What is Literature?

By Serop Yeretzian

Translated by Vahe H. Apelian

Hagop Oshagan, born in 1883, was a prolific Armenian writer,  prominent literary critic and educator. Serop Yeretzian is the author of an anthology of short stories titled “Very Ordinary Folks” (Շատ Սովորական Մարդիկ). This translated piece was his posting on his Facebook page titled “Oshagan, Father Kline and Literature”. Serop passed away on July 10, 2016.

" Hagop Oshagan’s literary writing classes at the Seminary of Jerusalem were ceremonial but we would attend them with timidity. Adjectives were ambushed and repetitions were unforgivable. But It would also happen that similar repetitions by an established writer would be considered enhancing the writing. 

For an example, he would cite from the writing of Krikor Odian. Opening a book, he carried with him, would read a passage such as:  “There are people who pray but there are also people who do not pray. Could it be that I started praying now? Could it not be that I prayed before? I can safely say that there has not been a day in my life I have not prayed”

I quoted the above passage from memory sixty-seven years later. There may be errors in my quoting, but they are insignificant.

 During his literature writing classes Hagop Oshagan would transform for us into a pagan priest and we would turn into his faithful worshippers; but his literary writing classes for us were an ordeal. We handed him our compositions with trepidation. We considered almost impossible to emerge from his dissecting scrutiny safe and sound. Should it happen that he would notice a semblance of a literary spark, he would thunder endearingly and say “Idiot, you have approached what appears to be literature. I expect you to invest more efforts”. Idiot for him was meant to sound flattering.

After our English literature teacher entered the classroom for the very first time, he placed the bundle he was carrying on the podium and wrote on the black board ‘Father Kline’. He said that was his name and then he approached each and every one of us, shook our hands asking each and every one of us: “How are you?” After this short ceremony, he opened the bundle on the podium, took out soft cover books and distributed a copy to each one of us. “As You Like It” was printed on the cover. He presented the book to us saying - “This will be your study book. It is a play by Shakespeare. Let me remind you that the theme of the play has no relations with its title”.

Father Kline was an American clergyman. He was a lean, blue-eyed, blonde-haired man in his fifties. He had been a chaplain in the U.S. Army during the Pearl Harbor attack and had miraculously escaped the carnage. He had an uncanny ability keeping us focused on the subject during our classes. We could almost recite by heart Melancholy Jack’s monologue in the “As You Like It” – “All the world's stage and all men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances”.

Father Kline had also the ability to surprise us. During such a class, he suddenly digressed from the subject and asked us - “What is literature?” We were perplexed, as we would have expected such a question only from Hagop Oshagan. A few of us gave convoluted answers. After listening to them attentively, he then took upon himself to answer the very same question he had posed and in no uncertain terms said - “Probably you may not agree with me, but whatever is written on a blank page is literature”.

After so many years whenever I recall my two former teachers I remain cognizant of the vast chasm between the two regarding what constitutes literature. I want to remain impartial towards both. My heart wants me to side with Oshagan’s understanding of what literature is or ought to be; but can I dismiss Father’s Kline’s understanding of what  literature is?

Յակոբ Օշական, Father Kline Եւ Գրականութիւն

Սերոբ Երէցեան

Յակոբ Օշականին գրականութեան դասաւանդութիւնները արարողութիւններ էին, որոնց երկիւղածութեամբ պէտք էր հետեւէինք: Ածականները որոգայթներ էին, իսկ կրկնութիւնները աններելի: Սակայն կը պատահէր, որ նոյն կրկնութիւնները վարպետ գրիչի մը մօտ առաւելութիւն կը դառնար: Օրինակ կը բերէր Գրիգոր Օտեանը և ձեռքին տակ պահած գիրքը բանալով կը կարդար:

«Մարդիկ կան, որ կ‘աղօթեն., իսկ մարդիկ ալ կան, որ չեն աղօթեր: Ես անոնցմէ եմ, որ կ‘աղօթեմ: Միթէ հիմա՞ սկսայ աղօթել, միթէ ասկէ առաջ չե՞մ աղօթած, կրնամ ըսել, որ կեանքիս մէջ օր մը չէ եղած, որ չաղօթեմ»

Վերոյիշեալ հատուածը 67 տարի վերջ, յիշողութեամբ կ‘արտագրեմ, որուն մէջ կրնան աննշան թերի տեղադրումներ պատահած ըլլան: 
Դասաւանդութիւններուն ընթացքին Յակոբ Օշականը քուրմի կը վերածուէր, և մենք կը դառնայինք իր հաւատացեալները: Սակայն շարադրութեան պահը մեզի օրհասական կը թուէր: Վախով կը յանձնէինք իրեն մեր տետրակները: Իր տարրալուծարանէն ողջ առոդջ դուրս ելլելը գրեթէ անհնարին կը կարծէինք: Սակայն երբեմն եթէ կայծ մը նկատէր մեր գրութեան մէջ, «Յիմար, քիչ մը գրականութեան մօտեցեր ես .աւելի ճիգ կ‘ակնկալեմ քեզմէ» կըսէր: Յիմարը իր մօտ փաղաքշական իմաստ ունէր: 

Դասարան մտնելէ ետք, ձեռքին ծրարը ամպիոնի սեղանին վրայ դրաւ, պատի սեւ գրատախտակին վրայ Father Kline գրեց, յայտնելով իր անունը և բոլորիս ձեռքերը թօթուեց How are you? կրկնելով: Այս հակիրճ արարողութենէն վերջ, ամպիոնի սեղանին վրայի ծրարը բացաւ, մէջէն լաթակազմ գիրքեր հանելով, մեզի բաժնեց: Գիրքին կողքին վրայ AS YOU LIKe IT տպուած էր: 
«Ասիկա ձեր դասագիրքը պիտի ըլլայ: Շէյքսփիրի մէկ թատերախաղն է: Յիշեցնեմ, թատերախաղին նիւթը գիրքին անունին հետ բնաւ կապ չունի» եզրափակեց: 
Father Kline-ը ամերիկացի հոգեւոր հովիւ մըն էր: Բարեկազմ, կապոյտ աչքերով, դեղին մազերով յիսունը անց մարդ մը: Pearl Harbor-ի աղէտին ամերիկեան բանակին մէջ Chaplain էր և հրաշքով ազատած կրակի դժոխքէն:

Father Kline-ը իր դասաւանդութիւններուն ընթաքին իր նիւթին մէջ մեզ կեդրոնացնելու լաւ կարողութիւն ունէր: AS YOU LiKE IT-ի Melancholy Jaques-ին մենախօսութիւնը գրեթէ գոց կրնայինք արտասանել: 
All the world's stage,
 And all men and women merely players;
 They have their exits and their entrances,
 Father Kline-ը յաճախ մեզ զարմացնելու կարողութիւնն ալ ունէր: Դասապահի մը ընթացքին յանկարծ իր նիւթէն շեղելով` «Ինչ է գրականութիւնը» հարցուց: 
Նման հարցումներ մենք միայն Յակոբ Օշականէն կրնայինք ակնկալել: Քանի մը շփոտ պատասխաններ տուողներ եղան, որոնք ուշի ուշով մտիկ ընելէ ետք, իր հարցումին ինք պատասխանեց. «Հաւանաբար ինծի հետ համաձայն չըլլաք. ինչ որ թուղթի վրայ գրուած է, գրականութիւն կը նկատուի։

Հիմա, երկար ժամանակէ ետք, մտաբերելով երկու ուսուցիչներուս գրական ըմբռնումին հսկայական անջրպետը, կ‘ուզեմ երկուքին հետ ալ անաչար ըլլալ: 
Սիրտս անշուշտ, Յակոբ Օշականին ըմբռնումին աւելի նպաստաւոր կ‘ուզէ ըլլալ. բայց կարելի՞ է բոլորովին անտեսել Father Kline-ին տեսութիւնը: 

January 20, 2016

 

Levon Shant and Nigol Aghpalian (No. 2/5)

The Unlike Twins 

In this second segment of the abridged translation of the first chapter of Antranig Zarougian’s book titled “The Greats and the Others” (ՄԵԾԵՐԸ ԵՒ ՄԻՒՍՆԵՐԸ», Zarougian reminisces anecdotes about Levon Shant and Nigol Aghpalian. Translated by Vahe H. Apelian. 

 

" Catholicos coadjutor Papken (Gulesserian) had visited Jemaran.  Shant was escorting him. After touring the building , they entered our classroom. Shant presented each one of us to the Catholicos explaining where each one of us came from. The catholicos had words of encouragement to us, noting the orderliness of our classroom, the beautiful building we have and  the good attributes of our principal and his literally fame. He extolled us to live up to the sacrifice being made to educate us.

Shant had the demeanor of a junior officer who reported to his superior and was now attentive to his commendations. His posture was straight, he was polite, and not smiling. As the Catholicos took leave, Shant shook Catholicos’s hand politely, nodded a bit and that was all to it. We had a venerable guest and we politely hosted him and escorted him out.

Coming to Aghpalian,

He held the Catholicos’s right arm firmly with his two hands, and bowed waist down kissing it passionately for a long time with the spiritedness of an ardent believer. The scene and its contrast to Shant’s demeanor had not escaped our attention. We noted his exaggerated bow.

He looked puzzled, opening his eyes wide and moving his eyebrows up and down – a familiar expression of his. He said:

-                " A՜khr,  don’t you understand? He is our only Catholicos. Do you know what does it mean to be a ca-tho-li-cos?"

During the weeks of lent, he wanted us to come down early in the morning and attend mass with him. He adored the mass. We accompanied him several times, but our church attendance did not last, while he continued remaining in the church all alone attending arevakal (mass before the sunrise).

I have not seen Shant in a church, even during Christmas or Easter. Jamaran had already done away with the reciting of “Aravod Louso”  (Hymn for the Morning by St. Nersess Shnorhali) we customarily recited in the other schools.

Aghpalian lived with Krikor Naregatsi. Shant remained faithful to the pagan gods, to his “Hen Asdoutzner” (“Old Gods” the reference alludes to Shant’s famous play Հին Աստուածներ).

***

Vahe Vahian had published his first book of poetry titled “Arev-Antsrev” (“Sun-Rain”, “Արեւ-Անձրեւ”) by the Jemaran’s printing house. It should be noted that Jemaran did not have a printing facility. The books were typeset in Jemaran, a porter carried the type sets elsewhere to have them printed and brought back to Jemaran. The book had seen the light of day in this manner and the author had arrived to carry them.  Of course, he had the first two copies personalized for gifting to Shant and Aghpalian  and two other copies personalized to his brethren of pen Moshegh and Antranig noting “to whom this book owes a lot”. He also had some ten to twenty copies personalized for gifting to others.  Aghpalian seeing me carrying these books thought that I was taking them to a bookseller, he said:

-         “Aha, he has already selling them.”

-        “No”, I said, “these books are gifts and are being taken to the post office.”

He turned towards Vahe Vahian, placed his arm  on his shoulder and said:

-        “Listen, your enemies will not buy your books. You are distributing them as gifts to your friends. Who remain to buy your books?”

***

There were four of us as new poets (one of the four only a novelist). We – Vahe Vahian, Smpat Panossian, Moushegh and your humble servant -  have decided to publish a literary monthly. Our literally heroes – Vazken Shoushanian, Shahnour, Hrach Zartarian, Vorpouny, Nighoghos Sarafian and others – live in Paris. We wanted to show them that we too are also present, and we live in Beirut. The monthly is titled “Hartagogh” (“Milky-Way”, “Յարդագող) and we call ourselves “Hartagoghi Janabahortner” (“Wayfarers of the Milky-Way” - Յարդգողի Ճանապահորդներ).  (Note: alluding to an Armenian pagan tradition that has to do with the pagan god Vahakn). We have no baptismal godfather. We have christened ourselves as such.

I was fated to be the editor because it is I who secured the finances without having money. How come? It was simple. I wrote one or two articles a week and translated novels for “Aztag” Daily. Balian (the publisher) did not give me money but instead had our monthly printed there for free. This way he secured not only my contributions for free but also a literally standing for his paper. Balian was the least literally inclined member of the Armenian press and had nothing to do with literature. As a matter fact not having secured state permission, the monthly was published as the literally supplement of the “Aztag” Daily, although completely independent from it.

The first issue saw the light of day. It was a stunning success. We were proud of ourselves and rightly so. I believe, should we come across a copy of this journal after more than fifty years, we will have no reason to feel ashamed of its literary content. For twenty years old young men, I doubt that we could have had a more honorable undertaking even before us and especially after us. Besides the founding four, there were also articles from others, but we the founders presented our original literary works and we were content with what we had acheived.

I gave a copy to Nigol Aghpalian. He looked at it puzzled and said – “this appears to be a serious literally work”. He flipped the  pages back and forth, analyzed. My impression was that he would like it. There is time to secure his opinion regarding the content; let him read for now. We even were pretentious enough to envision that we may approach him later and secure his contribution for the next issues.  

Approaching Shant was not that easy, but we have devised a way to entice him. Without asking him we had placed inside the cover page an ad with large letters for his Armenian teaching textbooks “Hayreni Ashkharh” (Armenian World). How can an author not be appreciative of our consideration? There is time, let us wait, the opportune time will arrive. Meanwhile we were enjoying our success hearing words of encouragement and felicitation from right and left. 

Well, before publishing the next issue Shant entered the classroom thundering. His facial expression was the worst  he wore. He was frowning, nervous and barely holding his fury. He even forgot his customary “sit down” and kept us standing, rebuked us and left.

-        “ From today and on, it is absolutely forbidden, I repeat, absolutely, that articles appear in the Armenian press bearing your signatures. You are here to become future intellectual leaders, writers, teachers.  But until you graduate from Jemaran it is forbidden for you to write in journals.”

Dry, concise and definite.

As if a phantom had entered the classroom thundered and left.

The blow was directed towards Moushegh and I. There were no other writers in the classroom. The rest might not be even interested. There were some who looked at us smirking pretending that they were sympathizing us, but a hidden envy was palpable. (Note: Antranig Zarougian was later dismissed from Jemaran before his graduation because of his rebellious streak).

We were bewildered. Our bitterness stemmed from the fact that we did not understand what wrong had we done to be subjected to such a humiliation. The reason pretty soon became clear.

One of the girls from the lower class,  Armineh, had written a long poem. This was the theme; the girl has a precious gem hidden deep in her bosom. She throws her heart turned into a gem deep into the sea and wonders who will be the daring diver who will submerge deep into the sea and retrieve her gem for her.

It was an innocent and beautiful presentation and the title of the poem was “Who Will Be?” and the poem had appeared in “Aztag” Daily. There was nothing scandalous per se. But the issue got convoluted because a few days later there appeared a “daring diver” who not only was willing to dive to retrieve the heart but also  dared to share his willingness by a poem titled “I Wil Be”. The poem was published in the same daily under a penname. The assumption was that it was one of the students of Jemaran. Consequently, a boy and a girl were not only not romancing in private but daring to let it be known in the open in the Armenian press. What a scandal it created. Gossips, slanderous remarks, complaints were being heard from everywhere causing much distress to Shant who poured his anger on us, the innocent wayfarers of the milky way, bringing us down onto the earth.

The secret was revealed eventually but very late. It became evident that the chivalrous diver was not from Jemaran but was a medical doctor who loved poetry – Nerses Kupelian. He was a medical student then and later became the husband of Seza (Սեզա) the renown Armenian writer. Let us be mindful that it was over half a century ago when the norms and customs were different. ( Note: Seza, nee Seran Zarifian was born in Constantinople in 1903 was the sister of poet Matheos Zarifian. She passed away in Beirut in 1973). 

***

A dinner dance is organized in Beirut’s only Armenian social hall that was also the A.R.F. community center located in Bab Idriss, on the street behind the café Taneos, in the fish market. Before the music and the dance started a group of comrades, ungers, had arrived from Bourj Hammoud carrying sticks determined to prevent the event. It was Kaspar Ipegian narrating the event giving it a special flavor.  “Boys”, I said, “there is nothing to be ashamed of here. They are our wives and daughters and we are among ourselves, having gathered with our families.”

They answered:

“Unger Ipegian, is this not sacrilegious? Embrace each other and dance under the Tricolor Flag and under the watchful eyes of the A.R.F. Trinity?”. 

“It took me such an effort to convince these admirable boys otherwise and had them leave” said Ipegian, emphasizing on the preservation of our national endemic values.

Poor Ipegian. Had he known the state of our present national endemic values. The only thing that enlivens our social halls nowadays are the dinner dances….. "

Antranig Zarougian

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Mecho and Saint Sarkis

This is an abridged translation of Hamasdegh’s story titled “Mecho”, who was fourteen years old when his poor father Loleg Ovan died leaving behind “a dilapidated  cottage, a cherry wood-wipe, a widow and a cow with and adorned back”. After his father death, Mecho, already restless became undisciplined  kid of the village causing havoc and theft in the village and left school preferring spending time in nature, grazing their cow and hunting. But one day Mecho experienced a life altering event Hamasdegh describes it an abridged translation below. Vahe H. Apelian

“It was spring. The waters of the springs were overflowing, flooding the streams. The trees were spreading their roots further into the soil. The seeds were germinating. There was life and movement everywhere.

Everyday, amidst this abundance, Mecho would be seen seated on his cow crossing the bridge into the pasture.

On a warm spring day, Mecho, while pursuing a bird, entered uncle Soukeg’s vegetable garden. His attention got distracted from the bird when he saw uncle Soukeg’s wife bathing her little daughter Louseg right in front of their summer cottage. Mecho did not understand why he hid behind the bushes and did not understand why he kept looking at the naked girl crouched over her heels much like Venus in a washtub.

Mecho was the prince of the nature but in his entire universe no other being had seized his attention the way  Louseg did in her nakedness.

Mecho forgot the bird, forgot his cow and came out from the bushes.

Mother and Louseg suddenly realized that Mecho, standing erect next to the trees, is watching them fixated.

- “Hey Mecho, what are you doing here?” said the mother.

Mecho was not speaking. He had become speechless. While Louseg, shy, crouched further as if shivering.

Louseg’s mother was astonished. She saw fire in the eyes of the lad kindled by her daughter’s nakedness. 

-  “Get out of here, Mecho”, she shouted. 

Mecho was not moving.

- ‘Get away’ – said the mother angrily-and went straight towards him. Mecho with single leap jumped over the fence and disappeared in an instant much like an apparition that just had appeared. 

The following day, Mecho again took his cow to grazing next to uncle Soukeg’s vegetable garden. He saw uncle Soukeg tending the garden with his sleeves tucked onto his arms. Close to him, next to the potato sack, Louseg was standing helping her dad plant potato.

Uncle Soukeg saw Mecho jump over the fence but did not scold him.

-“Hey Mecho, what are you doing here? Come and give a hand.”

Mecho approached Louseg. They looked at each other and both blushed. 

Louseg was a little girl, thirteen years old. Mecho saw in her nature as a whole with its its dawn and its dusk. He saw in her a bit of the wild pigeons, foxes, hares he hunted.  He saw in her a bit of the cow he grazed and a little of the sky above. Her eyes were as beautiful as a newborn calf’s eyes. Her voice was even more tender than the sounds the wild pigeons made when they suddenly took wing from the gorge and swiftly flew and rested on the rocks of Saint Sarkis mountain. Her eyebrows were even darker than the feathers of a crow fallen on snow. Mecho felt something strange in him every time his hands touched Louseg’s hands in the potato sack.

Mecho was restless much like the seeds of wheat under the soil bursting to come forth under the sun.

Louseg had become Mecho’s sun.

Mecho no longer took his cow into the valley to graze.  Every day with his cow he went  close to uncle Soukeg’s vegetable garden. He left the cow on the harvested dry fields and he hid behind bushes looking at uncle Soukeg’s vegetable garden. His cow had realized that Mecho no longer took care of it and remained thirsty under the sun in the open dry field. Mecho no longer rested his head against the cow when both used to take a break under the shadow of a tree in the lush valley.

Mecho did not want to graze his cow anymore but wanted instead to work in uncle Soukeg’s vegetable garden. He would till the soil from dawn to dusk, plant potato, take care all the work of their vegetable garden. For his hard work Mecho would not ask for anything, other than being close to Louseg.

One day Mecho came out of the bushes when he saw Louseg  pass by. This time he had an owl in his hands.

- “Louseg” uttered Mecho to attract her attention.

Louseg looked at the owl in Mecho’s hands and approached him. 

-“why have you caught this owl? ” asked Louseg as she approached him to see the owl closely.

Mecho started telling Louseg about the mysterious powers of the owl as she remained mesmerized by what Mecho was telling her when suddenly her mother rushed from their cottage.

Mecho fled away as soon as he saw her coming toward him.

- “Girl, what are you doing here? I have been calling your name for so long that my voice got hoarse. Have I not told you not to speak to that crook? Had I caught him I would have broken his knees. Get home and clean the dishes” said the mother as she scolded her daughter.

Louseg henceforth avoided Mecho if she happened to see him. Mecho was a thief, the whole village knew that, and her mother would get angry should she been seen talking to him.

It was Saint Sarkis day. Those who had been fasting in preparation of the feast lucked up on that year’s Saint Sarkis day. Although it was a bit cold, but it was sunny and the snow was glittering under the sun’s rays. The young girls and boys of the villages nearby were heading up the Saint Sarkis mountain.

- “Who is that ?”  the villagers asked each other when they saw someone from far following them alone.

- “Maybe he is a beggar” said someone

- “What beggar ? He is Sarig’s son Mecho”, corrected another

- “I bet he has come to steal the candles of Saint Sarkis”.

Mecho trailed them from far much like an uninvited mourner following a casket. Mecho was an unofficial pilgrim. His clothes were not new. The fez he wore was tarnished with oil over its long use. He had stuffed straw in his shoes for warmth.  When he reached the site, he saw pilgrims buying candles to lit, pigeons to sacrifice. Pilgrims lit a candle or sacrificed a pigeon and then kneeled at the alter site, crossed and prayed to have Saint Sarkis fulfill their wishes. 

That evening Mencheg’s wife alerted her husband that she heard sounds coming from the roof. 

-“Who would be out  on this bitter cold night ?” said Mencheg to his wife. “Don’t you hear the winds are howling?”

It was Mecho. He had stolen Mencheg’s prized pigeon and  was braving the cold bitter night to  offer his sacrifice to Saint Sarkis before Saint Sarkis left with the howling winds riding his horse.

“O~h great Saint Sarkis. I offer this pigeon as my sacrifice. I do not want richness.  Grant me the strength, and the graciousness of your horse to be a laborer in uncle Soukeg’s garden.”

The following day  Kel Ghougas headed towards the Saint Sarkis mountain to see the animals he had trapped. When he reached the mountain top, not far from the Saint Sarkis alter he saw a frozen body. 

It was Mecho’s.”

The Orphan Built a House

By Philip Zakarian

Translated by Vahe H. Apelian

 

This poignant story is an excerpt from Philip Zakarian’s book titled “ The Vigil of the Last Orphans” (Beirut, 1974). He is more known and associated with the title of his other two volume sequel “The Orphans Built a House” (1972). Hence, I opted to name the piece I translated. The cartoon depicted here is by Massis Araratian.

 

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 hi

*****

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.

“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 direction. 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 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: 

Pound - Refers to Lebanese Lira

Piaster - 100 piasters equal to one Lira (Pound)