I admit that I borrowed the title of this blog from Stepan Piligan’s latest column in the Armenian Weekly. He titled it similarly but with a caveat, extolling us to be reflective and ask ourselves, “Are we Ready?” The light at the end of the tunnel, Stepan claims, is becoming distantly visible and we seem to be getting ready to leave the cocoon we have been in for almost a year now. In this year-long dreaded lockdown, we sheltered ourselves from an enemy we cannot see, detect as it lurks all around us and threatens our well being as a person, family, as extended relations, and as a community at large. That enemy’s name is Covid-19. We still seem not to have conquered the enemy as we should.
I urge readers to read Stepan’s weekly column because Stepan has taken a hiatus from his customary theme that had rightly and mostly occupied his mind, the state of Armenia. In this column he dwells on another aspect of our collective being as Armenians. His latest article pertains, shall we say, the Armenian community East of the Mississippi River in the U.S.A whose capital city remains in my mind, the Greater Boston. I do not mean of course to imply that he neglects the rest of the community.
Greater Boston played a crucial role in shaping the history of the United States of America, which has been hosting our countrymen well before the genocide. If we were to point to an epicenter where the Armenian American community coalesced at one time and sprang from it, it will be Greater Boston in the great State of Massachussets. It is where (Worcester) the Encyclical Order of the Khrimian Hayrig came and established the Diocese of the Armenian Apostolic Church. The longest running Armenian newspaper Hairenik continues to be published in Watertown, in Greater Boston. The first Armenian Evangelical Church was established, first as a body and then as a sanctuary. The oldest Armenian Church still in use in the U.S. is .the Armenian Church of the Martyrs was built in 1901 and was dedicated to the memory of the Armenian martyrs of the dreaded Hamidian Massacres but surely embodies the Genocide martyrs as well. The Armenian Missionary Association of America and the first Armenian Evangelical Union (of North America) were founded in that church in Worcester, in greater Boston area.
The reason I borrowed his title is because today I received the Armenian Youth Federation Eastern U.S.A. Region’s 2020 Commemorative AYF Olympics booklet. The 87th AYF Olympics was to take place in Worcester, MA. The last time the community hosted the games was in 1974. The first hosting in Worcester was the 20th AYF Olympics in 1953. It is noted that it was a historic event in the annals of the AYF Olympics history. A six men team led by high scorer Andy Dadigian, the booklet claims, put an end to the dominance of the AYF Providence athletes and snatched victories from them. For very well known reasons the community who had embarked preparing the hosting of the game long before 2020, could not host the event. There is quite a bit of AYF Olympics history in the booklet for those interested to read.
Surely, the year 2020 was a tumultuous year. We went through a hotly contested presidential election and elected the 46th President of the United States, Joe Biden. And on November 10, 2020 we woke up to the bitter reality of the 44 days long second Artsakh war we lost and experienced the capitulation of Armenia and having its PM Pachinyan sign the dictates of a cease fire agreement brokered by Russia.
Let us face it. Let us sit crooked and speaking straight, as the Armenian saying goes, these two events very much reflected on our personal relationships with friends, relatives and even family members. As we brave the winter of 2021 and wait for the spring, we, as a community, are fragmented far more than we have been in our recent history. Our youth, those who make up the AYF, born after Armenia declared its independence on September 21, 1991 became the Armenian generation that experiencing the best recent Armenian history had offered us. Regretfully their experience was bitterly shattered. Stepan Piligian rightfully asks, “Are We Ready?” Naturally our experiences during 2020 will shape our perceptions and dealings with each other not only in 2021 but most likely for a long time.
Much is and can be at stake in and for our communities if we are not vigilant and do not channel our sentiments properly for the greater good of our community. I started this article referencing Stepan Piligian and I will end it quoting his concluding paragraph. “We must retain what adds value from our experiences over the last year (Note: 2020). I would encourage that this become a conscious effort as “reopening” planning commences. Let’s get to work; that light in the tunnel is the manifestation of our hope.”
Epilents (Էբելենց) was the pen-name of Albert Apelian, M.D. It was a fairly known pen-name at one time. The Armenian Wikipedia reveals the use of the moniker as early as in 1928 in “Hairenik” Daily in Boston.
It is thought that it was Dr. Albert Apelian who came with the Epilents penname. It is not from the Kessab dialect. Kessabtsis have similar words such such as Epillek, Epillik, which mean of or from the Apelians. Epilents, I believe, is its Armenian version implying of Apelians as the ending “–ents” implies from or of, in Armenian. It is a well thought Armenian pen-name and rings true for someone hailing from the Apelian family of Kessab.
Dr. Albert Apelian was born in Kessab in 1892 and lived a long and a fruitful life. He passed away at the ripe of age of 93. He authored five medical books, four novels and a historical documentary about Kessab in Armenian along with many articles he published over the years in Armenian journals. The Armenian Wikipedia reports Էբելենց (Epilents) having also appeared in “Aztag - Ազդակ” (Beirut) in 1946, “Asbarez – Ասպարէց» (Fresno) in 1957, and in “Haratch - Յառաջ” (Paris) in 1961. His creative literary opus was his last novel in English titled “The Antiochians”. Dr. Albert Apelian passed away on November 14, 1986 in Belmont, MA where he practiced his profession for five decades. With his death his pen-name Epilents gradually subsided.
In the last issue of Kessab Educational Association’s 61st edition directory and yearbook (2020), I read an article about the preparation of the grape molasses Kessabtsis are known to prepare. They call the process “Masara” and its preparation is one of the most cherished social events for the Kessabtsis. Dr. Tsolag Apelian had authored the article not in Armenian, nor in English but in the local Kessab dialect. He also had signed the article as Էբէլինց Ձոլակը - Epilints Tsolag. Suddenly, it dawned on me that cherished pen-name has now a deserving person who well embodies Kessab and Kessabtsis.
I am not conversant in Kessaberen, the Kessab dialect or should I say language because for generations it was the only language they used to carry on all aspects of their daily lives. My mother told me that my paternal grandparents did away speaking Kessaberen at home for my sake, their firstborn grandchild and started speaking Armenian at home, at least in my presence. Even though I am not conversant in Kessaberen but I understand the language pretty well and can pass a judgment on the fluency of the language spoken by someone. Reading the article I was surprised at Tsolag’s mastery of the language given that his parents, Stepan and Ani, did not speak Kessaberen at home. For a quarter of century Ani was the principal of the Armenian Evangelical School in Kessab, where Tsolag also attended. After Kaloustian and Noubarian Schools in Egypt, it is the oldest Armenian School in the Diaspora outside Turkey. My parents conversed fluently Kessaberen but they were born and raised in Keurkune in families who spoke Kessaberen. And it was in Kessaberen that their parents welcomed their newborn children whose first words were uttered in Kessaberen. But that was not the case with Tsolag.
Tsolag not only cherishes the dialect, he is also keen on perpetuating it. To that end he has set up an account in the Facebookcalled Քեսպնուոկ-Քիսապի Բարբառը (Kesbnog-the Dialect of Kessab), where he has ruled the conversation be in the Kessab dialect and is open for anyone who would like to converse in Kessaberen or would like to hone his skill conversing in Kessaberen.
Tsolag was born in Keurkune in the family’s ancestral home where his granfather Joseph and my father Hovhannes were born to Stepan and Sarah (Mousajekian) family. My paternal cousins Stepan and Ara were also born in the same house. Stepan’s children Tsolag, Shoghag and Hovag were also born there. The patriarchal house was built in the later part of the 19th century and bridges three centuries as it still stands fortified in the original stones that made its thick walls, although it has been cosmetically renovated.
Tsolag has always been a brilliant student. He attended school in Keurkune, Kessab and after succesfully passing his Syrian Baccalaureate national examinations he graduated from the State Engineering School in Latakia and from there he attended University of California in Irvine from which he received his doctorate degree in Engineering. Presently he holds a position as the Principal Engineer at the Curtiss-Wright Corporation. Tsolag is also related to Dr. Albert Apelian. His maternal great-grandfather Hagop Apelian is a brother of Albert Apelian. They were the children of Dr. Soghomon Apelian who had four sons and four daughters.
It gives me a pleasure knowing that Tsolag has adopted Epilints as his literary moniker, although he spells the third vowel a little bit different – Էբիլինց - to sound it truer to its Kessab sounding. The transliteration also changes slightly as Epilints. Henceforth we shall associate Epilints with Dr. Tsolag Apelian as the community at large, on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean, once associated Epilents with Dr. Albert Apelian.
Tsolag Apelian with the late Pastor Sevag Trashian (left) in Kessab at the Armenian Evangelical Church Entrance
Sunday, February 21, 2021
ԴՐՕՇՆԱԹԻՒՂԹԻ ԻՄ ՀԱՒԱՔԱԾՈՅԷՆ
«Չորս քսանամեակներ և եօթը տարիներ առաջ մեր հայրերը այս ցամաքամասին վրայ յառաջացուցին նոր ազգ մը բեղմնաւորուած Ազատութեան մեջ և նուիրուած այն առաջադրութեան վրայ որ բոլոր մարդիկ ստեղծուած են հաւասար։
Այժմ մենք բոնուած ենք քաղաքացիական մեծ պատերազմի մը փորձարկելու որ արդիո՞ք այդ ազգը, կամ որեւէ ազգ՝ այդպէս բեղմնաւորուած և այդպէս առաջադրուած կրնայ երկար տոկալ: Մենք կը հանդիպինք այդ մեծ պատերազմին մարտադաշտին վրայ: Մենք եկած ենք նուիրելու այդ մարտադաշտին մէկ մասը որպէս վերջին հանգստավայրը անոնց որոնք այստեղ իրենց կեանքերը նուիրեցին որպէսզի այդ ազգը կարողանայ գոյատեւել: Բոլորովին տեղին և պատշաճ է որ մենք այս ընենք:
Բայց աւելի խոր իմաստով մենք չենք կրնար նուիրագործել - չենք կրնար սրբադասել - չենք կրնար սրբացնել այս հողը: Կենդանի և մեռած խիզախ մարդիկ որոնք պայքարեցան այստեղ, արդէն սրբացուցած են այն շատ աւելի բարձր քան մեր աղքատ ոյժը կարողանայ աւելցնել կամ նուազեցնել:
Աշխարհը քիչ ուշադրութիւն պիտի դարձնէ եւ ոչ ալ երկար ժամանակ պիտի յիշէ թե մենք ինչ կ՚ըսենք հոս, բայց երբեք պիտի չի կարողանայ մոռանալ այն ինչ որ ըրին այստեղ: Ընդհակառակը` մենք ողջերս ենք որ պէտք է նուիրուինք այստեղ ամբողջացնելու իրենց անաւարտ գործը, որուն համար անոնք մաքարեցան հոս եւ ազնիւօրեն առաջ մղեցին:
Աւելի շատ մեզի համար է որ ըլլանք հոս նուիրուած մեր առաջ մնացած մեծ գործին – այստեղի պատուելի մեռելներէն մենք նուիրում ստանանք այն դատին՝ որուն համար անոնք տուին իրենց նուիրումին վերջին ամբողջական չափը – որ մենք մեծապէս ուխտենք որ այդ մեռնողները ի իզուր մեռած չըլլան - որ այս ազգը, Աստծոյ ներքեւ ունենայ ազատութեան նոր ծնունդ մը - եւ որ մարդոց կառավարութիւնը, մարդոց կողմէ, մարդուն համար չի ջնջուի այս աշխարհէն:»
Աբրահամ Լինքոլն
Gettysburg Address
“ Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate -- we cannot consecrate -- we cannot hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.
The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.
It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
Recently I read Harry Kezelian’s eulogy in the “Mirror Spectator” titled: “Tribute to Guy Chookoorian, Voice of a Generation, Leaving Legacy of Service”. At least 10 years ago, I had the pleasure of hearing him on stage during the monthly luncheon the Ladies Guild of the Ararat Nursing Facility in Los Angeles held, once a month during the first week of the month. During the luncheon Guy Chookoorian and his band gave a charity performance on stage. After the performance I approached one of the band members I found out that she and her brother were his daughter and son. It is there that I heard his famous song “Toore Pats Dikran” (Open the Door Dikran). But there was another song, “The Apple Tree” song that I had taken a liking and purchased a copy of the cd that contained that song. Reading the obituary I realize the Gaidzag Choorookian was in his 80’s when he came on stage during that event. It never occurred to me then he was already an octogenarian on stage. As I reminisce now I wonder if it was actually Gaidzag Chookoorian on stage or it was his son. More likely it was he with son and daughter on the stage.
It was not the first time I heard “Toore Pats Dikran” song. In fact I first heard “Toore Pats Dikran” not long after I came to the United States in 1976. Frankly speaking the song did not appeal me that much when I first heard it and I wondered why it had become a lingering hit among the Armenian Americans when talented Armenian singers such as Addis Harmandian, Levon Katerjian and others; and bands such as “The Five Fingers” had transformed the Armenian Diaspora music. Yes, “Toore Pats, Dikran” did not appeal to me that much.
It turns out that “Toore Patz Dikran” is the Armenian rendering of a hit titled “Open the door Richard” that was released in 1947. When Guy Chookoorian released “Toore Pats Dikran” it became and instant success among the upcoming first generation Armenian Americans born and being raised in the United States at a time when conforming to what was considered to be the American norms was the thing to do. After all, as the saying goes “when in Rome, do like Romans do”. It is not hard to imagine that generation of the Armenian Americans was grappling with similar issues. To what extent could the young and upcoming first generation Armenian Americans do as Americans do and yet remain true to their upbringing in their homes?
The song turns out to be an answer albeit with humour to their dilemma. “The question on the minds of many in the room and their peers across the country” wrote Harry Kozelian in his obituary, “was how to be modern American young people and remain Armenian at the same time. The voice coming from the record player, singing the latest American jukebox hit, Open the Door, Richard, in fluent but slang-filled Armenian perhaps held the answer.”
Harry Kozelian’s poignant eulogy of Guy Chookoorian gave me an altogether different perspective and an appreciation of the singer, composer Guy Chookoorian and his contribution for making Diaspora and extension of Armenia and all things Armenian we had heard from our parents and read in books, while living in a world far away from Armenia.
“Guy Chookoorian died on January 31, 2021” eulogized Harry Kezelian and noted, “ He was a musician, a comedian, an actor, and a singer. He was an accomplished oud player and Armenian folk musician. He played the piano, mandolin, bouzouki, banjo, and harmonica, and probably other things besides. He wrote and arranged music, and recorded it, in a variety of genres. He helped his father preserve the folksongs of his native region, songs that would have otherwise been lost. Rare for someone born in the US at the time, he wrote bilingual Armenian-American plays. He appeared in Hollywood movies and TV shows. In a less “politically correct” time, he did every ethnic accent imaginable and was cast in every type of role, particularly ones that seemed vaguely to fit his Armenian features.”
I have now all too different appreciation of the song and yes I now enjoy the song. Well beyond the lyrics in Armenian words and sentences, I now appreciate its Armenian connection. I am also reminded that one has to know the context in which people act and do to appreciate them and what they do; something that appears to be sorely missing nowadays.
Apo Sahagian is a musician, and a writer from Jerusalem.
During the Artsakh War of 2020, my group of Diasporan friends and I rushed to the homeland to volunteer. On October 18, 2020, we visited Shushi and lit a candle in the shelled Ghazanchetsots cathedral. I’m sure we all prayed for the same thing: that we’d win this round as well. A week later, in the evening time, when we were at our post, my friend’s father called him from Jerusalem worried about a video of Artsakh’s president Arayik Harutyunan in which he claimed Azeri forces were quickly closing in on the Fortress City—the strategic and symbolic cornerstone of the narrative that the third republic of Armenia was founded upon.
I finally understood there and then what I had been suspicious of for years: that the Diaspora is in all honesty useless. The concerned voice of my friend’s father was all the proof one needed to expose the Diaspora as a helpless mass. Because while a large number of protestors flocked the streets of Los Angeles, Paris and Jerusalem, the Turks took Hadrut. Because while Diasporans passionately lobbied and petitioned around the world, the Turks made it to the gates of Shushi. And while every Diasporan dedicated their social media pages to the war effort, Shushi slipped away. The candle I lit a mere week before it was snuffed out exemplified nothing but the unanswered prayers of a depressed nation.
In 44 days, Armenia went from being one of the safest countries in the world to a failed state—broken, fragmented and defenseless. Neo-Ottoman forces had finally crashed through our doors and set a foothold in our home. Russian peacekeepers for their own interests barged in to preserve something of their once-upon-a-time Caucasian ally, and the most incompetent, inexperienced and treacherous Armenian government stubbornly clutched to its seat while trying to juggle the myriad of new challenges the country had to deal with. The Diaspora could not stop any of this, no matter the protests, the donations, the petitions, or the poetic Facebook posts.
Yet, when we ultimately capitulated, I turned to my fellow volunteers and said that I preferred losing with my feet planted on Armenian soil rather than being disoriented in the Diaspora. Because what the Diaspora has failed to understand over a century is the following: the one who lives on the land keeps the land. Sure, our tumultuous bloody history might suggest otherwise, but the basic tenet of that idea still stands. Artsakh, the size of many recognized countries with millions of inhabitants, had a population of 160,000 on the best of days. That is abysmal and a testimony to our failure as a socio-political collective.
I assured my volunteers that despite all the blame game unfolding post-war, we, there, standing shoulder to shoulder with the people of Artsakh and southern Armenia, were neither responsible nor guilty. The culprits were the Diasporans who found it more comfortable fighting the war from a distance on the internet. The culprits were the Yerevantsis whose geography of Armenia is limited to Yerevan and a long weekend in Dilijan during summertime. The culprits were those young men of Artsakh who deserted the front and hid away in Armenia. The culprits were the government officials who ran the war in criminal mismanagement, disorganization and idiocy.
If me and my guys were guilty of one thing, it is what everyone else was guilty of. That is, we took Artsakh for granted while enjoying it as a tourist hotspot for its divine beauty. It turned into the background of our social media pictures, but it never made it to the tangible forefront of our daily lives.
For 30 years, Artsakh was in a bureaucratic limbo yet still secure. Today the remaining parts of Artsakh linger in purgatory while Armenia is lost and confused in a dark tunnel that refuses to show a light at the end of it.
So where do we go now?
First, we have to accept that we are the generation that lost Shushi. When my father was 30, Shushi was liberated in the famous operation of the Wedding in the Mountains. I turned 30 a few days after the end of this war, having lost Shushi and watching Armenia coming apart at the seams. Therefore, we can only look at ourselves in the mirror and admit that we are losers— basically, a new set of losers in the unrelenting loop of the past 800 years. In this loop, the victory of the first Artsakh War is only a random miracle—an outlier that does not fit the norm.
Second, we have to decide whether we want to be like our grandparents who, after the Genocide, withdrew into their corner, resigned themselves to the tragedy and told themselves they would focus on preserving what they had; or, we make the decision not to become our grandparents, not to let Shushi slowly turn into a modern Kars and work on breaking the loop. We do that not by preserving what we have, but by strengthening what we have. It’s a simple turn of the wheel that will make a difference.
As Diasporans, we need to change the way we utilize our resources. We do not need to sustain the Diaspora; we need to end it. Armenia’s weakest point, the chink of chinks in her armor, is the miserable demographics. Just like there wasn’t a sizable population in Artsakh, there also isn’t one in the Armenian countryside. If you’re a young Diasporan family raising children in the Armenian culture, but planning a life for them that mostly transpires in the Diaspora, then you are perpetuating the loop. If you believe that your childrens’ enrollment in an Armenian school is enough and you fail to prepare them for a life in Armenia, then you are perpetuating the loop. If you are gaining the wealth and knowledge of the outside world and not actively using it for the benefit of Armenia, then you are perpetuating the loop. I can go on and on about how the Diaspora can so easily and subconsciously perpetuate the loop while thinking it is doing otherwise.
Saying “never again” but repeating the same half-hearted patriotism is something the future of Armenia cannot afford any longer. To be poetically cruel, it is time we snatch your children away and send them to Armenia; deprive the sloths from their comfort and send them to Syunik; gather all the good-for-nothing drunkards and underachievers wandering on our Diaspora streets and relocate them to the Lachin corridor with the promise that they’ll get a daily batch of vodka as long as they drink away on Armenian soil. Yes, it’s time to use the resources of the Diaspora with clear-cut strategies and even manipulation that result in concrete tangible results on the ground in Armenia.
Finally, we must accept the new trauma haunting us. If my forefather lived the last Armenian days of Sepastia and Western Armenia, then me and my volunteers lived the last Armenian days of Shushi and Karvajar. I did not experience these losses through a history book or an Instagram story; I was there. And I can never unsee the last time I drove away from Shushi with Ghazanchetsots in the rearview mirror. In the West, it is a trend to reconcile with trauma in the hopes of letting it go. But, on the contrary, we need the trauma. I have been refusing my friend’s endless invitations for an ayahuasca session. Because, deep in me, at this moment, there is both a little boy crying rivers wider than Arax and a raging monster thirsting for revenge. And they both have a role in rebuilding our homeland.
There’s much to do and not much time. The Caucasus is a geopolitical region built on quicksand, constantly changing and offering new challenges and opportunities. For military strategists and students of political science, a quick scan of the map and a digest of the news can provide countless scenarios that could and will occur in the region. It’s time we built a country that is strong and cunning enough to adjust and adapt to the pendulum. That also requires the more politically savvy amongst us to look at things not from an immediate angle, but from an evolutionary point of view on a scale of 50 years, or a hundred, or even more. Once you adopt that aerial view, you realize the 800-year confrontation with the several Turkish onslaughts makes up barely 16 percent of the 5,000-year-old Armenian history. To put it simply, that is 800 pages in a 5,000-page book. It’s clearly not the longest chapter. But because we are living in the here and now, every word of every sentence in these 800 pages is amplified and occasionally makes us lose sight of the grander horizon.
In this loop, we usually end up on the losing side. At the same time, nothing is infinite. Just as the Armenian hold over Shushi was not infinite, the Turkish hold over Kars cannot be considered infinite. Who’s to say the Armenian hold over Yerevan is? But one must be truthful to the cosmic loss Artsakh experienced this time around. For the first time since the dawn of Armenian time, Shushi, Hadrut and other towns in Artsakh do not have Armenians, Armenian life or an Armenian hearth. That is a reality that should freeze you for a moment and pull you into the depths of an incurable despair. Yet sooner or later the pendulum will swing again, and we will have a chance to break the cycle, to untie the knot at a specific point and either begin a fresh loop of new outcomes or, in the best case scenario, no longer be tied to a loop but rather forge a linear course.
This can only happen if we prioritize the strengthening of what we have at all costs with any means necessary. When Gyumri comes before Los Angeles. When Goris comes before Paris. When Stepanakert comes before Jerusalem. When the modest income of Armenia is seen as more fulfilling than the millions of dollars one can strive for in the West. When knowing the ins and outs of a random rural town in the Armenian countryside becomes more a source of pride than knowing the streets of London.
Nobody is asking you to shed your individuality or personal ambitions. I, for one, am not. But at the end of each day, ask yourself what you did that day to strengthen Armenia. Because, after all is said and done, we still have an Armenia. It lays naked, exposed and lacking a new narrative to take it forward. The riches of Glendale or the intimacy of Bourj Hammoud do not even cut the threshold; they are not ours and never will be. Mother Armenia, with the spleen of Artsakh, is all we have. And only we, the generation that lost Shushi, can make sure that we prepare the launching pad for the future generations that will carry the homeland forward.
The responsibility resting on the shoulders of our generation is heavy, and our task is multifaceted. We are the motley of losers that must begin paving the paths to victories which we will never see, never celebrate and never smell. You’re going to be lowered in your grave content with what you did and with the faith that someone else picks up where you left off. That is our chapter in the continuous Armenian history book. Accept it. It’s better than not having a book at all.
