Lest We Forget: Anahid Tootikian Meymarian

By Vahe H. Apelian

Anahid Tootikian Meymarian was born on November 10, 1937 in Ekizolukh, one of the villages that make up greater Kessab. She was the daughter of George and Julia Tootikian. She had two brothers, Hagop and Levon who and a sister Nvart (deceased).

She received her primary and secondary education in the Armenian Evangelical College of Beirut. For a brief period, she attended the Near East School of Theology , Haigazian College and Beirut College for Women.

She emigrated to the United States of America in 1962. In 1964 she graduated from Fairleigh Dickinson University in New Jersey with a Bachelor of Arts degree (B.A.) in literature and psychology. In 1967 she received her Master of Arts (M.A.) degree from California State University of Northridge, CSUN, majoring in pedagogy and educational psychology and received her teaching credentials.

In 1968 she married Puzant Meymarian, who along with his trade is an accomplished sculpture. They are blessed with three children Garine, Talin and Vicken and six grandchildren.

Holy Martyrs Ferrahian Armenian School, first Armenian day school in the U.S, was founded in 1964.  Anahid started teaching there from 1965 and on for the next 25 years, until 1989. She was thus one of the first full time teachers of the school. She taught Armenian language, history and literature from 3^rd to 12^th grades. She is the author of five notebooks of Armenian calligraphy and became its resident historian having affiliated with it since get go.  She wrote a brief history of the school celebrating the 40^th anniversary of its foundation. She instilled in her students an Armenian patriotic fervor and remained liked by them.  

From 1965 and onward Anahid Meymarian remained an active member and supporter of the Kessab Educational Association of Los Angeles. From 1971 to 1988 she taught Armenian history and literature to the young campers in Camp Kessab which was run by the Kessab Educational Association of  Los Angeles.

In 1973 Anahid joined the ranks of the Armenian Relief  Society. For the next 47 years she became an active member of the organization serving both in local chapter committee as well as in the  regional central committee. In 2010,  she researched and posted in Armenian journals a brief history of Armenian Relief Society’s activities during the past 100 years marking the centennial of the Society.

From 1987 and on she contributed  articles to the “Asbarez” Daily. 

In 2005 she published an anthology of her articles in a book titled “My Holy Fatherland” (Im Sourp Hayrenik - Իմ Սուրբ Հայրենիք).

In 2008 she published her impressions of her visit of the Armenian Cilicia and Western Armenia in a book titled “The Stones Cry Out” (Karereh Gaghagagen-Քարերը Կաղակակեն).

In 2010 Catholicos Aram I pinned upon her the Saint Mesrob Mashdots medal accompanied by an ecclesiastical decree.

Her love of the Armenian language and culture was unbound. She devoted most of her productive adult life educating succeeding generations. 

She succumbed to her lingering illness on April 14, 2019 in her house while under care of her family members and serendipitously on the very same day her long time colleague and the founding principal of the Ferrahian Armenian School, Gabriel Injejikian, passed away as well, marking the closure of an remarkable era in life of the Armenian American Community that was marked by a spree of founding Armenian day schools.

Anahid was a family friend and a fellow Kessabtsi. My mother and she shared common values as lifelong teachers of Armenian language, history and literature. Both were bestowed with St. Mesrob Mashdots ecclesiastical decree. Both were authors. Anahid had a vast collection of Armenian books which graced their house along with her husband Puzant’s masterful artistry making their house, on a hilltop in Tarzana, a cultural place to be I visited with my mother whenever I was in Los Angeles visiting my parents. 

In 2015 I translated her depiction of the last months of Aurora Mardigian-Mardiganian. Keghart.com published it on March 7, 2015. Subsequently I also posted it in my blog.  We owe to her and to her husband’s vigilance the story of the demise of Aurora, the orphaned genocide survivor who brought the horror of the genocide on the silver screen for countless to view. 

I would like to close this obituary with one of my mother’s favorite quote, as Anahid Tootikian Meymarian also fought the good fight, finished the race, and kept the faith (2 Timothy 4:7). 

May she rest in peace.

Source: Kessabtis Yearbook 2020, 60^th Edition, pages: 234-236

Levon Shant and Nigol Aghpalian (No. 3/5)

Levant Shant as an Educator

In this third 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 about Levon Shan as an educator. Translated by Vahe H. Apelian.

“A few episodes as a testament about the Shant’s pedagogical methods.

We have a teacher who although teaches English, but his main responsibility is to supervise the students in the dormitory where he also lives with his wife. His name was Matheos Papazian. He was a mild mannered and a good-natured person who had graduated either from Oxford or Cambridge University with a master’s degree in theology. He knew the bible by heart. Many a time it has happened that he would hand the bible to us and ask us to read a segment and he would then continue reciting the rest of the passage noting the verse. He stayed in Jemaran for two years and  left for Egypt where he was ordained as a priest. 

Once that mild-mannered person lost his cool in the classroom because of the commotion the girls were making. Unable to confront them, he took his frustration on one of the boys and slapped him but immediately left room in a hurry upset by his very own act

A deafening silence fell on the classroom. Only the sobs of the student could be heard. Garabed was a grownup boy, almost a young man. He was hurt more by the indignity he suffered in front of the girls than from the pain of the slap itself, especially that he was the most obedient, punctual and low-keyed student in the classroom. If there ever was a student recognized for orderly conduct in our class, he would be the one.

The bell rang. We moved slowly and subdued. He continued sobbing moaning: “because we attend school for free, they treat us in this manner….”.

Moshegh and I decided to write a letter of complaint, in fact a warning to the principle. We explained that “we demand an end to such Turkic act, otherwise we will take the matter into our hands.”

We signed the letter. The girls, without exception signed the letter as well. Everyone else in the classroom signed the letter with the exception of three students. We did everything we could to have them sign the letter as well, but they remained adamant and refused to sign. We reasoned that although the letter is not unanimously approved, three students abstaining from the class of twenty is not bad. We put the letter in an envelope, sealed it and took it to the principal’s office.

Half an hour later Shant entered the classroom. I should have said, he rushed into the classroom with the letter from the unsealed envelope in his hand. He thundered waving the letter over his head.

- “What kind of audaciousness is this? Never to be repeated again. How dare you remind my duty to me?…Do not ever attempt that again….otherwise you all will be returned where you came from …”

Even though Shant was irritated but I realized that his words were measured. “Do not remind my duties to me”. He surely meant to say that he was already going to take the matter into his hand. But the class was not grasping the covert message. They were all muted, remained seated with their heads bowed. After chastising us for ten minutes or so, he was prepared to leave. He had already opened the door to exit the classroom when he looked back as if he had forgotten something. No trace of anger was palpable in his demeanor. He asked, looking at the letter.

- “I see that three students have not signed this letter. Who are they?”

The three stood out ready to be complimented.

- “Why have you not signed the letter?”

- “We, Mr. Shant, as you said , we did not agree to the letter….”

Shant interrupted them.

- “If you were not in agreement with them, you had to stop the rest of your classmates from writing this letter. You could not, you also had then to sign the letter….”

He left the classroom.

The faces  of the three students looked like a wrinkled newly washed laundry ready to be squeezed dry.

No, I will not cite their names. But I wonder if Garabed every forgot them.

***

For a long time, the “Who Will Be? – I Will Be” scandal became the talk of the community. But it was forgotten when I resumed writing poems and had them published in Armenian journals. Shant did not mind any more seeing our signatures in journals. I sign A. Tzar (note: tzar is the spelling for tree in Armenian).

Hrant, from our class, liked to joke. He had started to pull my leg. On the blackboard he would draw pictures of three trees and call them A. Tzar, B. Tzar, and C. Tzar. A senseless and a silly joke. The only person who seemed to have fun was him. For a while I put up with him, but it eventually got into my nerves.

- “Hrant, end that nonsense” I said.

He did not pay attention and continued with his whimsical way continuing to draw trees on the blackboard and laughing looking at me, he-he-he.

One day he had drawn his wonder art on the blackboard again and was challenging me. I went to the blackboard, took the eraser and offered it to him. 

- “Hrant, grab it”.

- “I grabbed it, he-he-he”

- “Hrant, I will count to three, and if you do not erase ….”

He remained nonchalant, jovial, smiling, leaning on one foot, then on the other.

- “Hrant, I will count to three, and if you do not erase….”

The same indifference.

_ “Hrant, I will count to three, and if you do not erase, one, two….”

The third was followed by a slap. It was a strong, and a harsh slap, the kind that will leave the mark of the fingers. I realized that it was a little bit stronger than I intended. He dropped the eraser and looked at me with eyes that blazed with fury. He was a fair and a soft skinned boy, my contrast. For a while he contemplated to retaliate, but my eyes and my posture discouraged him. I had newly left my boxing and soccer days behind. Confronting me was not an option for him, especially that I am taller than him.

Suddenly, he left the classroom and went straight to Shant’s office. I hear Hrant’s “he-he-he” have given way to  sobbing with a futile fury.

I waited to be called to the principal’s office at any moment, but there was no sign from the office. I saw Hrant coming down wiping his eyes. The school day ended. We had no classes in the afternoon. It was devoted to reading or taking a group walk with a teacher. I was seated next to a small library at a small desk in the reading room. The student came, picked books from the library and read seated around a large desk. An utter silence prevailed in the room. Shant, his hands behind his back, was pacing back and forth in the hall.  

Hrant approached the desk. On a piece of paper, he had written the title of the book he wanted to read. He did not talk to me. He presented me the paper and looked the other way, visibly irreconcilable. Shant noticed us and approached us and confronted me.

- “What do you want from this boy?”

- “I want nothing from him, Mr. Shant.”

- “Why did you slap him?”

“ I did not slap him.”

He looked at Hrant and said.

- “My son, when you came to my office this morning, the mark of the slap was visible on you face, but since he says that he did not slap you, therefore he did not slap you. Your friend would not lie…..”

And again, with his hands behind his back, holding his head high, his goatee preceding him, Shant resumed his silent pace, after having given me a stronger blow than my slap and causing me much more pain.

 For a long time afterwards, I could not look straight at his eyes.

Jemaran Building and its terrace.

***

Shant’s humor is not impulsive. It is thoughtful, qualified, that is to say always meant to be educational.

It’s lunch time. In the middle of the table there is large basket full of loquats (nor-ashkarh). Hrant had his hand immersed in the fruit basket picking one fruit after another looking for the ripest and the best looking. He went on and on. Shant was also seated and was watching him going on with his search on and on. He stood up from his seat and came next to Hrant and said:

- “Son, you choose with your eyes and only pick up with your hand…..”

***

Shant was standing on the terrace of the Jemaran building looking the boys and girls playing on the playgroun. Moushegh and I were next to him. From below the voices of the playful students were being heard. Sako (Vartabedian) was running after Knarig (Attarian). Both of them were hardly ten years old yet, if that. Sako was being heard saying:

- “Boy, boy, golden boy; girl, girl, doggie girl” (shan aghchig).

Shant called from the terrace.

- “Sako, come here”

Sako, a bit hesitant, apprehensive came and stood in front of Shant, the principle of the school.

- “Sako, what were you saying? Do not be afraid. There is no punishment, just tell me. What were you saying?”

Sako, a bit assured but still hesitant and apprehensive, murmured:

_ “I said dogy girl, sir”.

Shant, playfully solemn and philosophical..

- “ Never mind, when you grow a bit more, you will change your opinion…”

Sako, had no comprehension of what was said but us, standing next to him, understood Shant’s words very well. We had already changed our opinion about the girls…..

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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