If you shall become an old person

 A few days ago, I came across a poem titled “If you shall become an old man”. The poem was by an Apologetic Poet who noted that, the poem he wrote is an adaptation of the poem IF by Rudyard Kipling. And if, the Apologetic Poet’s “IF” does not work for you, there is Julie Andrews adaptation along the Sound of Music. So, children of all ages, here are the two poems for you. You may find solace in them. Vaհe H Apelian

 

IF YOU SHALL BECOME AN OLD MAN

(An Adaptation of The Poem IF By RUDYARD KIPLING)

THE APOLOGETIC POET

 

If you can move without stumbling, with dignity intact,

While others rely on walkers, their steps compact;

If you can wait for family visits, patient and kind,

Even when emergencies are just an excuse to find;

Or resist the allure of dating, not feeling quite refined,

Yet still cherishing beauty within your mind.

If you can dress with care, without vanity's hold,

And write poetry, sharing stories yet untold;

If you can face Dementia and Alzheimer's embrace,

Fight against their grip, with courage and grace;

If you can bear repeated tales, fellow elders' plight,

Understanding the importance of sharing their light.

Or see your dreams shattered, and still believe,

That new beginnings await, if you choose to perceive;

If you can rebuild relationships, taking the lead,

Showing forgiveness, as you plant love's seed;

And hold fast to love, when passion's flame has ceased,

Embracing companionship, a bond that's not released.

If you can remain part of the crowd, hand in hand,

Or reside in a home, where connection still stands;

If neither forgotten birthdays, nor fading memories,

Can wound your spirit, for love's legacy still carries;

If you can sing and dance, with joyous glee,

Embodying the vitality of what it means to be free.

Then rejoice, dear elder, for you are ever agile,

A testament to strength, resilience, and your smile.

***

 

And if the “IF”-s are no longer the answer for you, Jule Andrews has an answer, along the her famous Sound of Music. Enjoy it as you read Julie Andrew’s adaptation.

 

Botox and nosedrops and needles for knitting,

Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,

Bundles of magazines tied up in string,

These are a few of my favorite things.

Cadillacs and cataracts, hearing aids and glasses,

Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,

Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,

These are a few of my favorite things.

When the pipes leak, When the bones creak,

When the knees go bad,

I simply remember my favorite things,

And then I don't feel so bad.

Hot tea and crumpets and corn pads for bunions,

No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,

Bathrobes and heating pads and hot meals they bring,

These are a few of my favorite things.

Back pain, confused brains and no need for sinnin',

Thin bones and fractures and hair that is thinnin',

And we won't mention our short, shrunken frames,

When we remember our favorite things.

When the joints ache, When the hips break,

When the eyes grow dim,

Then I remember the great life I've had,

And then I don't feel so bad.

Լիբանահայ Երիտասարդը քաղաքացիական պատերազմին

  

Ազդակ օրաթերթէն

«Ոտքերս հաստատ դպած էին գետնին։ Գնդաձիրը ամուր բըռնած էի ձեռիս մէջ։  Քիչ մը կորով ու քիչ մը վճռակամութիւն ունէի դեռ։ Նոյնիսկ լաւատէս կրնայի ըլլալ՝ խաբուսիկ յոյսով մը։ Բայց մարդիկ, բարեկամնրե կը մեռնէին, կամ ՝ կը մեկնէին։ Եւ բոլոր մեռնողներուն եւ հեռացողներուն համար կռունկ մըպ կ՚աւելնար կուրծքիս տակ։

          Տարագիր կռունկ մը։»

Արա Աբէլեան՝ «Զինադուլ 27», Համազգային Վահէ Սեթեան տպարան, Պէյրութ, 1979.   

***

Րաֆֆի Արտալճեան՝ «Ապրուած օրեր. Քլաշինն ու Թմբուկի Փայտիկներ», Հոկտեմբեր, 23, 2026.

      

«Պատերազմը մեր շուրջն էր, բայց մենք տակաւին երիտասարդ էինք: Եւ երիտասարդութիւնը, նոյնիսկ պատերազմի մէջ իր ճամբան կը գտնէր: Մէկ գիշեր ձեռքիս քլաշինն էր, յաջորդ օրը` թմբուկի փայտիկները: Այն ատեն այս հակասութեան մասին չէինք մտածեր: Կ՛ապրէինք միայն: Քառասունհինգ տարի ետք, երբ այդ օրերուն կը վերադառնամ, ամէնէն զարմանալին այն է, թէ որքա՛ն սովորական դարձած էր մեզի անսովորը: Եւ որքան այսօր կը զգամ պակասը այդ օրերու մեր ղեկավարներու իմաստութեան ու հեռատեսութեան, տոքթոր Մելքոնի նման մարդոց:

          Էհ, վալլահ:»

Րաֆֆի Արտալճեան՝ «Ապրուած օրեր. Քլաշինն ու Թմբուկի Փայտիկներ», Հոկտեմբեր, 23, 2026.

Have you read Mesrob Mashdots ?

 Vaհe H Apelian

During his last customary an hour-long press conference today, PM Nikol Pashinyan invoked Mesrob Mashdots and more than once asked the reporters quizzing him, whether the person has read Mesrob Mashdots.

I do not know if Mesrob Mashdots has authored a book. But I imagine that PM Nikol Pashinyan may have been very well referencing to Mesrob Mashdots led translation of the bible for which he was canonized, along with the rest of the translators. 

Tradition claims that the first phrase from the bible Mesrob Mashdots and holy translators translated into Armenian, after Mesrob Mashdots had  the vision for the Armenian alphabet, was the second verse of Proverb 1 that reads: "To know wisdom and instruction; to perceive the words of understanding" (Proverbs 1-2, King James Version).  What a first choice it was if it is true. 

What a choice it is!! if it is a myth the Armenians have chosen to perpetuate to this very day. More than any time in my lifetime, the Armenians need to abide by its spirit, not necessarily as a biblical calling, but for having the wisdom of marshaling the course of their country, the Republic of Armenia.

The weekly hour-long press conferences the PM conducts with the reporters, is not a press conference, in the ordinary sense of the word. That is to say, have the  PM Nikol  Pashinyan detail his government’s policies, in response to questions the reporters ask. It has become more of a misplaced forum for political confrontation by reporters who represent political interests that have an axe to grind or aim to “shoot” the PM at his foot if not his feet, to cripple him if they can. The owners of the news agencies that employ these reporters may consider the PM’s press conference is an appropriate time to score against the PM. Afterall, more people follow the PM’s press conference than the deliberations in the National Assembly. With such reporters, the opposition need not have its delegates deliberating in opposition in the National Assembly.

“Ճանաչել զիմաստութիւն եւ զխրատ, իմանալ զբանս հանճարոյ”

I have always remained impressed by that profound and eloquent biblical passage, Mesrob Mashdots is claimed to have first translated. The Armenian Evangelical schools I attended in Lebanon had the quote as the school’s motto. But I will admit that the very first Armenian translated phrase in Krapar (classical Armenian) is so beautiful, so eloquent that its message comes across much more profound in classical Armenian than in vernacular Armenian. 

But the bible, if read in Armenian, is mostly read in vernacular Armenian, be it in its Western  or Eastern diction.

Two fathers - Երկու հայրեր

 Բնագիրը կցուած է։ In 1907, on the day of Khrimian Hayrik’s funeral on November 6, the Tiflis newspaper “Nor Alik” (“New Wave”) had published the following short story by Hovhannes Tumanyan titled “Two Fathers.” I copied the reproduction of the story from Arevelk.am. Tumanyan and Khrimian Hayrik are spelled as in Wikipedia.

 

“Two Fathers”, by Hovhannes Tumanyan

 

It was the winter of the 1896 massacres. A group of refugees from the region of Sasun arrived in Etchmiadzin. Among them was the elderly Der Sargis from the village of A.

“I wish to kiss Hayrik’s hand,” he requested at the veharan  (the Catholicos’s residence). He was allowed inside.

“Welcome, Father,” Hayrik said, extending his hand.

The priest kissed it and stepped back, standing in the middle of the hall—weary and broken.

“Where do you come from?”

“From the region of Sasun. I am Der Sargis from A…”

“Der Sargis from A…?”

“Yes, Hayrik.”

“And…?”

“I had a family—a household of twenty people, Hayrik.” They slaughtered my sons, took away my daughters-in-law, my grandchildren are gone; they looted my home and set it on fire... and I am left like this...

— Well, now...

— I want nothing, Hayrik. I... I just came... came to tell Hayrik... I want nothing more...

And there stood before Hayrik a man who had lost everything and wanted nothing.

Both remained silent.

— How many sons did you lose, Father Sargis? — the Catholicos asked, lifting his head.

— Twenty in total, Hayrik.

— You have lost twenty sons, and I have lost twenty thousand, — Hayrik replied. — So, twenty thousand, plus twenty. Whose loss is greater, Father Sargis?

The priest shuddered and stood in silence.

— Whose grief is greater, Father Sargis?

— Hayrik’s.

— Then come, Father Sargis—come closer—place your right hand upon my head; pray, and bless me, that I may endure this grief.

He spoke, and bowed his head. The priest hurried forward, placed his right hand upon his Pontiff’s head, and began to murmur a prayer. His eyes were filled with tears.

He was blessing the Catholicos of All Armenians! 

Before him, bowing his head was the father of All Armenians.

***

1907 թվականին, Խրիմյան Հայրիկի հուղարկավորության օրը (նոյեմբերի 6(19))-ին, Թիֆլիսի «Նոր ալիք» թերթում տպվում է Հովհաննես Թումանյանի «Երկու հայր» փոքրիկ պատմվածքը, որի հերոսը Խրիմյան Հայրիկն է:

 

                                  Հովհաննես Թումանյան

                                        «Երկու հայր»

 

1896-ի կոտորածի ձմեռն էր։ Մի խումբ փախստականներ Սասունի կողմերից հասան Էջմիածին։ Նրանց մեջն էր եւ Ա. գյուղի ծերունի տեր Սարգիսը։

-Հայրիկի աջը կուզեմ համբուրել,- խնդրեց նա Վեհարանում, ու ներս թողին։

-Բարով, տեր հայր,-աջը մեկնեց Հայրիկը։

Քահանան համբուրեց ու ետ եկավ, կանգնեց դահլիճի մեջտեղը հոգնած, խորտակված։

-Ո՞րտեղից կուգաս։

-Սասունի կողմերեն. Ես Ա-ի տեր Սարգիսն եմ…

-Ա-ի տեր Սարգի՞սը…

-Այո՛, Հայրիկ։

-Է՞…

-Ես քսան հոգուց գերդաստան ունեի, Հայրիկ. տղաներս կոտորեցին, հարսերս տարան, թոռներս կորան, տունս թալնեցին, վառեցին․ մնացի այսպես…

-Է՜, հիմի…

-Ես ոչինչ չեմ ուզում, Հայրիկ։ Ես… այնպես եկել եմ… եկել Հայրիկին ասեմ… էլ ոչինչ չեմ ուզում…

Ու Հայրիկի առջեւ կանգնած էր մարդը, որ ամեն ինչ կորցրել էր ու ոչինչ չէր ուզում։

Երկուսն էլ լուռ էին։

-Քանի՞ որդի կորցրիր, տեր Սարգիս,- գլուխը վեր քաշեց կաթողիկոսը։

 -Ամենքը միասին քսան, Հայրիկ։

-Դու քսան որդի ես կորցրել, իսկ ես քսան հազար,- պատասխանեց Հայրիկը,-այդ էլ քսան՝ եղավ քսան հազար ու քսան… Ո՞ւմն է շատ, տեր Սարգիս…

Քահանան ցնցվեց ու լուռ կանգնած էր։

-Ո՞ւմ վիշտն է մեծ, տեր Սարգիս։

- Հայրիկինը։

-Դե, ե՛կ, տեր Սարգիս, մոտ ե՛կ, աջդ դիր գլխիս, աղոթիր, օրհնիր, որ այս վշտին դիմանամ։

Ասվ ու գլուխը խոնարհեց։

Քահանան շտապեց առաջ, աջը դրավ իր Հայրապետի գլխին, սկսեց աղոթք մրմնջալ, ու աչքերը լցվեցին արտասուքով…

Նա օրհնում էր Հայոց Կաթողիկոսի՜ն… Նրա առջեւ խոնարհած էր Հայոց Հայրիկը…

Chkam ayntegh - Չկամ այնտեղ

 Chkam ayntegh - Չկամ այնտեղ

In Google translation

 

I don't want there

I don't want there, where you didn't leave your footprints on the sand,

where the seagull's longing without wings, where the seagull's longing without wings

fused with the old dream of the water.

 

I am there, where a voice was on your lips, the familiar shore trembles,

where your eyes fly, where your eyes fly

swim calmly in the sea of ​​the sky.

 

I don't want there, where the day doesn't cloud the softness of your hair,

where the tears of the trees are resin, where the tears of the trees are resin

cleanse a caring deer.

 

I am there, where you don't turn your gaze from the door in hope,

where, having become a child, cheerful, where, having become a child, cheerful

you make a snowman.

 

I don't want to be where the steamboat hasn't sung its song loudly,

where the sky has understood, where the sky has understood,

that it has become orphaned without you.

 

I am there where I am not,

I am just around you, ignoring you.

 

Even a day without you, you know,

my day without your sun,

Living is in vain, perhaps.

Բնագիրը՝

Չկամ այնտեղ

Չկամ այնտեղ, ուր չես թողել հետքերը քո տակավազին,

որտեղ ճայի կարոտն անթև, որտեղ ճայի կարոտն անթև

ձուլվեց ջրի հին երազին։

 

Ես կամ այնտեղ, ուր ձայն էր շուրթերին՝ ծանոթ ափի դողում,

որտեղ աչքերն են քո թռչում, որտեղ աչքերն են քո թռչում

երկնի ծովում հանդարտ լողում։

 

Չկամ այնտեղ, ուր օրը չի ամպի քո վարսերից մեղմիկ,

ուր ծառերի արցունքն է՝ խեժ, ուր ծառերի արցունքն է՝ խեժ

սրբում մի հոգատար եղնիկ։

 

Ես կամ այնտեղ, ուր դու հույսով

հայացքդ չես թեքում դռնից,

որտեղ մանուկ դարձած՝ զվարթ, որտեղ մանուկ դարձած՝ զվարթ

դու պատրաստում ես ձնեմարդ։

 

Չկամ այնտեղ, ուր շոգենավն իր երգը չի երգել ուժեղ,

որտեղ երկինքն է հասկացել, որտեղ երկինքն է հասկացել,

որ առանց քեզ է որբացել։

 

Ես կամ այնտեղ, ուր ես չկամ,

քո շուրջն եմ ուղղակի՝ անտես։

 

Մի օրն էլ առանց քեզ, գիտես,

իմ օրն առանց քո արևի՝

ապրելը զուր է, երևի։

Was it Stockholm Syndrome?

 Reproduced from my article I posted in Keghart.com on January 14, 2014. Vaհe H Apelian

Stockholm Syndrome is a term I came across for the first time in my freshman Psychology 101 course. It was an elective course. The term gave me a whole new perspective about my maternal grandmother’s unusual recount of her ordeal during the Genocide.

My maternal grandmother: Karoun (Apelian) Chelebian

Wikipedia defines it as follows: “Stockholm syndrome, or capture–bonding, is a psychological phenomenon in which hostages express empathy and sympathy and have positive feelings toward their captors, sometimes to the point of defending them. The FBI’s Hostage Barricade Database System shows that roughly 27% of victims show evidence of Stockholm syndrome.” Psychologists offer varying explanations to this seemingly contradictory behavior. It may be that it is the last resort to safeguard one’s sanity.

My paternal and maternal grandparents were orphaned survivors of the Armenian Genocide. They were driven to their extermination along with the rest of their parental families and Kessabtsis in July 1915. The popular account in Kessab is that their ordeal lasted three years and three months, placing their return to their villages sometime in the fall of 1918 to weather the winter ahead without necessary provisions. Somehow, they made it, so to speak.

My maternal grandfather Khacher Chelebian

I was their firstborn grandchild. Their other grandchildren would trail me by some six years and longer. It may be because of that I seemed to have enjoyed their special attention, although I did not have the pleasure of knowing my maternal gradfather, Khacher. He had passed away at the age of 38 due to ‘pneumonia’ leaving his young wife, my maternal grandmother Karoun (Apelian) Chelebian, a young widow raising their 2 sons and their 2 daughters. Their eldest child, my later maternal uncle, Dr. Antranig Chalabian, was a 10 years old lad when his father passed away.

My paternal grandfather Stepan Apelian

My paternal grandfather, Stepan, was a quiet man. His whole life outside his family and work in the fields, revolved and involved the Armenian Evangelical church of Keurkune, which he served his whole life as its life-long treasurer and trustee until almost the last few years of his life. He was very evasive when it came to my youthful curiosity about his life during the Genocide.  He had a brother named Garabed, who passed away presumably during the catastrophe. My brother was named after him. He also seemed to have a sister who survived the Genocide. We never found out where she lived.

My paternal grandmother Sara (Mousajekian) Apelian

My paternal grandmother, Sarah, was a gregarious woman. She had become de facto medical custodian of the village. There was no birth, dislocated joints or broken bones she was not called to attend. Our grandparents’ house was the only one in the village that was known after her instead of her husband, when households in greater Kessab were referred to by the patriarch of the family. She was very young when she also embarked on the perilous journey. That may be the reason why she did not have much recollection to share.

My maternal grandmother’s case was altogether different. I associate the Armenian Genocide with her more than with anyone else. She was fifteen years old when she was driven from her home with the rest of her parental family. She was a refined woman in manners, in conversation, in her choice of words. She stood apart. Almost every evening I would find her kneeling on her bed and praying with a barely audible but intense murmur. My mother has told me that she read the Bible once a year, every year. She had her family’s milestones inscribed in a beautiful handwriting in a Bible that I now treasure.

My maternal grandmother Karoun (Apelian) Chelebian with her children and their spouses and her first grandchild, me.
Standing LtoR: Hovhannes Chelebian, Zvart (Chelebian) Apelian, Hovhannes Apelian, Antranig Chelebiab, 
Seated LtoR: Kohar (Apelian) Chelebian, Vahe H. Apelian, Karoun (Apelian) Chelebian, Siran (Toutikian) Chelebian

When the family talk came to Genocide, she would tell us that the Turkish gendarmes that accompanied their caravan displayed empathy. They would encourage them, she would tell us, to endure a bit longer for their ordeal would soon be over. They showed care and concern to their plight, she would say. I was a high school student and I would often wander how that could be for often at night she exhibited a scary scene. Every now and then, far into the night, when everyone in the family would be sleeping suddenly she would scream in a terrifying agony and fear. We would immediately rush to her bedside and wake her up. I do not recall seeing her sweating or showing any outward sign of distress. She would then go back sleeping peacefully completely oblivious of the experience a moment ago.

It was in that Psychology 101 class when the day’s lecture dealt with Stockholm syndrome that it occurred to me that my maternal grandmother demonstrated the symptoms of that affliction.

***

I took leave of her in July 1977 in the midst of the Lebanese Civil War. I was to embark on my own immigrant’s journey to the United States. My maternal uncle and aunt told me that she had agonized over my departure and passed away that very night after an apparent stroke. We heard the news of her demise the next day through a radio station. I had crossed West Beirut and could no longer return. My uncle accompanied her body to Kessab and had her buried next to her husband and daughter in the Keurkune’ ancient cemetery. My mother decided not to wear black. She did not want to bid me farewell in sober attire.

Those were hectic days. After all these years, and whenever I think of those days, I see my mother waving a white handkerchief as the boat sailed into the sea and she disappeared from view. I also cannot do away with the association of Stockholm syndrome and my maternal grandmother’s unusual depiction of her ordeal during the Genocide even though many of my family members have told me that it was her deep-seated Christian faith of forgiveness that drove her and not such a syndrome.

 

 

Schahan Tchapraste

Vaհe H Apelian

Vote for Schahan Tchapraste to be the next Top Host. Only two days are left.

I met Schahan and his younger brother Vazken in Beirut. They are the sons of Yetvart Tchaprast, who was a prominent Armenian stage actor. Their father had brought his two sons to Beirut to study Armenian in the famed Jemaran.  His father stayed at Hotel Lux, an inn that my father ran whose guests were overwhelmingly Armenians. That is how I came to meet him and his brother. We were middle school and then high school students

It was apparent then that Schahan was drawn to theater and stage. I recall him talking to me of taking part in a student stage. After his graduation they returned to the U.S. 

Decades later, thanks to Facebook, I was able to contact him. I put an appeal on Facebook to contact Shahan Chaprast. Little did I know that he spelled his name Schahan Tchapraste. 

His years in Armenian school have impacted his life for the better, he told me, when I asked him how does he now assess his few years stay in Beirut, studying in Jemaran. He wrote. “The six years I spent in Beirut attending Djemaran were magnificent! I'm a little different from most Armenian/Americans because my mother was Italian. Vasken and I were born in Milano, and we came to the U.S. when I was 3. Our early education was typically American but that changed when we went to Beirut. My feeling is that my education was superior to most other types of learning. I became multi-lingual, I learned so much about my Armenian heritage and I think it made me more knowledgeable about the world we live in. My college education was based on the arts because I attended the Boston Conservatory of Music and followed, for a few years, in my father's footsteps. I truly think that my six wonderful years in Beirut made me a better person. “

His natural affinity to stage, seems to have shaped his career. He wrote to me that “Once upon a time, I was “Doc”, Bugs Bunny’s friend on stage in The Bugs Bunny Follies. I traveled the US and brought laughter and fun to many kids and their parents. I had a lot of fun too.” “So, vote for me,” he wrote. Naturally I did. In fact, I did a promotional voting as well, having cast 10 votes in his favor, because as far as I am concerned, I rank him 10 out of proverbial 10.

Schahan Tchaparate is also the author of three books listed on Amazon.com. He had titled them, “Genocide Fugue”, “Love and Murder in New York City”, “In the Shadow of Ararat”.

At a certain point in time, he has gotten off the stage but has remained with theater. He wrote. “I had a career in theatre for almost 30 years! After performing for 12 years, I became a talent manager. I had a couple of reasonably popular stars.”

Take a moment and vote for Schahan Tchapraste. He says,” I was a performer for 30 years, I’m an author with 3 novels available on Amazon. I have an impressive background (in my not so humble opinion).I think so too.

Take a moment of vote for Schahan Tchapraste by clicking the attached link. ((https://tophost.org/2026/schahan-tchapraste?fbclid=IwY2xjawU7Y1FleHRuA2FlbQIxMABwZG9mAWJyaWQRMUQ5Y3pIT21lbHFHTXN3Q1FzcnRjBmFwcF9pZBAyMjIwMzkxNzg4MjAwODkyAAEeiKnJzktk2WW_NLbsy-7Rl9LZtd-260zyjzKVOsiixpVKBsfUYoTKCSqwifw_aem_M4eNheytx_SkMfw5KAbHFw)  

Link: The Tchaprasts: https://vhapelian.blogspot.com/2023/08/the-chaprasts.html