V.H. Apelian's Blog

V.H. Apelian's Blog

Tuesday, April 19, 2022

Children of Martyrs

This poignant story, I titled here as "Children of Martyrs" is an excerpt from Philip Zakarian’s book titled “The Vigil of the Last Orphans” (Beirut, 1974). He is a superb story teller and his mostly associated with the title of his sequel “The Orphans Built a House” (1972). Vahe H. Apelian


 

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.

*****

A caricature of Philip Zakarian by Massis Araratian

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 him. 

“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 way. 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 am your mother as well. 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…”

 

Note:

Posted in Keghart.com on August 8, 2015

Pound - Refers to Lebanese Lira

Piaster - 100 piasters equal to one Lira (Pound)

 

Saturday, April 16, 2022

Turkish Media: During and After Artsakh War.

 Հայերէն բնագիրը կցուածէ է Անգլերէն թարգմանութեան։

Recalling my translations of Levon Sharoyan's posting from Aleppo about Turkish media's treatment of the Artsakh war, as the war was being waged  and right after the cessation of the war on November 9/10, 2020.  The links to the two postings by Levon Sharoyan are posted below. Vahe H. Apelian




During the War

http://vhapelian.blogspot.com/2020/10/what-does-turkish-media-say.html


After the Cessation of the War:

https://vhapelian.blogspot.com/2021/05/let-me-ease-you-pain-dear-artsakh.html



Thursday, April 14, 2022

“YOU LIE”

Vahe H. Apelian

Google-ի Հայերէն թարգմանութիւնը կցուած է։


 

On September 9, 2009, during President Obama’s (Democrat) STATE OF THE UNION address, Joe Wilson (Republican) shouted "You lie!". Millions of viewers naturally heard him.

I quote the following from CNN.

“The outburst came when Obama denied that proposed health care legislation would provide free health coverage for illegal immigrants. Immediately, Wilson shouted, "You lie!". “The outburst caused Obama to stop and look toward the heckler. "That's not true," the president responded - House Speaker Nancy Pelosi appeared shocked and turned toward the outburst as Vice President Joe Biden looked down and shook his head. Loud boos echoed through the chamber immediately after the outburst.”

What did the South Carolina Rep. Joe Wilson do afterwards? I quote:

“After the speech, South Carolina Rep. Joe Wilson issued a statement apologizing for his outburst. This evening, I let my emotions get the best of me when listening to the president's remarks regarding the coverage of illegal immigrants in the health care bill," the statement said. "While I disagree with the president's statement, my comments were inappropriate and regrettable. I extend sincere apologies to the president for this lack of civility. - Wilson also called the White House to apologize and spoke with Obama's Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel, who accepted the apology on the president's behalf, according to a senior administration official. We can disagree without being disagreeable," Emanuel said to Wilson, according to the official.” 

Why do I bring to the reader’s attention this episode?

It is true that the minority in the governance has understandable constraints. It does not have the leverage the majority has in having its say for governing the country. But the minority, often addressed as the opposition, has one leverage that the majority or the government does not have, nor can it have. Simply said, the minority or the opposition, more than the majority or the government, sets the tone for public discourse and upholds the democratic institution by its conduct. Against all arguments for the conduct of the majority or the government, it is the opposition that, either way, sets the mood and the nature of public discourse and not the government.

Regrettably the opposition is failing the republic of Armenia by the manner of its conducts and consequently undermining the position of the government as it faces inordinate pressure. The opposition is undermining the negotiating position of the government not by its opposition but, along its manner, by its absence in the country’s hall of power, the National Assembly hall, when deliberations are undergoing, especially at this existential crossroad for Armenia. Do not get me wrong. I am not implying that the opposition should embrace the government’s position, but it should not undermine the democratic process in its quest for opposition.

The image that comes across from Armenia does not portray a country divided politically over the nature and the principles of the negotiations the government is currently conducting with Turkey and Azerbaijan. The image portrays Armenia as a socially deeply divided country, a hallmark of a failing society.

Republican Representative Joe Wilson’s conduct during the Democrat President Obama’s State of the Union address was inappropriate. Imagine the members of the Congress were to act that way. A veritable chaos would ensue. But his conduct after the incident is a vivid example for an opposition member coming to terms in upholding the democratic process and its institutions.

                                                    *****

2009 թվականի սեպտեմբերի 9-ին նախագահ Օբամայի (դեմոկրատական) ՄԻՈՒԹՅԱՆ ՎԻՃԱԿԸ ելույթի ժամանակ Ջո Ուիլսոնը (հանրապետական) բղավեց «Դու ստում ես»: Միլիոնավոր հեռուստադիտողներ, բնականաբար, լսել են նրան:

CNN-ից մեջբերում եմ հետեւյալը.

«Պոռթկումը տեղի ունեցավ այն ժամանակ, երբ Օբաման հերքեց, որ առաջարկվող առողջապահական օրենսդրությունը անվճար առողջապահական ծածկույթ կապահովի անօրինական ներգաղթյալների համար: Անմիջապես Վիլսոնը բղավեց. «Դու ստում ես»: «Պոռթկումը ստիպեց Օբամային կանգ առնել և հայացքը հառաչողին: «Դա ճիշտ չէ», - պատասխանեց նախագահը. Ներկայացուցիչների պալատի խոսնակ Նենսի Փելոսին ցնցված երևաց և շրջվեց դեպի պոռթկումը, երբ փոխնախագահ Ջո Բայդենը նայեց ներքև և օրորեց գլուխը: Պոռթկումից անմիջապես հետո սենյակի միջով բարձր ձայներ հնչեցին»։

Ի՞նչ արեց Հարավային Կարոլինայի պատգամավոր Ջո Ուիլսոնը հետո: մեջբերում եմ.

«Ելույթից հետո Հարավային Կարոլինայի պատգամավոր Ջո Ուիլսոնը հայտարարություն է տարածել՝ ներողություն խնդրելով իր պոռթկումի համար: Այսօր երեկոյան ես թույլ տվեցի, որ իմ զգացմունքներն առավելագույնս տիրեն՝ լսելով նախագահի խոսքերը առողջապահության օրինագծում անօրինական ներգաղթյալների լուսաբանման վերաբերյալ»,- ասվում է հայտարարության մեջ։ . Ես անկեղծորեն ներողություն եմ խնդրում նախագահից այս քաղաքավարության պակասի համար: - Վիլսոնը նաև զանգահարել է Սպիտակ տուն՝ ներողություն խնդրելու և զրուցել Օբամայի աշխատակազմի ղեկավար Ռահմ Էմանուելի հետ, ով ընդունել է ներողությունը նախագահի անունից, ըստ վարչակազմի բարձրաստիճան պաշտոնյայի: Մենք կարող ենք չհամաձայնվել՝ չհամաձայնվելով»,- ըստ պաշտոնյայի՝ Վիլսոնին ասել է Էմանուելը։ 

Ինչո՞ւ եմ ընթերցողի ուշադրությանը ներկայացնում այս դրվագը:

Ճիշտ է, կառավարման փոքրամասնությունը հասկանալի սահմանափակումներ ունի։ Այն չունի այն լծակները, որոնք ունի մեծամասնությունը երկրի կառավարման հարցում իր խոսքն ասելու համար: Բայց փոքրամասնությունը, որին հաճախ դիմում են ընդդիմություն, ունի մեկ լծակ, որը չունի մեծամասնությունը կամ իշխանությունը, ոչ էլ կարող է ունենալ։ Պարզ ասած, փոքրամասնությունը կամ ընդդիմությունը, ավելի շատ, քան մեծամասնությունը կամ իշխանությունը, ստեղծում է հանրային դիսկուրսի տոնայնությունը և իր վարքագծով պաշտպանում է ժողովրդավարական ինստիտուտը: Ի հեճուկս մեծամասնության կամ իշխանության վարքագծի բոլոր փաստարկների՝ ընդդիմությունն է, որ ցանկացած դեպքում որոշում է հանրային դիսկուրսի տրամադրությունն ու բնույթը, և ոչ թե իշխանությունը:

Ցավոք, ընդդիմությունն իր վարքագծով տապալում է Հայաստանի Հանրապետությունը և, հետևաբար, խարխլում է իշխանության դիրքերը, քանի որ նա ենթարկվում է չափազանց մեծ ճնշման։ Ընդդիմությունը խարխլում է իշխանության բանակցային դիրքը ոչ թե իր ընդդիմության, այլ իր ձևով երկրի իշխանության դահլիճում՝ Ազգային ժողովի դահլիճում նրա բացակայությամբ, երբ քննարկումներ են ընթանում, հատկապես Հայաստանի համար այս էքզիստենցիալ խաչմերուկում։ Ինձ սխալ մի հասկացիր. Ես նկատի չունեմ, որ ընդդիմությունը պետք է ընդունի իշխանության դիրքորոշումը, բայց այն չպետք է խաթարի դեմոկրատական ​​գործընթացը՝ ընդդիմություն փնտրելու հարցում:

Հայաստանի պատկերը չի ներկայացնում մի երկիր, որը քաղաքականապես բաժանված է Թուրքիայի և Ադրբեջանի հետ բանակցությունների բնույթի և սկզբունքների շուրջ: Պատկերը ներկայացնում է Հայաստանը որպես սոցիալապես խորապես պառակտված երկիր, ձախողված հասարակության բնորոշ նշան:

Հանրապետական ​​ներկայացուցիչ Ջո Ուիլսոնի վարքագիծը դեմոկրատ նախագահ Օբամայի «Երկրի վիճակի մասին» ելույթի ժամանակ տեղին չէր: Պատկերացրեք, որ Կոնգրեսի անդամներն այդպես վարվեին։ Իրական քաոս է առաջանալու։ Սակայն միջադեպից հետո նրա վարքագիծը վառ օրինակ է ընդդիմադիր գործչի համար, որը համակերպվում է ժողովրդավարական գործընթացի և դրա ինստիտուտների պահպանման հարցում:

 

 

 

 

 

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Tuesday, April 12, 2022

Anna the Bride

 


Today I read that George Kevork Apelian’s “Anna the Bride” has been translated into Italian. The book was also translated into Arabic and English (by Annie Hoglind). 

Anna was George Kevork Apelian's paternal grandmother. The book is about Anna, refusing to marry the prospective groom her parents had her engaged, she sneaked out of her parent’s house in the middle of the night and walked alone, all the way from her coastal village Kaladouran to her lover Kerop’s parental house in the village of Keurkune. Although elopements were not uncommon in Kessab, but never a girl had walked on her own to her lover’s house before. Her elopement and the subsequent feud between the families became part of the folklore of Kessab and a tune was continued to be sung about the event during marriage festivities for long, well after Anna, Kerop were no more. 

The young couple fathered two sons, Kerop and James, the author’s father. But her husband left for the U.S. to join his two brothers and have his pregnant wife and son join him after he settled. Anna and her children left Iskenderun on ship to Marseille France to continue their journey to the U.S. But she was not permitted to immigrate. Forced to return to Keurkune, she was deported with her in-laws and sister-in-law on their genocidal march where she, her elder son, her in-laws succumbed to the ordeal. Only her younger son James and her sister-in-law Karoun, my maternal grandmother, survived. She became James' guardian angel.

“Anna the Bride” is the story of Anna Tititian. A true story and the staff of which movies are made.

Anna hailed from the Titizian family. Shahe' Kasparian wrote this poem in the memory of Anna who was his wife Sylva’s and his brother-in-laws: John and Garbis Titizian’s paternal grandfather’s sister.

 

Anna The Bride

 

A striking pearl necklace adorning her neck,

she was so stunning with hazel almond eyes,

a gorgeous complexion with no speck,

glowing beauty in the midnight moonrise.

 

Long silky black hair, braided to her waist,

she shined, the moon paling in comparison,

a daunting and arduous journey she faced

in a lacy traditional shawl delightfully crimson.

 

In the middle of the night, shivering  and cold

with a scant foot sandal, walked over rocks

amidst the howling of coyotes so bold,

never to look back, strolled  so many blocks.

 

She was engaged to one not of her choosing,

she denied her father's & mother's strong wish

and in spite of their will, not a minute losing

she embarked on a voyage of uncertain finish.

 

No one so pretty like her had dared elope

alone in the dark she carried on and on,

frightened and confused down the slope,

determined to get to her lover before dawn.

 

Sobbing at times but surely always smiling

she longed for the encounter and anticipated

the last step in her new passage and yearning,

new beginning, new chapter, to be created.

 

And so, she was united at last with her lover,

betrothed to each other for all eternity

conceived their first child under heavy cover

only to be separated from her community.

 

He travelled far away to the Land of the Free

sent word for her to name their second child

possibilities for a family reunion never to be

but she never lost hope and always complied.

 

Sad circumstances looming over the horizon,

once again she was forced against all her wishes

time to walk the march of death with no reason

like her million and a half sisters and  brothers.

 

Evil Ottoman empire schemed to annihilate,

eradicate any trace of Armenian descendants

but their plans were destined to a different fate

children scattered in the world of remnants.

 

She and her firstborn went through carnage

succumbed to an untimely and tragic death

her angelic life curtailed like her marriage

only to leave a legacy of precious breath.

 

Anna  Bride  will always be remembered

even though she has no grave or tombstone

she lives on in the ten million strong bred

her indomitable spirit surely infinitely grown.

  

Shahe' Kasparian 2-14-14

Note: Posted with his Permission



Saturday, April 9, 2022

After the Breakage - Կոտրելէն Ետքը

Krikor Zohrab

Translated by Vahe H. Apelian

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

 

Tuesday, April 5, 2022

Thanking the Readers of my Blogs

Vahe H. Apelian


 Bog, Blogging and blogger:

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

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

This new word as a noun and as a verb is liberating for me because the blogger, in this instance I, do not need to be measured by a writer’s yardstick. I am a blogger and not a writer as we understand being a writer; nor my blogging should be measured against a scholarly work. They are not researched articles; they are merely blogs.

Many publishers have aspired to be masters of their voice, but a few had achieved until we stepped into this New Brave World. Simon Simonian and Antranig Zarougian had achieved the ultimate a journalist aspired. They were masters of the journals they published. They were the editors and the publishers of their weekly journals, “Spurk” and “Nayiri” respectively. Both were independent minded and would not have thrived in an organization.  Fortunately, new technology has enabled anyone to have his or her own journal, we call blog. 

As of today, I have posted 475 blogs and they have been read in total 217,005 times by readers from Armenia to America and thence to Australia and in many other countries in between.  I should note that the site does not assure that the blogs are read. It merely notes there have been so many “page-views”, over 217,000, as I noted above. I assume a reader viewing a blog implies reading the blog. 

I thank all those who have opted to read my blogs instead of doing something else at that moment. Hopefully they found something there that made reading my blogs worthwhile.!

Saturday, March 26, 2022

Զարմանալի Հայ - Astonishing Armenian

Translated by  Vahe H. Apelian

~Գևորգ Էմին~

Զարմանալի՛ հայ


Պապդ թուրքահայ,
Հայրդ ռուսահայ,
Դու ֆրանսահայ,
Զարմանալի հա՜յ...


Սասունում ծնուած,
Պեյրութում ապրած,
Էջմիածնում մեռած...
Զարմանալի՜ հայ։


Տղադ Սևանում,
Թոռդ Միլանում,
Ծոռդ Թեհրանում։
Քո սերմը վաղու՜ց քեզ չի
հասկանում...
Առանց պապ ու տատ,
Հայրենական հող,
Մայրենի լեզու՛,

Առանց հայր ու մայր։
Զարմանալի հա՜յ...


Որ որպես հիւր է իրտունը գալիս,                
Որպես տուրիստ իր տանմեջ ման գալիս,
Եւ ետ գնում տու՛ն,
Որ Նիս է կոչվում,
Հալեպ կամ Շանհա՜յ։
Զարմանալի՜ հայ,
Զարմանալի հա՜յ...

 

Kevork Emin

 

Astonishing Armenian

 


Your grandfather is aTurkish Armenian,

Your father is a Russian Armenian,

You are a French Armenian,

Astonishing Armenian...

 

Hailed from Sassoun,

Lived in Beirut,

Died in Etchmiadzin.

Astonishing Armenian...

  

Your son is in Sevan,

Your grandchild is in Milan,

Your great grandchild is in Tehran.

Your genes  have long ceased to

understand you…

Without Tatik and Mamik,

Without ancestral land,

Without mother tongue,

Without dad and mom.

Astonishing Armenian….

 

 


As a guest comes to his

home,

As a tourist, in his house

he roams,

and returns home,

that is called Niece,

Aleppo or Chennai.

Astonishing՜ Armenian

Astonishing Armenian՜