Anna’s Love Story, No Less A Genocide Promise

Anna’s Love Story, No Less A Genocide Promise

Vahe H. Apelian

Today I read Huffington Post reporting that “The Promise’ is a love story against the backdrop of the Armenian Genocide. No less were Roupen Sevag’s  and Anna’s love stories and those of many others long lost forever. The much lesser known Anna was my maternal grandmother’s sister-in-law. Here is her story.

My maternal grandmother, Karoun Chelebian, ne’e Apelian, was born in Kessab to Hanno and Anna, the latter from Boymoushakian family of Sev Agphpuyr (Black Spring). She had three brothers, Seron, Diran and Kerop, all were naturally Apelians. Her two brothers Serop and Diran had left to the United States of America before the genocide while their brother Kerop remianed in Kessab.

It so happened that Kerop eloped Anna from the Titizian family of Kaladouran for his bride, Undoubtedly her elopment became the sensational news of the time in greater Kessab even though young couples eloping against the patriarchal choice for a spouse was not that all that uncommon. With the aid of friends, Dr. Avedis Injejikian, Gabriel’s fahter, had eloped Dr. Soghomon Apelian’s dauther Mary for his bride.

Kerop’s and Anna elopement, however, was altogether different. Anna had done the unthinkable. She had crossed all by herself in the darkness of the night and through the eerie silence of the gorge and walked all alone all the way from the coastal village Kaladouran to Keurkune to her lover’s house to the utter astonishment of Kerop's parents and his only sister, my grandmother Karoun. Something had gone terribly wrong. Trusted intermediaries had worked out a plan for them. Kerop and his friends were to meet her in the cover of the night and escort her. But the lovers missed either the rendezvous point or the timing and Anna took upon herself to finish the task and wait for her lover’s return in her lover’s parental house. Never in greater Kessab had a girl walked all by herself to her lover’s house before. She had always been free spirited with a mind of her own and was also known for her beauty. Anna, however, was not to experience the tranquility of a family life with the man she chose to love.

Their elopement resulted in a bitter family feud among the families involved. Anna’s father had her engaged to a promising young Kessabtsi and their wedding was imminent. The families were in the midst of preparations for the upcoming wedding that would do justice to their social status. Their escapade must have been so sensational that over time a folk song evolved around them that continued to be sung during wedding celebrations in Kessab long after Anna, Kerop and most of their contemporaries were not around anymore.

They named their fist chirld Kevork, after the family’s patriarch. A few years after the birth of their first child, Kerop decided joining his brothers in New York leaving behind his pregnant wife under the care of his parents. His brother Diran was a pharmacy graduate from Istanbul. His other brother Serop had run a store in Kessab selling candies. That’s why he had come to be known as shakarji, someone who deals with sweets. It was a moniker that stayed with him throughout his life much like other endearing nicknames kessabtsis gave to each. Kerop was to bring his family after he settled in the New World and saved enough to cover the expenses for his family’s journey to America. 

In due time Anna gave birth to their second son. Kerop sent word from America letting her know that he wanted to have their son named James. The infant was destined to be an American citizen, therefore it was fitting for him to have a western name.

The family’s reunion was never to be.

One June 1915 the local Ottoman authorities transmitted to the kessabtsis the order for their deportation. James was a child when he also embarked on the perilous forced march along with his mother Anna, brother Kevork, grandparents Hanno and Anna, and his aunt, my maternal grandmother Karoun. It would not be hard to envision that all the adults shared in caring of the young deportees. The ordeals of their forced marches to their illusive final resettlement destination decimated the family. Only James and his aunt, my maternal grandmother Karoun survived. The popular account among the Kessabtsi genocide survivors was that their 1915 ordeal lasted three years and three months placing the return of the survivors to their ransacked villages sometimes in the fall of 1918 only to face the bitter winter ahead without having the provisions to weather it. 

The Kessabtsi survivors, on their way to their villages, saw fit that the young orphaned teenager girl Karoun, born in 1900, be married to the most eligible surviving bachelor, Khatcher Chelebian (Chalabian). Their wedding took place in their make shift camp in the outskirts of Deir Attiyeh. The town is an hour’s drive from Damascus. They were married in their rag tags. Their wedding was officiated by the groom’s brother Stepan who was known for his piety and knowledge of church liturgy. There was no registry to record their marriage. They were to do that after their return and when a semblance of law and order was established. They were married by the grace of God and consent of their fellow Kessabtsis. The young family moved to Karoun’s parental vacant house when they reached Keurkune, Kessab. James became a bona fide an adopted son as they also started raising their own children, my maternal uncles, my mother and an aunt I never had the pleasure of knowing. They named their children Antranig, Zvart, Hovhanness, Anna. Antranig means the first-born son. Zvart was named at the behest of her maternal uncle Diran from the United States. Hovhannes was named after his maternal grandfather. The last was named after her maternal grandmother, Anna.

Once the overseas communication resumed, James’ father Kerop managed to have his son join him in America. The records of Ellis Island indicate that James was in his teens when he embarked on his journey from Beirut on a French ocean liner. He was on his way to see his father whom he had not seen before. He was to live in a country that was alien to him. He had witnessed harrowing realities of the Armenian genocide and was growing up in Keurkune where electricity or a faucet at home was not even in their wildest imagination, let alone movie theaters or ice cream parlors. However enticing the latter may seem to be, they were alien to him along with language spoken. He spoke only Armenian and Kesbenok, the local dialect. His acclamation to the New World proved to be impossible even though he stayed in the country for many years. His father and his two uncles made arrangements for him to return home, to Keurkune where his grandfather’s lands would secure him a livelihood. He was the only male inheritor among the three brothers. 

The departure of his only surviving son must have been heartbreaking for his father Kerop. The 1915 Genocide had already deprived him of the cherished dreams he must have harbored with his wife Anna. His first-born son Kevork, his parents had also died during the Genocide. Throughout those heart-wrenching war years, Kerop must have kept faith to preserve his sanity and energy to work to make a living while awaiting news from home front. After the war was over the news that his son James and sister Karoun had survived may have given him hope. After the return of James, the realization of the enormity of his loss may have weighed heavy on him anew. A sense of hopelessness may have dampened his spirits and broken his will. It was rumored that he even attempted to commit suicide. He passed away in Bronx, New York. It is not hard to surmise that he was a broken man, a far cry from the dashing handsome young man who stole Anna’s heart. He had become another victim of the Genocide although oceans and continents away from the killing fields.

Upon his return, Kerop’s surviving son James started his own life in Keurkune, Kessab. He married Sirvart Chelebian, my maternal grandmother Karoun’s sister-in-law. They named their firstborn son Kevork in memory of the brother James lost during the Genocide, their second son Kerop in memory of James’ father and their daughter Annais in memory of James’ mother Anna.

As to Anna, her grandson Kevork George Apelian immortalized her in his second book  titled “Anna Harseh”, (Anna-the Bride). In the novel Anna immerges as the independent, free spirited, stunningly beautiful girl who wanted to live her life with the man she chose to love against her father’s wish.

Anna (Titizian), the beautiful and strong willed girl from Kaladouran who broke her father’s heart and left his choice for her to pursue her heart’s calling did not live the promise the life she must have dreamed. She succumbed much like the rest of the 1.5 million Armenian victims of the first Genocide of the twentieth century. Much like the rest of the Genocide victims she also does not have a known burial site, let alone a tombstone. Unlike most of the victims who remain nameless and anonymous Anna became an exception thanks to an appreciative grandson named Kevork George James Apelian who never had the pleasure of knowing her in person but cherished the legacy she left behind.

Although the name Ann became prejudicial in the family but the memories of those in family named Anna perpetuated. My maternal grandmother Karoun ruled against naming daughters Anna anymore. Her mother Anna, her sister-in-law Anna, and her own daughter Anna were struck down with misfortune. The last had died in her teens while the previous two had died during the Genocide.  A variation of the name Anna evolved over time in the family in the person of my maternal cousin Annie (Chelebian) Hoglind, my maternal uncle Dr. Antranig Chalabian’s elder daughter and of Annais (Apelian) Tootikian, my maternal grandmother’s grandniece. Both are now  proud mothers and grandmothers.

The Separation

A segment from Moushegh Ishkhan’s  book titled “Good Bye Childhood”. Translated and abridged by Vahe H. Apelian,  4 May 2013

We will separate.

I do not know how could we possibly separate? I have opened my eyes and seen all of us under the same roof. True, there were two mothers over us - Mayrig and Hadji Mama -, both, however, were equally endearing not only to me, but also to my sister and brother as well. I understood a bit more than they did, as to what it meant a mother who gave birth and a mother who adopted. My sister and brother did not know as much.

Hadji Mama was the mother who gave birth to me. She was to travel to another country taking her two children. I was not one of them. I belonged to the woman who was the more authoritative whose name was simply Mayrig for all of us. I had been gifted to her from the moment I was born. Official registrations had been prepared that way. In front of God, the Church and the Government I was recognized as the son of Mayrig.

“What difference does it make?” Had said my own father, gifting me to his brother. “Aren’t we in the same house? Are we not going to live together under the same roof until death does us apart? Let this lad be yours and bear your name. God will grant me more children.” He had assured him.

I was his firstborn child.

After me, God gave my own father two other children, my sister and my brother. They were born during our years of exodus.

”Such loving brothers are rarely seen on this world” would say Mayrig and would add with a limitless love and reverence, “May God pity his soul, may he rest in His glory; may God reward him at his heart’s measure”.

What did Hadji Mayrig think when she was looking at me? Did she ever have any regret? Did she feel pain or happiness? Not a word was said in that regard. She was a 17 years old new bride in the household when I was gifted to her brother-in-law. She had no say then. Now that we were on the verge of separating for good, she still remained silent and meek.

Had her husband been alive………………

How was the poor man to know that the world was going to get up side down a year after my birth; that the established orders would be destroyed and cast them into ruin and that an entire nation would be uprooted caravan after caravan?

During their years of exodus the two brothers had not separated from each other. The elder brother, the one who had adopted me, had taken the brunt of the Turkish brutality to protect and safeguard his younger brother and keep him alive. Alas, what the forces of evil had not been able to accomplish, fate had ordained otherwise. Death had separated the two brothers right at the very time when an armistice was being signed and a glimmer of hope was returning. My own father had passed away due to a crisis of his heart. In due time, the elder brother had resumed his second exodus over again, this time around because of the menace of the Kemalist movement and had left his own widow behind to accompany her widowed sister-in-law.

The two mothers with their combined three children had continued to live together much like bosom sisters. They had bore their ordeal together up to this point. Now they were to go their separate ways.

Hadji Mama was acting like the guilty party. She sought to justify her decision to separate. What could she do otherwise? Her mother, my maternal grandmother whom I did not know and her brother were sending letter after letter from Greece asking her to collect her children and join them there. There were no husband and brother-in-law left. Why would she live by herself in a remote corner of Damascus when she had a mother, a brother and a sister waiting for her return. They would be together and would console each other.

“You are absolutely right” Mayrig would say, “do not ever feel chagrined. Collect your family and go and be with your mother. There could not be any person substituting her.”

“That is true” would reply Hadji Mama, “but you will be left alone, it would be difficult for you”.

“What am I to do?  It’s my fate. Should you sacrifice all your life for that?” Mayrig would respond. There were tears in Hadji Mama’s eyes. My children’s instincts told me that her great sorrow was because of me. She would be leaving a part of her heart and would be going away for good, most likely not ever to see me again. However, she did not articulate. Any reference attesting to her maternal love would be regarded tantamount to having sinned without any recourse for penance. It was an issue long resolved. I was Mayrig’s son.

The days of our separation remain etched in my memory with the following picture. It was dark. The kerosene lantern barely illuminated the faces and the things in the room cast shadows on the walls. At a far corner cross-legged sat a compatriotic elderly woman, Soghome’ Khatoun. Hadji Mama and Mayring presented her all they had as household items – spoon, folk, plate, cup, brass utensils for cooking food, etc. Soghome’ Khatoun acted like an arbiter. We children looked wide eyed as how she divided the goods into two piles, few cups here, few cups there, two small kettles on one side and a large kettle on the other side. She then looked at the two mothers.

Come and make your choice…..

Mayrig differed to Hadji Mama to be the first to make the choice. Hadji Mama refused to make her choice known and continued to sob instead.

“It was not meant to be this way.” Said Haji Mama. “Why would they end up separating us from each other? Cursed be to those who brought us to this situation.”

The time came to divide the mattresses, the pillows and the few clothing they had. Soghome Khatoun’s hands shivered over them. They too needed to be divided equally among the inheritors of the inseparable two brothers.

“Come on, make your choices” uttered Soghome Khatom.

“Little bride, make the choice and take at your heart’s content,” said Mayrig.

Hadji Mama was indifferent. She was physically present but she was absent in soul and in gaze. Was it the memory of her young husband that troubled her soul? Or was it the call of her mother and brother that had distracted her?  Soghome Khatoun finished her task and was ready to leave. She stood up with an air of contentment having accomplished a difficult task as best as she could.

“I think it was an equitable division. No one’s rights were trampled.” She said.

“Oh, Soghome Khatoum, who is looking after the few pieces we have. The things we left behind and moved on”, said Mayrig.

“That is very true, but it is much more difficult to fairly divide the little, than it is to divide the more”, said Soghome Khatoum.

After Soghome Khatoum left, Mayrig secured the door of the room, pulled the curtains over the windows and told us to sleep. My sister and my bother fell asleep soon after. They should have been tired witnessing the unusual happening that may have stirred their childhood imaginations and tired them. I lay on my place, but I did not fall asleep. I sensed that the two mothers had unfinished business to attend in secret from us. Rightfully so, in the middle of the night they silently undid the edge of a mattress and pulled out a small bag. I solved the riddle right away. It was Myarig’s famed belt purse that she bore wrapped on her body. Through the years it had dwindled to that small bag. My curiosity took better hold of me and I wanted to see the sight of the glittering gold and hear their clicking sound to know how many of them were left. But I pretended to be asleep.

Mayrig looked around her to make sure that there was no one secretly eying her treasure. She emptied the bag and held its content in the palm of her hand. Was it a palm full or not? I was not sure. It was only the clicking of the gold that reached my ears. Mayrig sighed and murmured in a low voice.

“Everything has gone, this all that has remained. Half is yours and half is mine. This is all that has remained for us to raise our children”

“This will not take us far. I will spend part of it towards our travel expenses.” Said Hadji Mama with some desperation.

“What can we do?” Replied Mayrig. “ Even so we should be thankful that the children would not starve for some time”. Then she added “What is to say to those who do not even have this much?”

“As soon as I reach, I will start working,” said Hadji Mama.

“Your brother will be your keeper” assured Mayrig.

“I do not want to be burden on anyone else”. Said Hadji Mama

“God is great. God will surely open a door”. Replied Mayrig.

The division is done and finished. I knew that nothing else has remained to divide. The real division however happened the next day at the train station. The division there was not over goods but over souls. Three of us, my niece, the daughter of my father’s sister, Mayrig, and I were at the train station. Three of them, Hadji Mama, my sister and my brother were on the train. We were the ones who were staying put, they were the ones who were leaving.

“Do not let us remain looking forward for your letters, write soon and frequently.” Repeatedly said Myrigwiping her tears.

“Done” said Hadji Mama with course voice. “I will write and you may come as well and we would be together again”.

“Why not, little bride, who else do I have besides you?” Said Mayrig and added, “If you remain content, I will take my son and join you”.

“My son”, that is I. The blue eyes of Hadji Mama in the wagon remained transfixed on me with an unexplainable sadness. I sense a deep tragedy unfolding as the siren of the steam engine alerted those present of the imminent journey. My sister and my brother did not seem to grasp the situation. They were teary as well and yet they looked happy as well. Had not Mayrig bought them candy and chocolate to eat when the train would be on the move?

If Providence would have given me the liberty to make my choice at that very moment and had they asked me then whom would I chose - my own mother or my adopted mother?  What would have been my answer? I have not been placed in such a situation before, but had I been placed, I would have chosen without the slightest doubt my adoptive mother.

It may sound strange and incomprehensible to some, but it is what it is. I loved Hadji Mama greatly who was infinitely good, meek and beautiful. She was younger and more presentable in society than Mayrig. She knew how to read and write and spoke a fluent literary Armenian. Mayrig, on the other hand, had no schooling and spoke in local dialect. She was more authoritative and less compromising. From appearances to manners she was a true representation of a woman from the interior of the country. In spite of these, she was the one who had mothered me. My first smile and utterance of ‘mama’ were directed to her. She was the one who stood by my cradle in my sick days and I was a sickly child, watching over me with an unconditional love.

It was no secret to me that Hadji Mama had given birth to me and had breastfed me for the very first few months. She had continued to live in the same household as the “little bride” and as a grown up sister. Hadji Mama, that angelic woman had restrained herself not to call me her child or her kid. She had deprived herself the pleasure of hugging her firstborn son lest she would inflict a wound to her sister-in-law.

Our separation became final. Hardly Hadji Mama arrived to Greece, she repatriated to Armenia with the rest of her family at large. It took 37 long years for the “gates of hope” to open up. In 1962 I became fortunate to visit Yerevan and hug my own mother, my own sister and my own brother. My mother and I had aged. Hadji Mama had weathered trying and difficult times to raise her two children and make a person of each. All by herself she had managed to have her two children graduate from college and become respectable individuals.

Mayrig and Hadji Mama never got the chance of seeing each other again. Fate had ordained differently for both. A year after our reunion, Hadji Mama was planning to visit us in Beirut when she passed away unexpectedly. Mayrig passed away as well in the same time frame after a long illness.

This is how the final act of our lives ended. Nowadays my sister and brother have established families of their own in our Mother Fatherland. I remain a child of the Diaspora. Two Mothers as well as two States for those of us from the same blood. This time around it is not only familial but also national………..

The Longest March

Vahe H. Apelian

Google-ի Հայերէն թարգմանութիւնը կցուած է ներքեւը՝

The April 24, 1971 Armenian Genocide Commemoration march in Lebanon remains etched  in memory of a generation that lived through it. What made the march even more memorable was George Azad Apelian carrying a cross up the hill

Arguably it was the longest Genocide memorial march and was called from Memorial to Memorial. But it was for Hai Tahd, the Armenian Cause, as the fund raising ticket noted. We were stateless then. Our homeland was not free and independent. But since September 21, 1991, the official Armenian Independence Day, our march is endless into the boundless far reaches of history.

For all those who came of age in Lebanon in 1965, the year we commemorated the 50^th anniversary of the Genocide, likely remember also the  commemorative march on  Saturday, April 24, 1971. That march, in my estimation, remains the longest Armenian Genocide commemorative march where the participants walked from the Armenian Genocide monument situated on the premises of the Catholicosate’s monastery in the mountainous town of Lebanon, called Bikfaya, all the way to the Catholicosate of Cilicia in coastal city Antelias. Wikipedia tells me that the distance is 16 Km or 9.9 miles of steep down-hill walk. I do not believe that such a long Armenian Genocide commemorating March has taken place before and since.

I was reminded of this march when Laura Vartan Agnerian from Canada, after having read my article titled “The First Protest”, posted on my Face book page a copy of the tickets issued by the organizers of that march, members of the A.R.F. Zavarian Student Association. I doubt that any other exists. It is fair, I thought, that I pen my remembrance of the event aided by the reporting that appeared on the pages of “Aztag” Daily on Tuesday April 27. 1971

The ticket Laura posted is telling of the era. The clenched fist had become the standard poster displayed by the youth then. I can state with some confidence that it was designed by the member/s of A.R.F. Zavarian Student Association at the 50th Anniversary commemoration of the Genocide and was often depicted on Genocide commemorative posters henceforth and to this day. The ticket also notes of one (1) Lebanese Pound due (dourk), not a donation, but a due for Hai Tahd, the Armenian Cause. This ticket is No.8445. Such tickets were usually issued in whole numbers. One can easily surmise that at least 10.000 tickets  were issued.   

The 1971 Genocide commemorative march was called “From Monument to Monument” (houshartsane houshartsan) because, as noted, it started from the Armenian Genocide commemorative monument on the premises of the Catholicosate of Cilicia monastery in Bikfaya. The monument there was designed by Zaven Khedeshian. It depicts an abstract figure of a woman standing with her hands extending towards the sky. The following is inscribed at the foot of the monument in Armenian and Arabic as well: “This monument, commemorating the 50^th anniversary of the Armenian genocide was erected with the cooperation of the whole Armenian Community in Lebanon to celebrate the rebirth of the Armenian nation and to express gratitude to our country, Lebanon, April 24, 1969”. 

“Aztag” daily noted that the Saturday, April 24, 1971 March was a community wide undertaking but the event was conceived, planned and organized by the A.R.F. Zavarian Student Association. The event was a cornerstone. An upcoming generation had started asserting itself and assuming the mantle pursuing the peaceful but determined resolution of the Armenian Genocide.  "Aztag" Daily reported that an estimated 30,000 marchers participated in the event.

The Friday evening to the Saturday morning became a period of uneasiness both for those who planned to march and for the organizers as well due to a capricious weather. In spite of all indications that a downpour awaited them, the marchers started coming to the assigned sites from where they were bused to Bikfaya. By 9 a.m., when the march started, some 25,000 people had gathered around the Genocide Monument. Fortunately, it did not rain. The marchers on their way to Bikfaya in buses had encountered a moving sight. They saw a young man shouldering a huge wooden cross with a two-pan scale mounted on the cross, symbolizing quest for justice, braving the steep uphill walk towards the monument all by himself.

George Azad Apelian carrying the wooden cross

The bearer of the wooden cross was a late same age relative of mine, George Azad Apelian, who was a student at the Haigazian University, a College then. He had embarked on his lone march towards Bikfaya very early that day to meet the marchers at the monument on the scheduled time. He had his relative Stepan Panossian fabricate a large wooden cross to accentuate the event and draw attention. The late Stepan Panossian is the father of Dr. Razmig Panossian, the director of the Armenian Department of the Gulbenkian Foundation. The cross was big enough when George carried it on his shoulder its long arm touched the ground at its far end. On the front arm a double pan balance was attached. The attached picture depicts George mounting the cross with its double beam balance, nearing the Bikfaya Genocide monument. Henceforth George, in close circles, was endearingly called, “The Cross Bearer” (khachager). George’s maternal grandfather, Rev. Georji Shammas was an Armenian Evangelical pastor who was killed in 1909 during the Adana Massacre. His paternal great-grandfather was also killed during genocide in the Syrian town of Jisr al-Shughour. 

The march from Bikfaya started at 9 a.m. The marchers were lead by the scouting organization, student associations, community dignitaries lead by the long standing 76 years old Lebanese Armenian Parliamentarian, Movses DerKalousitan. The marchers walked in an orderly fashion along both sides of the road not to disturb the ongoing traffic. The marchers themselves made a 2 miles long procession. At times the progression of the march slowed down because of fatigue and then resumed its pace. It lasted more than 3.5 hours. Reporters from various local and international organizations were also there to report on the event. As the marchers approached Antelias city center, their rank swelled with those waiting for their arrival and both then headed towards the catholicosate where Archbishop Dajad Ourfalian, the prelate in Lebanon, addressed the marchers from the steps of the Armenian Genocide Chapel that houses bones of victims collected from the killing field, the desert of Deir-ez-Zor.

The aftermath of the 50^th anniversary commemoration was marked by a youthful activism. The 1971 Armenian Genocide commemorative march in Lebanon came to symbolize the young’s peaceful quest for a just resolution of the Armenian Genocide. Almost fifty years have come and gone by from that date. Some of the young organizers of the march are not with us anymore.  I can claim that generation did not fail their parents and grandparents and carried on the torch for just resolution of the Armenian genocide with determination. No wonder "Aztag" Daily heralded the event on its front page giving due tribute to the upcoming generation, as follows:  "A SENTIMENTAL EXPRESSION OF RESPECT, A MAGNIFICENT PICTURE OF REBIRTH”

(ՅԱՐԳԱՆԳԻ ՅՈՒԶԻՉ ԱՐՏԱՀԱՅՏՈՒԹԻՒՆ ՄԸ, 

ՎԵՐԱԾՆՈՒՆԴԻ ՊԵՐՃԱԽՕՍ ՊԱՏԿԵՐ ՄԸ).

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Դա, կարելի է ասել, Ցեղասպանության հիշատակի ամենաերկար երթն էր և կոչվել էր Հիշատակարանից հուշահամալիր: Բայց դա Հայ Թահդի համար էր՝ Հայ Դատի, ինչպես նշել է ֆոնդերի հավաքագրման տոմսը: Մենք այն ժամանակ քաղաքացիություն չունեցող էինք։ Մեր հայրենիքն ազատ ու անկախ չէր. Բայց 1991 թվականի սեպտեմբերի 21-ից՝ Հայաստանի անկախության պաշտոնական օրվանից, մեր երթը անվերջ է դեպի պատմության անսահման հեռավոր ճանապարհները:

Բոլոր նրանց համար, ովքեր մեծահասակ են դարձել Լիբանանում 1965 թվականին, այն տարին, երբ մենք ոգեկոչել ենք Ցեղասպանության 50 - րդ  տարելիցը, հավանաբար հիշում են նաև 1971 թվականի ապրիլի 24-ի շաբաթ օրը տեղի ունեցած հիշատակի երթը: Այդ երթը, իմ գնահատմամբ, մնում է ամենաերկար Հայոց ցեղասպանությունը: ոգեկոչման երթ, որտեղ մասնակիցները քայլեցին Լիբանանի լեռնային Բիքֆայա քաղաքում գտնվող Կաթողիկոսարանի վանքի տարածքում գտնվող Հայոց ցեղասպանության հուշարձանից մինչև Կիլիկիո Կաթողիկոսություն ծովափնյա Անթիլիաս քաղաքում: Վիքիպեդիան ինձ ասում է, որ հեռավորությունը 16 կմ է կամ 9,9 մղոն զառիվայր զառիվայր զբոսանքով: Ես չեմ հավատում, որ մարտին ոգեկոչող այսքան երկար Հայոց ցեղասպանություն տեղի է ունեցել նախկինում և դրանից հետո:

 

Այս երթը հիշեցի, երբ Կանադայից Լաուրա Վարդան Ագներյանը, կարդալով իմ «Առաջին բողոքը» հոդվածը, Face book-ի իմ էջում տեղադրեց այդ քայլարշավի կազմակերպիչների՝ ՀՅԴ Զավարյան ուսանողական միության կողմից թողարկված տոմսերի պատճենը։ Ես կասկածում եմ, որ որևէ այլ գոյություն ունի: Արդար է, կարծում էի, որ հիշել եմ այդ իրադարձության մասին, որին նպաստել է «Ազդակ» օրաթերթի երեքշաբթի, ապրիլի 27-ի էջերում հայտնված հաղորդագրությունները։ 1971թ.

Լաուրայի տեղադրած տոմսը պատմում է դարաշրջանի մասին: Սեղմած բռունցքը դարձել էր երիտասարդների ցուցադրած ստանդարտ պաստառը։ Որոշակի վստահությամբ կարող եմ փաստել, որ այն նախագծվել է ՀՅԴ Զավարյան ուսանողական միության անդամի կողմից՝ Ցեղասպանության 50-րդ տարելիցին նվիրված միջոցառմանը և այսուհետև մինչ օրս հաճախ պատկերվել է Ցեղասպանության հիշատակի պաստառների վրա: Տոմսում նշվում է նաև մեկ (1) լիբանանյան ֆունտի վճար ( dourk),  ոչ թե նվիրատվություն, այլ Հայ Թահդի՝ Հայ դատի պարտքը: Այս տոմսը թիվ 8445 է։ Նման տոմսերը սովորաբար թողարկվում էին ամբողջական թվով։ Հեշտությամբ կարելի է ենթադրել, որ թողարկվել է առնվազն 10.000 տոմս։   

 

1971 թվականի Ցեղասպանության հիշատակի երթը կոչվել է «Հուշարձանից հուշարձան» (հուշարձանե հուշարձան ), քանի որ, ինչպես նշվում է, այն սկսվել է Բիքֆայայում Կիլիկիո կաթողիկոսության վանքի տարածքում գտնվող Հայոց ցեղասպանության  հուշահամալիրից ։  Այնտեղ գտնվող հուշարձանը նախագծել է Զավեն Խեդեշյանը։ Այն պատկերում է կնոջ աբստրակտ կերպար, որը կանգնած է դեպի երկինք մեկնած ձեռքերը:  Հուշարձանի ստորոտին հայերեն և արաբերեն մակագրված է հետևյալը. « Այս հուշարձանը, ի հիշատակ 50- րդ . Հայոց ցեղասպանության տարելիցը կանգնեցվել է Լիբանանի ողջ հայ համայնքի համագործակցությամբ՝ տոնելու հայ ազգի վերածնունդը և երախտագիտություն հայտնելու մեր երկրին՝ Լիբանանին, 1969 թվականի ապրիլի 24-ին »: 

«Ազդակ» օրաթերթը նշեց, որ 1971թ. ապրիլի 24-ի շաբաթ օրը տեղի ունեցած երթը համայնքային նախաձեռնություն էր, սակայն միջոցառումը մտահղացել, ծրագրել և կազմակերպել էր ՀՅԴ Զավարյան ուսանողական միությունը։ Միջոցառումը հիմնաքար էր. Գալիք սերունդը սկսել էր ինքնահաստատվել և ստանձնել Հայոց ցեղասպանության խաղաղ, բայց վճռական լուծումը հետամուտ լինելու թիկնոցը։ «Ազդակ» օրաթերթը տեղեկացրեց, որ միջոցառմանը մասնակցել է մոտ 30000 երթի մասնակից։

Ուրբաթ երեկոն մինչև շաբաթ առավոտ  քմահաճ եղանակի պատճառով անհանգստության շրջան դարձավ թե՛ երթ անողների, թե՛ կազմակերպիչների համար։ Չնայած բոլոր ցուցումներին, որ իրենց սպասվում է հորդառատ անձրև, երթի մասնակիցները սկսեցին գալ նշանակված վայրեր, որտեղից ավտոբուսով գնացին Բիքֆայա։ Առավոտյան ժամը 9-ին, երբ սկսվեց երթը, մոտ 25000 մարդ հավաքվել էր Ցեղասպանության հուշարձանի շուրջ։  Բարեբախտաբար, անձրև չի եկել։ Երթի մասնակիցները ավտոբուսներով դեպի Բիքֆայա ճանապարհին բախվել էին շարժվող տեսարանի։ Նրանք տեսան մի երիտասարդի, ով իր ուսերին բռնած էր խաչի վրա ամրացված երկու թավայի կշեռք, որը խորհրդանշում էր արդարության որոնումը, և ինքնուրույն համարձակորեն քայլում էր դեպի հուշարձան դեպի հուշարձանը տանող զառիթափ քայլքը:

Փայտե խաչը կրողը իմ վերջին հասակակից ազգական Ջորջ Ազատ Ափելյանն էր, ով այդ ժամանակ քոլեջի Հայկազյան համալսարանի ուսանող էր։ Այդ օրը նա սկսել էր իր միայնակ երթը դեպի Բիքֆայա՝ նախատեսված ժամին հանդիպելու երթի մասնակիցներին հուշարձանի մոտ: Նա իր ազգական Ստեփան Փանոսյանին հանձնարարել էր փայտե մեծ խաչ պատրաստել՝ իրադարձությունն ընդգծելու և ուշադրություն գրավելու համար։ Հանգուցյալ Ստեփան Փանոսյանը Գյուլբենկյան հիմնադրամի հայկական բաժանմունքի տնօրեն դոկտոր Ռազմիգի հայրն է։ Խաչը բավական մեծ էր, երբ Ջորջը կրեց այն իր ուսի վրա, նրա երկար թեւը դիպավ գետնին նրա հեռավոր ծայրում: Առջևի թևի վրա ամրացված էր կրկնակի թավայի հավասարակշռություն: Կցված նկարում Ջորջը պատկերում է խաչը իր կրկնակի ճառագայթային հավասարակշռությամբ՝ Բիքֆայայի ցեղասպանության հուշարձանի մոտ: Այսուհետ Ջորջը, մերձավոր շրջապատում,խաչագեր ): Ջորջի մորական պապը՝ վերապատվելի Գեորջի Շամմասը, հայ ավետարանական հովիվ էր, ով սպանվել է 1909 թվականին Ադանայի կոտորածի ժամանակ։ Նրա հորական նախապապը նույնպես սպանվել է Սիրիայի Ջիսր ալ-Շուղուր քաղաքում ցեղասպանության ժամանակ։ 

 

Բիքֆայայից երթը մեկնարկեց առավոտյան ժամը 9-ին. Երթի մասնակիցներին գլխավորում էր սկաուտական ​​կազմակերպությունը, ուսանողական միությունները, համայնքի բարձրաստիճան պաշտոնյաները` լիբանանահայ 76-ամյա վաղեմի պատգամավոր Մովսես Տեր Գալուսիթանի գլխավորությամբ: Երթի մասնակիցները կանոնավոր քայլեցին ճանապարհի երկու կողմերով՝ չխանգարելու ընթացող երթևեկությանը։ Երթի մասնակիցներն իրենք են կատարել 2 մղոն երկարությամբ երթ։ Երբեմն հոգնածության պատճառով երթի առաջընթացը դանդաղում էր, այնուհետև վերսկսում իր ընթացքը։ Այն տեւել է ավելի քան 3,5 ժամ։ Միջոցառման մասին զեկուցողներ էին նաև տարբեր տեղական և միջազգային կազմակերպությունների լրագրողներ: Երբ երթի մասնակիցները մոտեցան Անթիլիաս քաղաքի կենտրոնին, նրանց շարքը մեծացավ նրանց ժամանմանը սպասողներով, և երկուսն էլ շարժվեցին դեպի կաթողիկոսարան, որտեղ Լիբանանի առաջնորդ արքեպիսկոպոս Դաջադ Ուրֆալյանը,

 

50 -  ամյակի ոգեկոչման հետևանքները նշանավորվեցին երիտասարդական ակտիվությամբ։ 1971 թվականին Լիբանանում Հայոց ցեղասպանության հիշատակի երթը խորհրդանշելու էր երիտասարդների խաղաղ ձգտումը Հայոց ցեղասպանության արդարացի լուծման համար: Այդ օրվանից անցել և անցել է գրեթե հիսուն տարի: Երթի երիտասարդ կազմակերպիչներից ոմանք այլեւս մեզ հետ չեն։ Ես կարող եմ պնդել, որ այդ սերունդը չի ձախողել իր ծնողներին ու պապիկներին և վճռականորեն կրել է Հայոց ցեղասպանության արդար լուծման ջահը։ Զարմանալի չէ, որ «Ազդակ» օրաթերթն իր առաջին էջում ազդարարել է այդ իրադարձությունը՝ պատշաճ հարգանքի տուրք մատուցելով գալիք սերնդին, հետևյալ կերպ.

( ՅԱՐԳԱՆԳԻ ՅՈՒԶԻՉ ԱՐՏԱՀԱՅՏՈՒԹԻՒՆ ՄԸ ,    

ՎԵՐԱԾՆՈՒՆԴԻ ՊԵՐՃԱԽՈՍ ՊԱՏԿԵՐ ՄԸ ).   

 

Updated on 4/16/2022

After the Breakage..Կոտրելէն Ետքը

By Krikor Zohrab 

Translated by Vahe H. Apelian

This piece from Krikor Zohrab (1861 to 1915) was a required reading for students. He  was an influential Armenian writer, politician, and lawyer in Constantinople. He was  also arrested on April 24, 1915, and sent to a military court in Diyarbakir and was murder en route. 

The ORIGINAL STORYl IS ATTACHED.

Certainly, the cup sitting on its saucer was made of superbly crafted crystal when he gave it to me as a gift.

He was a friend to whom I had rendered a small service.  He had said it wasn't much of a thing he had given. After he left, I glanced over it casually. He had picked the cup so I would remember him as I sipped my coffee.

The transparent crystal made it obvious that it was the finest of its kind. It had the logo of a famous producer of crystal goods. The logo, imprinted in a red ring, read 1844.

For a long time, the cup sat in a corner of my office gathering dust. As an appreciator of finer things, I had initially been content with the idea of having it in my office.  After a while I had forgotten it. One day it occurred to me that it was ludicrous to have it sitting in my office without being used. I thought it was best that I took the cup home and drank my coffee from it.

There also the fortunes of the cup did not fare any better. Things resemble people a bit. They have their own fate. No one paid any attention to the poor cup, although it was one of a kind.

We placed it somewhere as decoration. More than once it was shuffled from one place to another. I saw one of my children playing with it. One day it fell from her hands and broke into many shards.

*****

The other day I came across its saucer. I scrutinized its delicate and intricate drawings. Indeed, they were wonders of art. Two intertwined letters with imperial markings caught my attention. Right across the ring I also noticed the same imperial coat-of-arms and the same letters.

The letters were L and P. I realized that the letters were the initials of Louis Philippe. The coffee saucer had belonged to him. Next to the logo of the famous manufacturer said Fontainebleau Palace. It is now that I was noticing. Yes, there was no doubt. It had belonged to King Louis Philippe of France. The masterful decoration should have made it amply evident to a connoisseur that it could not have  belonged to an ordinary mortal.

Now its cup was broken into pieces. I had not recognized its value. It had stayed with me for years, within easy reach. How much did I now regret what I had done to it. I reprimanded myself for not having given the attention it had deserved and for not having taken better care of such a valuable item.

*****

The small incident gave way to thoughts. Those reading these sentences surely would have similar thoughts.

It is commonplace not to appreciate those who live with us for a long time. Death and loss trigger the living to render an impartial and a just verdict of the deceased. The void that the cemetery brings is necessary to discern the delicate and beautiful features of the faces of those who have passed away. The impossibility of their return is required to have our blind eyes opened to the truth and humble ourselves to proclaim their virtues we could not bring ourselves to appreciate openly, unknowingly maybe, while they were alive.

I think that friendships are like that too. Often no one gives the slightest consideration to the hearts that eagerly and faithfully wait for the person. It is required that these hearts be broken to feel and measure the depth and the magnitude of the loss.

That is what happened to my coffee cup as well. I recognized its value... after its breakage.

 

 

Հարկաւ ազնիւ յախճապակի էր այս սուրճի սկահակը իր պզտիկ պնակին մէջ, երբոր նուէր բերին ինծի օր մը:

Տուողը, բարեկամներէս մէկը, որուն պզտիկ ծառայութիւն մը մատուցեր էի, ըսաւ թէ չնչին բան մըն էր տուածը:Ասիկա զատեր էր, որպէսզի սուրճը անոր մէջէն խմեմ եւ միշտ յիշեմ զինք այս առթիւ:

Պարզ զարդի համար տեղ մը դրինք: Քանի մը օր վերջը հոս ու հոն նետուեր էր. անգամ մը պզտիկ զաւկիս ձեռքը տեսայ. հետը կը խաղար ու ժամանակ կ'անցընէր: Օրին մէկն ալ ձեռքէն վար ինկաւ, հազար կտոր եղաւ:

Անցած օր անոր պզտիկ պնակը ձեռքս անցաւ. սրտի նեղութեան մէկ վայրկեանիս, նուրբ գծագրութիւններն ու գունագեղ կիտուածները կը զննէի: Ստուգիւ գեղեցիկ արուեստի մը հրաշակերտ էր: Յանկարծ, իրարու ՝փաթթուած երկու տառեր նշմարեցի՝ վրան արքայական զինանշանով: Ճիշդ դիմացի կողմը շրջանակին՝ միեւնոյն զինանշանը ու միեւնոյն սկզբնատառերը:

Այս տառերը ֆրանսերէն Լ եւ Ֆ տառերն էին. եւ ահա լոյսը ծագեցաւ միտքիս մէջ: Լուի Ֆիլիփի կը վերաբէր այդ սուրճի սկահակը իր պնակով:

Ա՛լ տարակոյս չկար, Ֆրանսիայի թագաւորինն էր անիկա. զարդարուն ու նրբակերտ շինուածքը բաւելու էր արդէն մէկ նայուածքով ճշդելու թէ ան սովորական մահկանացուի յատուկ բան մը չէր կրնար ըլլալ:

Եւ հիմա որ կտրած, փշրուած էր այդ խեղճ սկահակը, որուն արժէքը չէի կրցած ըմբռնել, երբոր տարիներ մնացեր էր քովս, ձեռքիս տակ, հիմա որքան կը զղջայի ըրածիս վրայ, որչափ կը կշտամբէի ինքզինքս՝ քիչ մը հոգ եւ ուշադրութիւն չտանելուս համար թանկագին բան մը հասկնալու եւ պահպանելու:

Բարեկամութիւններն ալ ատանկ են շատ անգամ. ամենադոյզն արժէք մը չենք տար այն սրտերուն, որոնք յօժար ու լուռ հաւատարմութեամբ մը մեզի կը սպասեն, եւ հարկ է որ այդ սրտերը խորտակուին, որպէսզի կորուստին մեծութիւնը կարենանք զգալ ու չափել:

Այսպէս պատահեցաւ իմ սուրճի սկահակիս համար ալ: Ճանչցայ... կոտրելէն ետքը:

Գրիգոր Զօհրապ

 

Tale of an Armenian Hymnal (1/2) - Compiling a Songbook.

Vahe H. Apelian

The article is reproduced from Keghart.com when I first posted it on June 1, 2011.

Several years ago, I purchased an Armenian hymnal on eBay from a bookseller in Turkey. It is titled ‘Hayoun Yerkaraneh’ (The Armenian’s Hymnal) by Hmayag Aramiants. The hard-cover hymnal was printed in Istanbul in 1911. Its 318 pages are very well preserved. There is a signature on the inner page that is hard to decipher to ascertain the name of the person who, in all probability, owned the hymnal at one time.

The hymnal is dedicated to the legendary Armenian woman named Shake’ who hurled herself down a precipice in Sassoon lest she be abducted by a Turk or a Kurd. There is a drawing of her with a rifle on her shoulder and a child in her lap looking down the precipice. The following is inscribed as the bottom legend of the picture: “Shake’, The Immortal Heroine of Sassoon”.

The dedication reads in part as follows: “Adorable Shake’, you illuminated a page of our modern day history with your heroism and you elevated the honor of the Armenian Woman and of the Armenian Race. Forgive me to dedicate this modest work in your memory as a token of my deep admiration towards you and to your innocent child”.

Recently, I gifted the book to Bedros Alahaidoyan, the eminent musicologist, whose life-long passion has been and continues to be the preservation of Armenian folk songs. He has single handedly salvaged the folk songs of Palou and preserved them by publishing the words and the musical notes of the songs in an exhaustive study titled Balui (yev Taratsashrjani) Yerazhshtakan Azgagrakan Havakatso (An Ethno-Musicological Collection of Palou and its Neighboring Areas). Upon receipt of the book, Bedros published an article in Armenian in this year’s April 24 special issue of Asbarez Daily. However, it’s the naïveté in the introduction that has caught my attention.

The hymnal definitely leans toward the Social Democratic Hnchak Party, as Bedros also assesses and claims that 90% of the songs and the majority of the pictures relate to that Party. However, the hymnal also carries the pictures of two prominent Tashnag freedom fighters – fedayens-, Kevork Chavoush and Hrair Tjoghk. There are also pictures of armed fedayen groups. Few of the songs of the hymnal have survived the test of time and are sung to this day.

The hymnal leans as well towards international brotherhood, the cornerstone of socialism. There is a picture of Karl Max along an Armenian song titled ‘Heghapokhoutiun’ (Revolution). There are Armenian songs dedicated to the social brotherhood, such as titled ‘Proletariat’ (in Armenian characters), ‘Enger Panvor’ (Comrade Laborer), ‘International’ (in Latin characters). The hymnal also contains at least one Turkish song tiled ‘Ittihad Marshe’ (The March of the Ittihad) in Armenian characters reading Turkish. Bedros Alahaidoyan claims that the few pictures of the non-Armenians in the hymnal are that of noted European socialists.

In the introduction, Hmayag Aramiants, trusting the “new order” of “Liberty, Equality, Justice”, naively notes that the Armenians living under the Hamidian regime could not have possibly chosen any other path towards social justice and could not have adopted political alignment other than manifested in the Armenian revolutionary movement. Furthermore, he notes, the self-preservation efforts of the Armenians under Hamid’s Armenocidal policies are in fact manifestations of noble and obedient citizenship that were eventually manifested “on the flag dedicated to Liberty, Equality and Justice”. Therefore, Hmayag concludes that "the just manifest of rightful Anger and Racial Self-Determination against the oppressive regime, cannot disturb the spiritual tranquility of free citizens, be they government employees, be they servants of laws, or just citizens”.

I do not think I need to elaborate on the sinister plans that were being laid down as Hmayag was writing the introductory notes of the hymnal he published. The naïveté of Hmayag and the majority of the Armenians in opening themselves to their inner most humane needs, I believe, played in the hands of those who were planning the “final solution” and served to justify the “righteousness” of their cause. That is not to say that the absence of such overt humane outbursts by the Armenian subjects would have changed the hearts and the minds of the new masters of the Ottoman Empire to set aside their policy of “cleansing” the Empire’s “heartland “.

With regard to the Armenians, including the flamboyant intellect and lawyer Krikor Zohrab, I believe, it would have been humanly impossible to imagine that extermination of such a magnitude, we have come to term as Genocide since 1943, could have possibly be fathomed and planned for execution by other human beings, be it Turks.

Over the years I have perused the hymnal many a time and wondered what happened to Hmayag Aramiants four years after publishing his hymnal, that is to say in 1915, as the planned genocide of the Armenians started being implemented. In his introduction he promised, if circumstances permit he wrote, to publish a second volume of the hymnal to complete the compiling of the Armenian revolutionary and nationalistic songs that were not included in this volume. 

Did he survive? I do not know of any other hymnal from Hmayag Aramiants.  

Note: Read the attached to find out who Hmayag Aramiants was and what happened to him.

http://vhapelian.blogspot.com/search?q=the+Betrayal