Remembering Antranig Chalabian

By Vahe H. Apelian

 

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

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

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

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

In 1991 Dr. Antranig Chalabian published his second book in Armenian titled, "Revolutionary Figures". Dr. Ara Avakian translated the book in English. In 1999 he published his third book, "Armenia After the Coming of Islam" in English. The book became a very popular reading and had two printings. In 2003 he published his fourth book in Armenian titled "Dro". The book traces the feats of the legendary Armenian freedom fighter, Trasdamat Ganayan. In a February 2006 letter, Dro's son Martin M. Kanayan of Spring TX, wrote to Antranig noting "Our entire family and our non-ideologue friends believe that your work on Dro has been the best and most accurate to date", and provided unpublished family stories. His son, Jack Chelebian M.D. included them in his translation of the book into English. In 2009 Indo-European Publishers printed the book. Dr. Antranig Chalabian was also an invited contributor to the internationally acclaimed "Military History Magazine" where he published articles dealing with Armenian history. Without any assistance, he prepared the print ready manuscripts of his books by typing them both in Armenian or in English, proofread them without resorting to spelling check, painstakingly prepared the indices and drew the maps that appear in his books.

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

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

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

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

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

Heavenly Kessab

A chapter from Zaven Khanjian’s book titled “Aleppo First Station – Հալէպ Աօաջին Կայարան»

Abridged and translated by Vahe H. Apelian

While our homes and schools in Haleb were each a small spiritual Armenia, Kessab, on the other hand, was for us the only tangible, tasteful, huggable, historic and ancestral Armenian soil. Let Kessabtsis remain assured that we lay no territorial claim when we state that Kessab was our Armenia as well. This Armenian speaking, breathing and heart-beating northeastern Syrian corner was the magnet for our summer vacation; a most beautiful mountainous resort comprised of its namesake main village, Kessab, and surrounded by the Armenian inhabited, Armenian speaking but Turkish named villages.

In those days the inhabitants of Kessab were few. They thus became the close acquaintances of those who visited Kessab, especially when visiting the same village summer after summer and especially when both the visitors and the locals were members of the same denomination. Keurkune first, followed by Ekiz-Olough and then Kessab became the summer long camping centers for the youth of the Armenian Evangelical Christian Endeavor -Chanits.  

Resting at the foot of a hill, the center for our summer vacation in Keurkune was a stone walled one storied building whose doors and windows remained without panels. It was not only the mountain winds that breezed through it, but also our childhood curiosity that took wing and fired our imagination as to what possibly could lay behind that hill. In time we discovered, to our disappointment, that what lay behind the hill was the dirt road that snaked through keurkune and Ekiz-Olough.We then wondered what lay further away?

In time we grew taller and with the passing years we climbed to the highest peak of Kessab, that of Mount Silderan. Many a time we passed by the icy waters of Chalma’s spring and its majestic chestnut tree and gazed with wander the vast expanse of the blue water of the Mediterranean Sea. It was way too early for us then to ponder what lay beyond the blue waters and be drawn by the deceptive allure of the Western Civilization.

My contemporaries and I owe a lot to Kessab. In that mountainous and borderless environment, one attempts to soar with eagles. The pine trees there proudly stand tall, sky high. The apples, the figs, the wild berries you come across at every pace taste heavenly in Kessab. It is there when you experience freedom and feel closer to the Heavenly Father and come to worship both the Creator and the Creation and exalt God in the highest with an unyielding earnest to live free.

Kessabtis are a happy bunch, even though Kessab was not spared from the destructive and annihilating policies of the Young Turks. The surviving Kessabtis returned to their homes and stayed there. Where else west of Mount Massis1 has an Armenian enclave continued to embrace the descendants of the House of Torkom2 for longer? Aside west of Massis, which another Armenian enclave has had the good fortune to continue living on its ancestral soil for longer Kessabtsis were salvaged because somewhere, somehow, someone - a blessed creature - whether an official of the Ottoman Empire or of the Colonial French mistakenly drew the line that left Kessab inside Syria. The latter in turn embraced it with a sincere welcome and assured its safety.

Nowadays Kessabtsis are more of immigrants than native, more of them live outside than inside Kessab. They are more scattered worldwide than congregated in their native enclave. However, all these changes have come about out of free will choices and not due to any persecution, threat, or forced displacement. There was a time when the Kessabtsis toiled the land and were more of villagers. They left their pickaxes, shovels and scoops in favor of tilling medical, academic and spiritual fields. These days the Kessabtsis are more of medical practitioners, educators, and spiritual shepherds.

We loved Kessab and Kessab, in turn, loved us. Our summer long sojourn there inevitably lead to that mutual bond. The summer long church related meetings concluded with the traditional bonfire when the whole village would congregate around the vacationing young men and women to attend the comedy presentations the young vacationers prepared for the villagers as a gesture of good will.

Nature had endowed Ekiz-Olough with an open-air theater in the center of the village where we fashioned the stage with sheets, ropes and wooden poles. Armenag was the brainchild behind the improvised theatrical stage, while Raffi Charkhudian, Azad Mesrobian, Zadour Khatchadourian and I attempted to remain true to the characters of the plays we portrayed whether it was in “կիկո “ (Gego), “Շողոքորթը“ (The Flatterer), “Քաղաքավարութեան Վնասները“ (The Perils of Politeness). With rare exceptions, all the villagers attended and enjoyed the zenith of our summer long cultural endeavor. The younger vacationers, in turn remained captivated by the performance of their elder campers.

We, in turn, loved the Kessabtsi. We loved the Kessabtis for their unassuming and modest characters worthy to those brought up in nature, for their pure hearts akin to the clean waters of their springs, for their steel like character much like the boulders of their rocky terrain, for their perennial quest much like their ever green pine trees. We loved the Kesssabtsis for the labor they bore much like their fruit bearing trees, for their resiliency worthy to those who are brave, for their quest to reach the sky much like their mountains. How could we have not loved? Still, Kessab became the impetus that gave maturity to our maturing young bodies.

It is there, in Kessab that

We experienced nature at its virgin best for the very first time.

We visited Armenia for the very first time.

We met our Creator for the very first time.

We experienced village for the very first time.

And for the very first time during these meetings, I met a vivacious, vivacious, a beautiful girl full of life and zest who would give meaning to my life and one day be the mother of my children.

How could I not love Kessab?

 

The Real Cold-Press Olive Oil

Vahe H. Apelian 

An overview of Keurkune, Kessab in 1950's

The shelves of the grocery stores are full of “virgin” or “extra virgin” olive oil. Most, if not all of these bottles claim that their content is the result of olives subjected to “cold press” and are bottled after collecting the oil from its “first pass”. I have bought and tasted many in colored fancy bottles. Transparent bottles alter its taste due to oxidation. However, I have yet to come across to one that tasted nearly like the olive oil I tasted in my childhood that came from Nofer Apelian's mangana, in our ancestral Keurkune, Kessab, in Syria. The olive oil was stored then in tin cans that were also the standard containers for storing molasses and for fetching water from the village’s spring on the back of the family’s donkey. I am not sure if mangana is a Turkish word. It may be. However, much like many other Turkish words, it has become part and parcel of Kesbenok the mostly Armenian derived dialect of Kessab. Nofer’s Mangana remains a cherished legacy of a long bygone way of life in Keurkune.

Nofer Apelian established in Keurkune the first and only olive oil press in greater Kessab at a time when sheer human muscle drove the industry. The cold press consisted of a long and large wooden column that rotated on its longitudinal axis, one end of which was at ground level and the other at the ceiling of the two-story building. Nofer, in fact, had removed the ceiling of a room in their house and converted it into the two-story high olive oil press. Their house and consequently the press stood in the center of the village, right across my maternal grandmother’s ancestral house.

If I remember correctly the number, there were three wooden handles that were fastened into this wooden column. Able-bodied young men pressed the wooden handles against their chests, grabbed the handles from underneath with their arms and pushed the column rotating it on its long axis. As the column rotated a thick rope started coiling on it as it lifted a horizontal wooden platform against the stationary one. In between the two platforms, minced olives were layered between burlap bags. The harder the men pushed the more oil oozed out of the minced olives. The whole process was a test of strength under the critical eyes of us kids watching the whole process and shouting out loud who among the men was the strongest and pushed the hardest! I admit though at times our nagging outspokenness raised the rage among some of the men who were pushing and who would not have hesitated to teach us a lesson or two had they been able to catch us fleeing their chase. After the last drop of oil was squeezed the men would alert each other to simultaneously let loose of the central column that now swirled back fast on its axis to release the tension it was subjected to.

That was the second and the last phase of the process. The harvested olives were first washed and then crushed outside in a flat stone mortar upon which a huge round shaped stone wheel was placed. A hole was dug through this large stone along its horizontal axis. Do not ask me how and what kind of tools the villagers used to manually carve such a smooth hole through the middle of this large stone. Through this hole a long wooden handle was placed that had a hole at its far end that went over the central wooden axis in the middle of the mortar. The indispensable and man's most obedient servant ever, the donkey, did the job. Ropes from the wooden handle were attached to the donkey and the donkey thus pooled the stone wheel over the olives to mince it. 

This is how the olive was first crushed

Along with the oil, the process resulted in another bi-product, the remains of the minced olives that Kessabtsis used to prepare one of their tastiest bread ever, Djeftuon Heots, i.e. Djeftuon Bread. As to the word Djeftuon, it is an authentic Kesbenok word whose origin seems to have lost in obscurity.

My mother, many a time, told me the story of one of the Pastors of Keurkune who, to his wonderment and puzzlement, came across a large family sitting cross-legged on the floor around a table. Each member of the family held a loaf of bread under their arm, repeatedly cut morsels out of it and dipped it into a single bowl placed in the center of the ground table and savored it with a mouthwatering voraciousness. It turns out that the family had placed pomegranate molasses in olive oil in the bowl and dipping into it. For those who have tasted the pomegranate molasses made in Kessab can only appreciate the exquisite taste of these two in a bowl when tasted with freshly prepared bread in the family oven.

Those who saw Godfather III may remember the scene when an aging Mafiosi meets a professional assassin to have Don Corleone done with. Before going into the details of the macabre plan, he dips into olive oil and tastes it and utters-“only in Sicily!”. As far as I am concerned, it was only the olive oil from the mangana Nofer Apelian set up in Keurkune in an era long bygone now from our midst. Keurkune has also changed to have any resemblance of the way it was then. Not only my taste buds, but my whole being longs for that real cold press olive oil taste and the way of life that went along with it in the tranquility of the once exclusively Armenian enclave called Keurkune.

*****

P.S.

This story was first published in Keghartdotcom.

The following comments we made:

 

May 12, 2011 at 1:44 am

Mangana

 

You’ve done it again Vahe. Congratulations! What a superb way of describing Keurkune’s long gone olive oil industry and thus preserving it in our archives, not to mention your refreshment of our memories of the delicious taste of freshly baked bread (toniri hats) dipped in freshly squeezed olive oil (dsennoon).

 

Thank you.

Kourken Bedirian.

***

May 12, 2011 at 5:26 am

Hello Vahé, this is an interesting reading

 

Hello Vahé, this is an interesting reading indeed, describing how the world was much closer to nature, the fields, the soil, the community, life.

 

Yes, you’re definitely right in saying that the olive oils today are not what they used to be. Most are now mixed with vegetable oil and contain coloring chemicals too.

 

As for the word Mangana, I’m not sure if it’s Turkish, but they use the word mengene 

 

By the way, do you remember the name of the pastor, whom your mother told you about?

***

May 13, 2011 at 5:15 pm

The Pastor’s Name

 

My mother has lost the mental alertness she had once; she does not remember the name of the pastor mentioned in the article.

However, the name of Rev. Garabed Tilkian was often mentioned in our extended family. The good reverend arranged for my maternal uncle, Antranig Chalabian, and her sister, Zvart (my mother), to continue their education in Aleppo College after graduating from the Keurkune’s school. Both, in their own ways, lived up to Rev. Tilkian’s trust in them–Antranig as a long-time trustee of Armenian Evangelical College High School in Beirut and Zvart as a teacher, for over four decades, in Armenian Evangelical Schools in Keurkune, Kessab, Bourj Hammoud and in LA.

 

It was often said in the family that Keurkune and its twin village Ekiz Olough served as stepping stones for many of the young and upcoming Armenian Evangelical pastors who then continued to carry the torch throughout their lives. It would be interesting if the present young pastor of the twin villages, Rev. Simon DerSahagian, would compile the list of the pastors who served the twin churches.

Vahe H. Apelian

***

May 14, 2011 at 3:42 pm

Olive Press

 

Vahe Apelian’s writings about Kessab evoke memories of my early life in Syria. I first visited Kessab in 1957 as a Homenetmen cub scout, attending summer camp. Later I would visit Kessab several times as did many other Armenians from Aleppo. In his own words, Vahe has created iconic images of life in his ancestral homeland.

***

May 16, 2011 at 9:32 pm

«Mangana» բառն պարսկերեն է:

 

«Mangana» բառն պարսկերեն է: Պարսկերեն արտասանությունը մանգանե է, որընշանակուկ է՝ մամլիչ, մամլակ:

 

Ա. Միրզախանյան

***

July 16, 2011 at 12:08 pm

Armenian Villages

 

Since 1915 we have not read stories which reflect life in Armenian villages. Many years ago, from the US or Canada, a Kessabtsi wrote a story about life in Kesab. The most memorable part was the story of the suffering and fury of their cow, following the death her calf.

 

Kessab and its surroundings are the only Armenian villages outside Armenia. The Kesabtsis today, with their description, bring us closer to the life of Armenian villages, as reflected by Armenian authors, who originated from Armenian villages, before 1915, in Bolis.

 

Vahé, through these stories, Kessab will never be forgotten. So, write more, whatever you remember from your Kesab life. I visited Kesab some years ago. It is great pleasure to be there.

 

We can read these stories with pleasure and interest.

Garo Armenian reflects on Antranig Zarougian

Attached is a liberal translation of Garo Armenian's personal reflections about the young poet turned into a novelist and publicist Antranig Zarugian. Garo Armenian had posted it on his Facebook page on March 2, 2019. The original posting is attached.

ANTRANIG ZAROUGIAN  – “He was the rebellious poet from the orphans’ generation. His poetic legacy is contained into two thin books of poetry. The first one “Arakastner – Sails” (1939) and the other “Tought Ar Yerevan  - Letter to Yerevan” (1945). Both of them were published in Aleppo and both beamed with intense poetry. 

Zarougian also had poems that never saw the light of day. He had embarked on lengthy poetry dedicated to “Saint Mesrob”. Only a segment of that poem was published in “Arevelk” yearbook, ( I think in 1947).

His “Letter to Yerevan” was an unprecedented revelation in our literature. Hagop Oshagan ranked it with Shahan Shahnour’s “Nahanche Arants Yerki- Retreat Without Song” novel. Unprecedented was also Hagop Oshagan’s 120 pages long typed manuscript dedicated to the powerful literary work of this young poet. Oshagan’s manuscript is titled “Vgayoutium me – A Testimony” and was written in Jerusalem in November 1945, right after his reading of “Letter to Yerevan”. Zarougian’s poem and Oshagan’s literary commentary retain an actuality that is relevant to this day to grasp the dimension and the fate of the Diaspora Armenian literature.

By the 1950’s Antranig Zarougian was already established in Beirut and had started publishing his “Nayiri” Weekly that continued the literary legacy of the “Nayiri” monthly, which Zarougian had founded in Aleppo along with like-minded idealists. After the great war, the monthly had become a literary magnetic pole for a whole generation. The monthly’s ties with the people were more candid and immediate; where convoluted narratives of Diaspora’s entangled issues were presented with intense literary outbursts. 

“Nayiri” ’s editor’s office became a beehive for writers and lovers of the Armenian literature.  Almost always present there were Yetvart Boyadjian, Boghos Snabian, Jerair Attarian, and many others. Those ad hoc meetings in the editor’s office, around the editor’s desk, gave rise to matchless lively literary critic and debate under the unequaled “moderation” of Antranig Zarougian.

For us, as new graduates of Jemaran, attending these meetings became another schooling where we started discovering our own innate literary impulses. The witted remarks of Zarougian were both magical and educational. 

It is now that I realize that, with intense wording, a whole culture was being passed to us and entrenched in our growing consciousness. It was the Diaspora that was taking root in us exemplified by wonderful and admirable fatherhood of sort.

Garo Armenian

November 22, 2015 

ԿԱԼԻ ՏՐՏՈՒՄ ԵՐԳ

Կը հաւաքեմ հերկերուս երբ աղքատ հունձքը այսօր,
Ու կը յանձնեմ կալս խեղճ ժամանակի կամնիչին,
Գիտեմ, հովերն անողոք և կամ հեղեղը պղտոր,
Պիտի ձեռքերս պարապ թողուն և ճի՛գս ապարդիւն...

Ես, անժառանգ սերմանող, կտակեմ հունձքս որու՛ն
Եւ արմատներս ինչպէ՛ս խրեմ հողին այս օտար,
Կը մերժէ հողն երբ յանձնել շրթներուս կուրծքն իրբեղուն,
Կ՚ըլլայ աճումըս երբորանվերջ կռիւ ու պայքար...

Կրնարաւիշը տոհմիս արևներու գրգանքին
Ու հովերու խարշափին բանալ անտառ մը հուժկու,
Եթէ Աղէտն ահաւորիրթափին մէջ մոլեգին,
Իմ արմատներս հողէս չնետէրա՜յն քան հեռու...

Կրնարիմ երգս ծորիլ թաւջութակի՜ պէս խորունկ,
Կիրակնօրեայ զանգի հու՜նչ կրնարիմ երգս ըլլալ,
Իրթաւալքին հետ բաշխել տաճարմ՚ամբողջ բոյրու խունկ,
Ժպիտներու, ծիծաղի ժայթքել աղբիւրմը զուլալ... 

Կրնարերգիս կշռոյթով շնչել երկիրմը ամբողջ,
Քալել սերունդմը կայտառ արևաբիբ աչքերով,
Հայրենական հողերուն տուած բազուկն իրամբողջ
Ապագային իրվստահ ու բախտին դէմ անվրդով...

Հասնէրիմ երգս գուցէ հազարներու՜ հոգիին
Ու բիւրերու սրտին մէջ պեղէրհանքերխնդութեան,
Եթէ բիւրերն իմ ցեղիս երկինքներու տակ ցրտին,
Հանապազորդկեանքին հետ չըմպէին թո՛յնը վաղուան...

Հայրենազու՛րկ իմ ընկեր, աքսորի խոնջ իմ եղբայր,
Այս դալկահարերգերուն մէջ փնտռէ ցո՛լքն օրերուդ.
Դաշունահարերազիդփնտռէ մարմի՛նն ոգեվար
Փնտռէ հոգիդ՝ պայքարի մէջ իրբախտին դէմ անգութ...

Հայրենիքիդդուն փնտռէ լոկ խենթ կարօ՜տը այստեղ
Փոխան կապո՜յտ երկինքին ու ջուրերուն անապակ.
Ու վերամբարձ ծառերուն, ծաղիկներուն տեղ շքեղ՝
Փնտռէ խաբուա՛ծ Հայ Տղուն հաւատքին բերդն աւերակ։

Գուցէ փնտռես իմ երգիս մէջ արդարգովքն անցեալին
Ու դառնութիւ՛ն գտնես հոն, գտնես թախիծ ու մորմոք.
Եւ սէրերուս մէջ փնտռես դեռ գուցէ սէ՜րն երկնային,
Պարզ ու վսեմ սէրը հին՝ ապրումներու մէջ նորոգ...

...Ու բարձրանայ մատեանէս երբ չարաշուք մերՆերկան
Ու որպէս սէր՝ տողերէս խուժեն մայթե՛րը վրադ,
Յիշէ՛, պանդուխտ իմ ընկեր, խաւարու ցու՜րտ այն ճամբան,
Որուն էջքին գահավէժ մենք ուղևորն ենք դժբախտ...։

ԱՆԴՐԱՆԻԿ ԾԱՌՈՒԿԵԱՆ
«Առագաստներ»
Հալէպ, 1939

Որբերու սերունդին ըմբոստ բանաստե՛ղծն էրան, որուն քերթողական ողջ աւանդը այսօրկ՚ամփոփուի երկու վտիտ քերթողագրքերու մէջ. առաջինը՝ «Առագաստներ» (1939), իսկ երկրորդը՝ «Թուղթ առ Երևան» (1945)։ Երկուքն ալ լոյս տեսած՝ Հալէպի մէջ և երկուքն ալ բանաստեղծական խօսքի թէժ հուրերո՛վ ճառագայթող։ Ծառուկեան ունէրնաև շարք մը անտիպներ«Առագաստներ»էն դուրս մնացած, որոնք երբեք լոյս չտեսան, և սկսերէրգրել երկարաշունչ բանաստեղծութիւն մը՝ «Սուրբ Մեսրոպ» խորագրով, որուն մէկ հատուածը միայն հրատարակուեցաւ Հալէպի «Արևելք» տարեգրքին մէջ (կարծեմ 1947-ին)։ 

Իր«Թուղթ առ Երևան»ը աննախընթաց երևոյթ էրմերգրականութեան մէջ։ Յակոբ Օշական զայն դասեց Շահան Շահնուրի «Նահանջը Առանց Երգի» վէպին համահաւասարև -- նոյնքան աննախընթա՛ց – ան գրեց 120 օշականեան խիտ էջերու ծաւալով մենագրութիւն մը նուիրուած՝ երիտասարդբանաստեղծի այս հզօրերկին։ Օշականի այս գործը կը կրէ «Վկայութիւն Մը» խորագիրը և գրուած է Երուսաղէմի մէջ 1945-ի նոյեմբերին, «Թուղթ առ Երևան»ի ընթերցումէն անմիջապէս ետք։ Թէ՛ Ծառուկեանի երկը և թէ՛ Օշականի վերլուծականը մեծ այժմէութիւն ունին այսօրՍփիւռքի գիրն ու ճակատագիրը հասկնալու, զանոնք ճիշտ մեկնելու և մերվաղուան հրամայականները բիւրեղացնելու տեսակէտէն։ 

Յիսունական թուականներուն, Անդրանիկ Ծառուկեան արդէն հաստատուերէրՊէյրութ և սկսերէրհրատարակել «Նայիրի» շաբաթաթերթը, որկը շարունակէրգրական աւանդը «Նայիրի» ամսագրին։ Այս վերջինը ինք հիմնեց Հալէպի մէջ խումբ մը գաղափարակից ընկերներու գործակցութեամբ և յետ-պատերազմեան այդտարիներուն ան դարձաւ գրական խօսքի քաշողական բևեռը ամբողջ սերունդի մը։ Շաբաթաթերթ «Նայիրի»ն բնականաբարտարբերէրիրնախորդէն։ Անորկապը մերժողովուրդին հետ աւելի անմիջական էրև աւելի յաճախակի։ Անորէջերուն մէջ հանրագումարի կու գային մերհասարակական կեանքի կնճռոտ խնդիրները յաճախ մեծ պոռթկումներով։ 

«Նայիրի»ի խմբագրատունը մեղուաբոյնն էրգրողներու և գրասէրներու։ Հոն էին միշտ ԵդուարդՊոյաճեանը, Պօղոս Սնապեանը, ԺիրայրԱթթարեանը և շատ ուրիշներ։ Անպաշտօն այդհաւաքները բուռն քննարկումներու անզուգական պահերէին Անդրանիկ Ծառուկեանի խմբագրական գրասեղանին շուրջ և իրանկրկնելի «ատենապետութեամբ»։ Իսկ մեզի՝ դեռ ճեմարանական նորերուս համարայդհանդիպումները երկրորդդպրոց մըն էին։ Հոն մենք գիւտը կ՚ընէինք գրական բեմի գործօն բնազդներուն։ Ծառուկեանի խօսքը իրսրամիտ պատումներով համեմուած՝ միշտ մոգական էրև դաստիարակիչ։ Հիմա կ՚անդրադառնամ, որամբողջ մշակոյթ մըն էր, որապրող խօսքի ուժականութեամբ օրը-օրին կը յանձնուէրմերաճող գիտակցութեան և Սփիւռքն էր, որինքզինք կը մշտնջենաւորէրիրմանուածապատ ձևերով և հրաշալի հայրութեամբ մը։ 

Կարօ Արմենեան
Նոյեմբեր22, 2015

(Աւելի քան երեք տարի առաջ, այս էջին վրայ տեղադրուած Անդրանիկ Ծառուկեանի այս բանաստեղծութիւնը յարակից ճեպագրութեամբ կրկին կը յանձնեմ Դիմատետրի ընկերներուս ուշադրութեան։)