Vahe H Apelian
CROSSING THE ATLANTIC: This is the fourth and last installment of my “Memorable July dates” blog. The dates I had in mind are July 1, 1846, July 2, 1972, July 4, 1776, and July 9, 1976.
The July 2 and July 9 dates are personal memorable days. Today, July 9, 2024, marks the 48th anniversary of my having arrived to this hospitable shore in 1976, as another immigrant. A few years earlier I had been at the western most point I thought I would ever be. But it did not turn to be that way and I ended up crossing the Atlantic Ocean as well.
One thousand nine hundred and seventy-two – 1972 - was a momentous year for me. I was a graduate student in the Bacteriology-Virology Department of the American University of Beirut, School of Medicine. A year before I had graduated from the school of pharmacy. It was a tumultuous year and hence the traditional commencement ceremony was not held in the athletic field, where it is customarily held.
My years as pre-pharmacy and then as a pharmacy student in AUB were memorable as well, mostly thanks to the scholarship Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation granted me. The scholarship not only covered the tuition, but every semester left enough money to buy the textbooks, a shirt, a pair of pants and a pair of shoes from the upscale "Red Shoe" store. Unburdened from financial worries, and knowing that my schooling did not financially burden my parental family, I became involved both in student organizations and extracurricular activities. I was elected as the class representative to the school of pharmacy student board. I was also elected to chair arguably the oldest Armenian student association in the Diaspora, the A.R.F. Zavarian Student Association.
It was Dr. Garabed Garabedian, the chairman of the Bacteriology-Virology Department who had accepted me into the graduate program. Edward Barsoumian, was a former graduate student and had become an adjunct member of the faculty, told that me that Dr. Garabedian, during the faculty meeting, had made it known in no uncertain terms that I was to be the student who would be accepted into the graduate program that offered not only free education towards a masters in science degree, but also a stipend as a laboratory instructor.
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| Dr. Garabed Garabedian with the graduate students, January, 1973 |
Dr. Garabed Garabedian was orphaned survivor of the Armenian genocide. He had started working in the department as a technician but also had pursued his education and getting up in the ranks and after receiving his PhD degree from a university in the U.S., he had returned to assume the chair of the department he was a laboratory technician. He commanded much respect in the AUB medical community both as an academician and as a scientist. Engrossed in his work, he remained marginal at best in the Armenian community, if not totally uninvolved. But he took a particular liking of me and it was him that upon my completion of my masters in science degree, had me accepted for fellowship in Clinical Pathology program, a highly competitive program especially in the sectarian makeup of Lebanon. To this day I have kept the recommendation he gave when we departed ways and I was on my way to the U.S. as another immigrant. I quote, “I take distinct pleasure in giving him this letter of recommendation. G. A. Garabedian, Ph.D., Professor and Chairman, Department of Bacteriology and Virology.”
And now, a year into my graduate study, he was giving me permission to take off with pay, to go to Portugal at the invitation of the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation to attend a summer long study at its science institute. Along with me were Arpi Darakjian, the sister of Nazareth Darakjian, M.D, the president of AMAA, Ara Hovanessian who earned a Ph.D. and charted an internationally reputable career as a research director in the Institute of Pasteur. I do not remember the names of the other two, other than the first name of one of them, Sirvart.
We were immersed in our tasks in the Institute for the five days of the week and had the weekends off to do sightseeing. During one of these weekends, I visited the westernmost point of Europe and Eurasia, a place called Capo Da Roca that overlooked the turbulent and seemingly endless Atlantic Ocean below. The place is said to symbolize the sea faring spirit of the Portuguese. At that moment I became reflective. In my small world I thought, I had come far, shouldered by my parents, many teachers in the Sourp Nshan school and then at the Armenian Evangelical College-High School, Dr. Garabed Garabedian, and of course the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation. Dr. Garabedian was one of the earliest graduates of the A.E.C, which was founded in 1923 as the first Armenian post genocide high school.
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| With students at the Gulbenkian science institute |
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| Students and Staff |
I purchased a certificate attesting my visit there. I still keep it as a cherished remembrance. It reads that on July 2, 1972, I was at Cabo da Roca-Portugal, the westernmost point in Europe "where the land ends and the sea begins and where the spirit of faith and adventure reigns, which took the caravels of Portugal in search of new worlds for the world.” (note: a caravel is a small, fast Spanish or Portuguese sailing ship of the 15th–17th centuries)
Little did I envision that in a few years the world I knew would turn upside down. Not July 2, 1972 but on July 9, 1976, I would make my most westerly journey when I ended up crossing the Atlantic Ocean on my way further west to the U.S. Civil war broke in Lebanon in 1975. The hotel my father ran was sacked and for a long time stood on the battle line between East and West Beirut. The work plans I had for setting up the most advanced medical diagnostic lab in Lebanon became an impossible dream in the city divided in itself along its sectarian make up. But, the education the Calouste Foundation had enabled me to receive qualified me for a preferential immigration visa. On July 9, 1976, I landed at the JFK Airport. The Egyptian Armenian Noubar Manougian family had sponsored me and was to receive me at the airport. But they were not there. Noubar had stayed in Hotel Lux on his way to the U.S. with his mother, and met his wife there, also from Egypt and also on her way to the U.S. They had forged a family friendship. But they were not there. My phone calls from the pay phone remained unanswered falsely letting me assume that they were on their way. But the wait was getting long, too long.
Hours went by. I got hungry. I ordered a club sandwich. It was the first time that I ate a sandwich where the layered cold cuts were thicker than the bread that sandwiched it. A single slice of mortadella, with a slice of pickle in a half baguette bread, is what I was used to. It was also very, very expensive. But it was the wait that was getting agonizing and concerning. It turned out hey had left the country for a visit to Egypt and thus had not received my Western Union telegrams from Cyprus and then Athens. Communication from East Lebanon where we lived was impossible. It was a different era and communication was a challenge, especially from war torn Lebanon.
Fortunately, my former pharmacy school classmate Movses Hovsepian had also sent me his phone number to contact him after getting to the U.S. We were close friends. A year before, the day before his departure, I had attended the family get together wishing him well. He was utterly surprised to hear me calling him instead from the airport. Fortunately, he and his wife had a last-minute change for the weekend. Instead of visiting relatives for overnight weekend stay, as they usually did, they were at home on that Friday evening. New in the country and with no GPS, it took him a few hours to get to the airport, having missed an exit or two on his way from New Jersey. With no cell phones to be in touch, it was another long agonizing wait and an excruciating long, long, long day.
Those were hectic days. I had embarked on my immigrant's journey on a yacht from Bay of Jounieh in Beirut to Cyprus, from there to I caught a plane to Athens and to the U.S. That was the only route available for leaving worn-torn Lebanon, where I was born and raised. After all these years whenever I think of those days, I see my mother waving a white handkerchief as the boat left the shore and sailed into the Mediterranean Sea and she gradually disappeared form my my view while the mountains of Lebanon came in a majestic full view.
And, as of July 9, 1976, an altogether new life awaited me in the new world…………..
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| " "where the land ends and the sea begin" and where the spirit of faith and adventure reigns, which took the caravels of Portugal in search of new worlds for the world.” |
