Eyes are not needed to love

At the intersection of Weygand and Allenby streets in down town Beirut, I used to see an Armenian blind man, with his wife by his side, weaving straw chair seats. Today I read Silva Iskiian Mahserejian's (Սիլվա Իսկիկեան-Մահսէրէճեան) account of her friend Sonig's family. She had titled her heartwarming story in the April 24, 2026 issue of Aztag Daily, Blind Love (Կոյր Սէրը). But I chose to include a sentence from her text for presenting to readers my translation of her heartwarming account of her friend Sonig's parents. Vaհe H Apelian

 

I do not consent marrying my daughter to a sightless man. It is impossible…

– Father, I liked Garabed and love him, and am willing to marry him. Yes, he is blind, but I believe that eyes are not necessary to love. The heart is enough.

I am Sonig (Սոնիկ), the daughter of the sightless Garabed Bekjijian (Կարապետ Պեքճիճեան) and the kind-hearted Louisa Gitzinian (Լուիզա Կիտցինեան). I believe that my mother’s insistence on marrying my father was the result of divine intervention. I summon as a witness our peaceful and harmonious family nest, which was endowed with the constant presence and blessing of God.

The joy and peace of our home had aroused the curiosity and the “envy” of our neighbor, Tamam Nene (Grandma Tamam). One day she had turned to my father and aked: “Garabed, what is your secret? There are five of you in the house, and I have never heard a single sound of a commotion or a quarrel, while in our house, there are two of us and we fight all the time, and our voices are carried throughout the world.”

My father was the most beloved and precious being in the world to me. Resting my head on his chest and feeling the caress of his gentle fingers was an indescribable pleasure. Singing and music were my father’s inseparable companions. He would slide the bow on his violin and fill the atmosphere of our house with sweet-sounding music and songs. I would watch the expressions on his face, the rising and falling of his eyelashes and eyelids with admiration, feeling the bright and kind world behind his closed eyes.

My father was not blind from birth. He told me that he had enjoyed a happy childhood in the beautiful nature of his birthplace, Behesnil (Պէհէսնիլ). He loved collecting colorful flowers and would pin a flower in each button-hole of his shirt, then go home and dedicate the flowers he had collected to his dear mother. My father’s happiness turned to tragedy when, in 1915, at the age of eight, he lost his family members in the horrors of deportation and, left alone and homeless, found himself among a group of many orphans.

The orphanage in the village of Ghazir in Lebanon became my father’s second “home.” The conditions in the orphanage were pitiful. My father often attempted satisfy his hunger by eating the grass from the surrounding forests. Diseases struck and spread in the orphanage. Many of the poor orphans, including my father, lost the light in one or both eyes. Others lost their hearing, and some became immobile and disabled.

My father, despite the misfortunes he experienced, never became bitter about life and fate. On the contrary, he was a surprisingly content, kind, positive-minded, hard-working, and cheerful man. I do not remember him complaining or grumbling. He even kept secret from us what he had seen and experienced during the days of the Genocide, so as not to disturb our childish souls. Only some of his notes and admonitions at the dinner table revealed the hunger and deprivation he experienced.

– My children, do not complain about the type of food, do not complain about the quality of the bread. Always give glory to God and taste what your mother cooked with love. I have often missed bread and survived on forest grasses.

My father did not tolerate the idea of ​​skipping meals. He would give us the fresh, warm and crisp loaves, while he ate the old dry pieces of bread. He would not allow us to start our meal without praying. For my father, the dinner table was sacred and a gift from God.

My father learned to weave baskets and household furniture with straw threads in the Ghazir orphanage. This was a special craft for the blind, through which they had to work and a make livelihood. After the Ghazir orphanage, my father, confident in his craft and the ability to keep a home, moved to the Sis neighborhood of Beirut. He married my loving mother, Louisa, and by the grace of God, the Bekjijian family was blessed with three children: a boy and two daughters.

I consider the sweetest period of my life to be the period when my father worked in the home for the blind near our house. Every morning at half past six, my mother would accompany him there, and at noon it was my duty to accompany my father to our house. I preferred to go to the home for the blind immediately after breakfast and spend time with the elderly and blind people there, my father’s spiritual brothers and sisters. The atmosphere there was both mysterious and dear to me. I enjoyed listening to the performances of the blind choir on holidays, in which my father stood out with his sweet tenor voice and violin playing. I was very impressed by the songs  Joy to the World (Ծափ, Ծափ, Աշխարհ), Silent Night (Լուռ Գիշեր),  and Cilicia (Կիլիկեա). 

 

I loved ringing the brass bell calling for dinner in the  home for the blind, then sitting down to dinner with the elderly and blind people and tasting the dishes prepared by Mrs. Gulizar and her daughter.

There was a jasmine tree in the courtyard of the orphanage, from which I would gather the fallen flowers and, attaching them to a needle and thread, make fragrant necklaces for my “aunts and uncles.” I would be very happy when I saw a smile on their frowning faces. A smile was a rare occurrence in those days, and for my young soul, it was the best reward.

Today, when I look back at my father and his extended family, I realize that blindness was not their only pain. Later, I learned that they were also survivors and had “tasted” the grim reality of our history, witnessing the bitter images of the Genocide, traversing the terrifying paths of deportation, overcoming post-genocide epidemics and the struggle for survival, facing the countless challenges of new worlds.

I feel contentment when I recall my warm connection, respect, and care for our blind and elderly survivors. I probably inherited that trait from my mother’s lineage. I bow to the memory of my sweet mother, recalling her kind words. "Father, eyes are not needed to love, The heart is enough."