he had mastered while in Malta, Syria, and Lebanon. He was also fluent in Arabic, Greek and Italian. He translated the Bible into “Armeno-Turkish”, that is to say a Bible that reads Turkish but is in Armenian characters. It was a twenty-year endeavor.

This assertion was a revelation to me but it made sense. Sultan’s Sublime Porte would have never allowed American missionaries free rein to evangelize Turks. It caved to the Western powers and allowed Americans to do missionary work in the Ottoman Empire as long as their evangelism was carried among the Christian subjects of the empire. In all probability, the missionaries and their organizations, if not also their governments, were warned of dire consequences should they attempt to evangelize the Turks. No wonder then not a single Turk was evangelized.

Rev. Dr. Riggs; Rev. Dr. Goodell; Rev. Dr. Schauffler

Translators of the Bible

into Armenian, Bulgarian, Hebrew, Spanish, Arabo, Turkish & Armeno-Turkish

at Constantinople 1861

Why would A.B.C.F.M embark on its mission, I wondered, singling Armenians when there were other Christian communities in the empire? Reading the memoirs presented an interesting picture of a way of life that did not have a natural evolution for reasons we sadly know all too well, the planned extermination of the Armenians, the Genocide.

Rev. William Goodell arrived in Constantinople on June 9, 1831. It appears that he was the first American missionary to have set foot in Constantinople In a letter to a friend in the United States, he noted: “My family is said to be the first who has ever visited this place.” Wikipedia notes that "during his missionary life, he and his devoted wife cheerfully endured many trials and tribulations". 

Constantinople, where the Goodells established their residency, presented the following demographics according to him. I quote: “The city of Constantinople contained, including the suburbs, a population of about 1,000,000 of various nationalities and religions. The Turks and other Mohammedans comprised more than half; the Greeks and Armenians each numbered 150,000, the former being the more numerous, there were about 50,000 Jews; the remainder was made of Franks and people from almost every part of the world”. These distinct ethnic communities naturally intermingled but “for the most part occupied different quarters of the city with the Turks having almost exclusive possession of the city proper.”

The ‘Millet’ system that constituted the core of the Ottoman Empire appeared odd to this western visitor who found it to be an “anomalous form of government, the Sublime Porte, as the Sultan’s government is called, being supreme, while each separate nation has its own head.” In the case of the Armenians, it was the Patriarch of Constantinople who was also the secular head of the Armenian community (Millet).

The A.B.C.F.M. board and Rev. Goodell knew well that the Armenians "were descendants of the ancient inhabitants of Armenia. The nation embraced Christianity about the commencement of the fourth century”. The zealous missionary and the organization that supported his mission apparently had already determined, even before the missionary arrived into the fold of the Armenians in the Ottoman Empire, that the Armenian Church needed to embrace the “truth”. According to Rev. Goodell, the Armenian Church “has almost wholly given up to superstition and to idolatrous worship of saints, including Virgin Mary, pictures, etc.” 

There appears to be a more pragmatic and practical, if not a strategic reason, for A.B.C.F.M and Rev. Goodell to single out the Armenians for their mission. I quote: “ The Armenians were an enterprising people, and the great wealth of the bankers, who were nearly all Armenians, made them very influential throughout the empire, even with the Turkish officials, who were largely dependent upon them for pecuniary advances and assistance. The various connections of this people with different parts of the country, and the influence which they were in a position to exert, in promoting the spread of the Gospel in Turkey, made it exceedingly desirable that they should embrace the truth." 

Mr. Goodell’s arrival in Constantinople coincided with a reformation movement within the Armenian Church. Fifteen years later, and after much agony and ecstasy, on July 1, 1846, “Forty persons, of whom three were women, voluntarily entered onto covenant with God and with each other, and we, in the name of all the evangelical churches of Christendom, rose and formally recognized and acknowledged them as a true church of Christ.” The assembly on that day became the foundation of The Evangelical Church of Armenia--"Hayasdaniatz Avedaranagan Yegeghetsi". 

On November 15, 1847, “the grand vizier issued a firman, declaring that the Christian subjects of the Ottoman government professing Protestantism should constitutes a separate community...This firman was so worded that converts form among the Greeks and Jews who joined the Protestants might enjoy the same immunities”. On Nov. 27, 1850, Sultan Abdul Mejid ratified the edict that became the “Magna Carta” of the Protestant community that stands, to this day, in the Middle East. The Armenian Evangelicals are part and parcel of the Protestant community.

Having lived through this turbulent period for over 30 years, Rev. Goodell left Constantinople on June 27, 1865, some 40 years after leaving his homeland. Through those over four decades, he had visited his country only once. Before taking leave for good, he addressed his brethren in the Evangelical Churches in Turkey and, alluding to the recent schism in the Armenian nation, said, “When we first came among you, you were not a distinct people, nor did we expect you ever would be; for we had not sectarian object in view, it being no part of our plan to meddle with ecclesiastical affairs. Our sole desire was to preach Christ and Him crucified.” 

By then the Armenian Evangelical Church was firmly entrenched among the Armenians as a distinct denomination separate from the Apostolic Church. In time, the adherents of the "Hayasdaniatz Avedaranagan Yegeghetsi". would continue to render much service to the Armenian nation, enriching it way more than one would have expected from the meager demographic constituency of its faithful.

After his return to the United States, Rev. Goodell visited friends and gave sermons. He lived with son and namesake in Philadelphia where he passed away on Feb. 16, 1867.   

Note:

The First Evangelical Church, the First Ordination, the First Marriage

http://vhapelian.blogspot.com/2024/01/blog-post_14.html

 

"Hayrig Hayrig” - «Հայրիկ, Հայրիկ»

Vahe H. Apelian, Loveland OH, 27 August 2015

Recently I read “HAYRIG HAYRIG” (ՀԱՅՐԻԿ ՀԱՅՐԻԿ) that shed a lot of light about the man, Mgrdich Khrimian, who would be known in Armenian history more by his endearing nickname ‘Hayrig’ implying a compassionate and a concerned father.  Ara Aginian, who has passed away in 1976, wrote the book, which was published as supplement to an Armenian newspaper. Aras Publishing published the edition I read, in 2004 in Istanbul.

The book, which is a biographical sketch, begins from the time sixteen-years-old Mgrdich set foot in Istanbul as another migrant and ends with his death at the age of eighty-seven in Echmiadzin. Some of the conversations noted in the book are commonly accepted to have taken place but the overall narration is likely partly figments of the author’s imagination to give cohesion to the story and make it readable.

Reading the book it becomes evident that Khrimian stood apart from the crowd from get go. From his days as a teenage migrant in Istanbul to an aged pontiff, he attracted people by his physical attributes. He was tall, handsome and had expressive bluish eyes. The eminent British historian H.F. B. Lynch, who attended his inauguration as catholicos, commented on the imposing splendor of his appearance. 

His physical endowments could have helped any ambitious person to ascend the social scale. He, on the other hand, loved to be with the common every day folks and remained totally oblivious to social status and to wealth. The upper class Armenians of Istanbul who wanted to rub shoulder with the Patriarch who sat at the apex of their social order and sat at the table with the Sultan himself, were dismayed finding him continue visiting and staying with the Armenian migrants from the interior of the country who did menial jobs and lived in the communal housing (khans). When they vehemently objected to his hitherto unheard behavior that should have no place with a sitting Patriarch, they said. He dismissed them saying, “It should not have happened, it happened. You had not seen it before, you saw it now”. He gave away his salary as a patriarch, who ranked among the high placed officials in the administrative hierarchy of the Ottoman Empire. 

Five years after his resignation as the Patriarch, his successor Nerses II Varjabedian, appointed him in 1878 to head the Armenian delegation to the Berlin Conference even though Khrimian did not speak much of Turkish let alone other foreign languages and had no administrative position. He was chosen to lead the delegation because of his forceful personality and imposing physical stature and the loyalty and the trust he commanded.

Mkrtich Khrimian was born on April 4 in 1820 (1921?) to a well-to-do family of merchants who may have originated from Crimea, Khrim in Armenian, as his the family last name attested. His life consisted of two distinct phases. He spent the first 34 years of his life as a layperson in search for his niche. His first sixteen years were spent in Van with his parents and with the local priests learning how to read and write Armenian, a rarity at the time in the interior of the country. He came to Istanbul at the age of sixteen along the many young men  in quest of knowledge while the other migrants his age looked for work to get by. Pretty soon he established a reputation as a promising, out of the ordinary young man but his association with the migrants from the interior of the country never wavered. Not long after his arrival he became the protégé of an Armenian Amira who hosted him in his opulent residence and appointed him as a tutor to his two children and had him placed as a teacher in an Armenian school.  

His stay in Istanbul lasted four years. He returned home to find out that his father had passed away. He tried some business ventures that were financially disastrous. Fortunately his well-to-do family could absorb the losses. He reluctantly gave in to his mother’s wishes and married the girl chosen for him, as was the customs of the day. He became a loving father to his daughter and through her felt bonded to his spouse with whom he shared nothing much. His wanderlust in quest of knowledge eventually took the better of him and he left home embarking on a pilgrimage to get connected to his nation’s roots. He visited Etchmiadzin and other historical Armenian sites, wrote, returned to Istanbul and had his first book published through the generosity of Amira Ayvazian in memory of the Amira’s son whom Khrimian had tutored. He returned home after an absence that had lasted seven years to find out that his wife, daughter and mother had passed away. It is then that he had a revelation that celibate priesthood is his calling and the best venue to enlighten his people who indeed lived not only in abject poverty but also in ignorance.

He remained a maverick during the second phase of his life as a celibate priest even though he ascended the hierarchy all the way to its apex as Catholicos of All Armenians. Instead of finding in the church the instruments and the support he needed to help him enlighten the Armenian masses he found the entrenched clergy vehemently objecting to his efforts along with the Armenian landlords who opposed him. It became an uphill battle for him to establish the first printing press among the Armenians in their Anatolian heartland. He became a thorn and a rose, arousing heightened sentiments towards him, either way. A segment of Armenians conspired against him and plotted at least two failed assassinations. They also instigated the Turkish authorities against him. But he won the hearts of the people at large, who started calling him Hayrig, an endearing moniker he cherished a lot. The people bestowed it upon when he, as the prelate of Daron, stood with them and had their exorbitant taxes lowered a bit for their vital relief.  It is through the unwavering support of the people that he ascended the ecclesiastical ranks always remaining true to them.

Six years after the ratification of the Armenian National Constitution by the Ottoman High Porte, he was elected the Patriarch of Constantinople in 1869.  The Armenian denizens of Istanbul thought that the prelate from the interior of the country would be compliant. But, not long after his election he made amending the constitution, against the wishes of the upper class Armenian in Constantinople, his primary agenda. The hundred thousand plus Armenians in Istanbul commanded three times more representation in the National Assembly than the entire Armenians in the interior of the country, he estimated to be three millions. A plausible figure given that Hamidian, Adana massacres along with the rampant usurpation of Armenian lives and property had not yet run its course decimating the people to two million at the dawn of the Genocide.

He faced a vehement opposition by who’s who. Krikor Odian, an architect of the Armenian Constitution attempted to reason with him about the obvious flaws of the Constitution giving in to the wishes of the Sultan's court to secure his ratification of the Armenian Constitution. But Khrimian remained adamant. Unable to amend the constitution to have a fairer representation of his flock to have their grievances heard and acted upon, he resigned in 1873 but continued to remain a moral authority and an intellect to reckon with. With the collusion of Armenians, the Sultan’s Sublime Porte eventually had him banished on a “permanent pilgrimage” to Jerusalem in 1890. To the outrage of the people, in Jerusalem, his spiritual brethren treated him more as pariah in his ecclesiastical home. Yet everyone, foe and friend alike, knew that they were dealing with an out of the ordinary individual who commanded an unwavering loyalty and esteem by the people. When the seat of the Catholicos of All Armenians became vacant with the death of his predecessor, he was unanimously elected Catholicos of All Armenians in 1892. His move from Jerusalem to Etchmiadzin took months. There was not a community that did not want to host the newly elected pontiff on his way to occupy the throne set by Gregory the Illuminator.

His reign as the Supreme Head of the Armenian Church may be the crowning years of his long service to his people. He might have been mellowed a bit. The people at large might have understood the person more.  Those years proved to be a harmonious years between the shepherd and his flock from all walks of life. His reputation as the champion of the Armenian nation was further cemented when the aging Eagle, as he himself would liken him to one, stood his grounds against the orders of the almighty Tsar to have the Armenian Church properties nationalized and he won.

He was a prolific writer and publisher. He established the first printing press in Western Armenia and started publishing a journal titled Artzvi Vasburagan (Eagle of Van) in 1855. In 1863 he started a similar journal titled Artzvik Darno (Eagle of Daron).  Along with these journals, the book I read credits him with fifteen literary titles spanning from 1849 to 1909. Like Khatchadour Apovian (1809-1848) in Eastern Armenia, he wrote in local Western Armenian vernacular peppered with literary and classical Armenian. He had special reverence to Armenian authors. When the young poet Bedros Tourian, who had dedicated a poem to him as the newly elected Patriarch of Constantinople, died at the age of twenty-one, his followers wanted a music band play accompanying his coffin to fulfill the wishes of the young poet. It was unheard of to have a music band in a burial procession, so the Church did not give them permission to do so. In desperation they appealed to Patriarch Khrimian who famously told them that he too would not give them his permission, but he would forgive them for doing so.

Khrimian Hayrik to this day is referenced more as the messenger of the famous speech he delivered in 1878 upon return as the head of the Berlin Armenian delegation. The speech remains known in Armenian history as the “Iron (or Paper) Ladle Speech”. He likened his experience at the Berlin Conference to a feast where the attendants with their iron ladles took their share from the favored Armenian dish Herissa. He, on the other hand, was carrying a paper ladle and thus could not scoop anything for himself even though he was the taller and the more imposing among the delegates.  He urged the people to arm themselves and to gift each other arms and only arms.

It is not uncommon to read claiming that he was a revolutionary by citing his famous speech. Reading this book has made me realize that such an interpretation is way too simplistic. Revolutionaries aim to topple an existing order and have it replaced with an ideologically more conducive one.  To draw a parallel to modern parlance, Khrimian was more of an advocate of the people’s right to bear arms, a holy grail in the American Constitution, and not an advocate of revolution. He never advocated raising arms against the State be it Sultan’s or the Tsar’s. He had no vision to have these states abolished and replaced or even for the Armenians to have their own independent homeland.

Members of the oldest Armenian political party, Hnchag Party, tried to entice him to work with them when he was in the Western Armenian homeland. He refused to deal with them.   The Tashang party was established in Tiflis in 1890, two years before his ascendancy as Catholicos. The party stood with him against the nationalization of church property but it is not likely that there was an ideological parity between him and the party. He was and remained a clergyman at heart safeguarding the institution that was the Armenian Church. He wanted was to ameliorate the lot of the Armenian people through the established orders. The concepts of free and independent Armenia or of social–isms were alien to him. All he wanted was to safeguard Armenians against unlawful usurpation and assure their rights as subjects of the Sultan or the Tsar.  When the Sultan’s Sublime Port and the European Powers proved to be unable or unwilling to assure the sanctity of the labor, honor, lives and property of his flock, the Armenian people he appealed to them to take matters in their own hands and assure for them those unalienable rights , as the U.S. Constitution states,  by themselves.

He passed away on October 27, 1907 and in the grounds of the  Etchmiadzin, not far from the Cathedral.

The book “HAYRIG HAYRIG” made for a fascinating reading and portrayed a way of life and living the Genocide would end up obliterating.

 

 

Children of Martyrs

By Philip Zakarian

Translated by Vahe H. Apelian

This is an excerpt from Zakarian’s The Vigil of the Last Orphans (Beirut, 1974). He is also the author of The Orphans Built a House (1972). The cartoon depicted here is by Massis Araratian.

The Armenian Camp in Lebanon

The “I” has filled the living room. I want to tell him that it is not necessary to talk that loud and that his latest fashion wear, the expensive ring glittering on his finger, his plump neck are convincing testaments that whatever he says are true. I want to tell him other things as well but consideration won’t let me. He is the teacher of my children who by his presence graces us in our humble dwelling. I feel obliged to be a gracious host. 

“I do not accept a salary of two thousand pounds,” --the words of the young teacher slap me. “I teach in two other schools and have refused another one. I hardly have time for private lessons that cost twenty pounds per lesson. During the summers I make much more. Next year I will give classes in two other odar (non-Armenian) schools.  My salary will top three thousand pounds, three thousand!......”

He is an Armenian teacher who knows the value of money better than a money exchanger. He will continue to talk. You may not listen to him, you may be immersed in your thoughts or you may leave your body in the living room and make a mental leap to forgotten worlds. The teacher’s abundantly flowing golden words eventually push me back, further back all the way to my childhood years in the tin hut of our camp.

The hot weather of July bakes the tin roofs that start crackling. Rust flakes fall on our heads. The tin rooftops of the other huts seem to be evaporating in a white ‘flame’ snaking upward. My eyes glare from the reflecting lights. I take a towel, wet it with cold water from the jar, lie over the sofa and cover my face with the damp cloth. Having taken refuge under its refreshing coolness, I try to sleep.

I hear my elder brother, the “father” of our family commanding me: “Go to the pharmacy and bring the money.”

I do not move. The eyes of the pharmacist grill my heart much worse than the hot rays of the July sun.

“Did you not hear? Bring some money,” repeats the command.

“Why don’t you go?” I murmur wiping out the sweat off my face.

“You go, my son,” intervenes my mother. “Your brother will go to look for a job and you know well that he is not the type to ask for money.”

Reluctantly I get off of the sofa and slowly put on my pants. “Five piasters are mine,” I shout as I hurl myself to the street. The baked soil broils the soles of my feet. Hopping, I make it to the pharmacy.

“Again. What is that you want? Get out,” angrily bellows the pharmacist.

“Some money from my brother’s salary, if possible,” I murmur.

“Oho, you are way too much.” The eyes of the pharmacist grow red in anger.

“Don’t you people have shame? Did I not give you two gold pounds last week? Is it heard to be asking for money every day? Why, do you think that I have opened a bank here?”

The Mr. Pharmacist is the treasurer of the board of the trustees of the school where my brother teaches. Every summer, piece by piece, he hands in their remaining salary to the teachers, much like throwing bones to a dog.

I return home. “There is no money,” I say. I wet the towel again, wrap it around my head, and crouch in my former place. I do not pay attention to the conversation between my brother and my mother. I know the script by heart to its minutest detail.

My mother will say: “My son, you have a university education. How many do you think have the diploma you have? There are a thousand jobs for you to find. Why don’t you leave teaching?”

My brother will answer: “Mother, for the love of God; do not start over again. I will die as a teacher.”

“Hungry like this?”

My brother will answer: “Yes, hungry like this”.

****

The next evening a tenacious, depressing darkness had descended over the camp but an early spring-like jubilant and nourishing sun was shining in our hut. An engineer had entrusted my brother to supervise the construction of a road between Maameltein and Ghazir (approximately 4 miles apart). It’s a two-month long job with triple the salary my brother earns. My brother had rented a room in Ghazir and my mother, exuding the exuberance of a young girl, is engaged in the preparation for the trip.

In the morning, way before the sunrise, a mule-driven cart stood in front of our small home. It’s a cart that hauls sand and gravel. Beds, a table, three chairs and few kitchen utensils fill the vehicle to capacity. My mother situates herself next to the driver. I climb over the bundles and my brother treads along. We hit the road towards Ghazir.

 

The weather was cool and pleasant. I felt myself closer to heaven than ever. My brother walked by my side. The light from the lanterns hanging by the spokes of the wheel cast different images of him. At times the shadow would get longer, at times rounder. Other times it would climb up the trees or lie full length on the road. The leaves of the trees were so low that at times they hit my face. “Stay still, do not fall,” says my brother gently hitting my bare feet with his stick. The only person who felt uneasy was mother. Had she not felt ashamed from the coachman, she would have been crying. Every now and then she would lean towards my brother and would plead like a guilty person.

“You got tired my son; come and take my place. Let me walk a bit too.”

“Enjoy yourself,” would answer my brother. “Mother, I am a man who has walked five times from Jbeil to Beirut [approximately 24 miles. Birds' Nest Armenian orphanage is in Jbeil].”

Our first stop was at Nahr-El-Kalb. When the mule immersed its muzzle into the clear water and started drinking, the rays of the sun started falling on the treetops. After half an hour we resumed our journey. The coachman forced my brother next to my mother, took the reins of the mule speeding up its pace while whistling an old tune.

At noon the mule was grazing under the shades of the Maalmtein trees and we were hungrily munching the boiled potatoes.

After a long recess, when the sun started leaning towards west, we began the hardest part of our journey. Because the road became very steep, the mule was bending forward at a sharp angle. We thought the beast might fall at any moment. Every now and then the coachman and my brother would help the mule to turn the wheels of the cart with less stress. I also descended from the cart. I would watch in bewilderment their toil unable to decide who was perspiring more--the mule, the coachman or my brother?

At dusk, when we reached Ghazir, an argument broke between the coachman and my brother.

“I do not take money from the teacher of my children,” insisted the coachman.

My mother intervened to no avail. My brother got angry. The coachman, without uttering a word, brought down the load. “May God protect you,” said the coachman and rapidly drove the cart down the hill.

*****

My brother did not get used to his new job. In the evening he would return home tired. He would throw his body over the bed and stay still for a long time.

“What is ailing you, my son?” my mother would reproach my brother.

“I cannot; I cannot stand it,” would lament my brother. “I get tormented watching them work. I am simply consumed. I take refuge under the shade of a tree and supervise them toil under the scorching sun, cutting stones for long hours. They take the sharp-edged stones with their bare hands and hammer them into pieces. I feel as if they  hammer my heart.”

“They are used to it, son. In time you will get used it,” my mother tries to console.

“Not all of them are laborers, mother. They come and ask for a job. There is a story to tell from the gaze of each one of them. I cannot refuse them. Had you been there today you would have seen the two young ones bleeding profusely from their nostrils. Yesterday one of the elder workers was taken away dazed from sunstroke. Where do these Armenians come from? Who has told them that there is an Armenian supervisor? I don’t know but every day I see new faces asking for a job.”

Those were gloomy days. My brother’s expression bore a stark resemblance to someone nailed on a cross.

One day we had an unexpected visitor. He was the colleague of my brother, Mr. Mihran. Our gloomy faces brightened. Mr. Mihran was my hero. More than being a teacher, he was our playmate. He would lock his fingers behind his neck and would stand in the middle of the school’s yard looking at us. Six of us would hang from his arms. He would start twirling around speeding his pace. We would get dizzier and dizzier and each one of us one by one would fall from his arms on the soft sand much like ripe fruits. Other times he would wrap a rope around his waist and challenge the students to pull from the other end. Most of the times, he would be the winner. The sound of his voice would echo louder than the school bell. Wherever he was, there would be laughter and joy.

My brother had forgotten his sorrows and giggled like a child until that very moment when Mr. Mihran assumed a solemn look and turned to my brother and said

“I have come here to ask you to give a job.”

“What job?” asked my brother.

“A laborer’s job,” answered Mr. Mihran

“I hope you are not serious,” said my brother his voice buried deep in his throat.

“I am all too serious,” said Mr. Mihran

“Mihran, do not be a fool,” said my brother angrily. “You cannot do a laborer’s job. You cannot even watch them work.”

“It would be easier than watching a hungry wife and children,” murmured Mr. Mihran.

My brother could not convince him otherwise.

“I am not like you, a mom’s boy,” said Mr. Mihran. “I am much like the trunk of an old oak tree. I can do the job of ten laborers. Besides, I cannot return home empty-handed.”

“Like Pontius Pilate, I wash my hands,” said my brother with his former somber expression covering his face even more than before.

*****

The next evening my brother entered the room with his head down.

“Where is Mr. Mihran?” asked my mother.

My brother looked towards the door and signaled with his head. I followed my mother. I saw Mr. Mihran. My youthful soul cried. In ten hours, the man who projected vitality had crumbled into ruins. His face looked as if it was set ablaze. His hair was covered with dust. Bloody kneecaps were visible from his pants. He entered in and sat besides my brother. They did not speak. Time went by and the dinner was waiting for them on the table. My brother held Mr. Mihran from his arms and supported him to the table. Both sat still for a long time with their heads bowed. Every now and then my brother would put something into his mouth and chew with the stubbornness of a camel. Mr. Mihran’s gaze was focused on a distant object as he stood still like a statue.

“My son, why don’t you eat?” asked my mother, placing her hand on Mr. Mihran’s shoulder.

The silence became more pressing.

“Mihran, my son, why don’t you eat something?” The question was repeated more softly and more earnestly.

“Look at his hands,” said my brother and left the room in a hurry. Mr. Mihran hid his hands in his pocket like a student caught in mischief. “Open your hands,” said my mother and knelt next to him to see closely. The fingers of Mr. Mihran had frozen stiff onto the palms of his hands. They would not open. My mother gently tried to open them. I was following my mother with apprehension. As soon as the fingers opened, my mother let go of Mr. Mihran’s hands with horror. She covered her face with her palms and bemoaned “My God, My God.” The palms of Mr. Mihran had cuts in every direction. The flesh threatened to come out from the bloody cuts.

My mother’s life had been a series of sorrows. Sorrow had forged her and had made her indestructible. For a brief moment she looked at Mr. Mihran with compassion and pity. Then she pulled her strength together and sat next to him. She took a morsel from the dinner and said: “Mihran, my son. Open your mouth; you have to eat. I as well am your mother. You will obey me. After your dinner I will wash your face and hair. I will mend your pants. Open your mouth again and turn your face towards me. It’s better this way. I have something to tell you. God sent you here to help my son. He cannot handle the demands of his job by himself. You will have to share his burden and his work. He cannot shoulder all his responsibilities by himself and I do not want him to bear it all by himself. You two are brothers. You will not refuse me. Tomorrow you will have to work together, laugh together and weep together. Of what use is your friendship if you are unable to halve bread between you? Both of you are children of martyrs.”

*****

“Dad, your coffee is getting cold.”

The voice of my daughter interrupted my moving screen. For a second different pictures cluttered my mind in rapid succession and then came the light of our living room.

The teacher of my children was continuing his talk with increasing animation.

“Last summer, my tour of Europe cost me six thousand pounds. Next year…”

------------

Pound - Refers to Lebanese Lira

Piaster - 100 piasters equal to one Lira (Pound)

Մէքթուպ իմ Պէպկօն “A Letter To My Grandpa”

Արա Քէշիշեան (by Ara Kechichian)

Translated: Vahe H. Apelian.

Մէքթուպ իմ Պէպկօն “A Letter To My Grandpa”

Իրօզէս միէջ երբ ըսքի տիսու  (In my dream when I saw you)
Իկօծերէ բուն մը էսիլա, (You had come to say something)
Ըսքի շոտ նաղւուօծ գըտու, (I saw you much troubled)
Հուօխ կուներէ դոն նաղուիլա. (You were right to be angry)
Վերուցը ձառիդ զես վախցուցի (A cane in your hand, you made me afraid)
Սբիտուօկ ըրրուօխ, սբիտուօկ մուրօք (White garment, white beard)
Ըսքի ընծատ չտիսուօծերէմ պէպօկ: (I had not seen you like that, Grandpa)
Իկուօծէրէ զէս նասադիլա (You had come to inquire about my well being)
Նայուածքեդ միէջ կարօտ տիսու (I saw a longing in your gaze)
Քեսպու խուղէն, հաւէն, ջրէն, (For the land, the air and the water of Kessab)
Եարսօն տէրվին կարօտ տիսու: (I saw a thirty-years long, longing).
Գուտիմ տօնիս դիժուօր գտուօր (I know you found my house with difficulty)
Քեսուօպ փըխվուօծի իսուօր, (Kessab has changed nowadays)
Ձիր թուօղը դիժուօր գտուօր (You had difficulty finding your ward)
Շինուօծ տոնդ չիգու իսօր: (The house you built exists no more)
Բեդվիցուօ՞ր տնկուօծ թիթինէդ (Did you look for the malberry tree you planted?)
Կէսլէդ իլան ընկուզինէդ (the Laurel tree and the walnut tree?)
Թընտըրէն տիէղը մինք ծախիցունք (The oven place, we sold it)
Պաղչէն տիեղը պինա շինցունք (We had a building erected in the orchard)
Պալինց պատռօյնիլի ճամբիցունք (We got rid of the Balent’s section)
Էնուր տիէղը օթօմպիլ արունք (and bought a car instead)
Նուր նուր բէնիր շուօտ գնիցունք (We purchased many and many new things)
Նուր նուր Քեսօպ մը մինք շինցունք։ (We built a new Kessab)
«Ըզքը հեմու սեկկու» էսի. (“It is now that I just died”, you said)
Հուօխ կուներէ դոն էսիլա (You were right to say so)
Հուօխ կուներէ դոն նաղվիլա (You were right to be angry)
Հուօխ կունես դոն զէս ծիծիլա (You have the right to beat me)
Կրէքէն միէջը զէս բէդդիլա (To cast me in a fire)
Հուօխ կուներէ դառնում կեսիմ: (You had a right to return to say)
Միէկ իշիլուօն, հեսկըցու ըզմէտքիդ (In one glance, I understood you)
Ան թագգան, բացայ ըզվէրքիդ (At that very moment I opened your wounds)
Մարաս տրվւուօծ մի Քեսուօպը (Kessab is a lagacy handed to us)
Վասիուօթ իրուօծ ձիր թոռնիրէն. (Destined for passing it on to our grandchildren)
Տիէր ըննիլա միր խուղիրէն. (Claiming ownership of our lands)
«Խուղը, չծախվէր» էսի (“the land cannot be sold”, you said)
«Խուղը, զիսսանը կը պիհի»: (“The land sustains the person”)
Հուօխ կոներէ դոն էսիլա (You had a right to say so)
իմ մինէն դոն նաղվիլա: (and be angry at me.)
Բացա զաչքիս, չիգուօս պէպօկ, (I opened my eyes, you were not there, Grandpa)
Նաղւուօծ գէցի, մուրթուօ՛ր պէպօկ (You left troubled, do not go, Grandpa)
Քաշքա եարանչ դոն ուգերէ, (I wish you had come earlier)
Իմ կօյր աչքը դոն բեներէ. (Openend my blinded eyes)
Կը խուստենում իս քի պէպօկ. (I promise you Grandpa)
Տիեր ըննիլա, միր խուղիրէն. (To safeguard our lands)
մարաս տըրւուօծ պէպկինիրէն, (given to us as a legacy by our elders)
դարձէ՛, դարձէ՛, էնոշ պէպօկ (come back, come back, sweat Grandpa)
Կը խուստենում իս քի պէպօկ (I promise you, Grandpa)
Տիէր ըննիլա միր խուղիրէն (to guard our lands)
Մարաս տըրւուօծ պէպկինիրիէն (the legacy of our elders)
Դարձէ՛, դարձէ՛ քուօղցըր պէպօկ: (Come back, come back, Sweet Grandpa)

Translated: Vahe H. Apelian.