Ara Mekhsian’s description of his immediate Aleppo neighborhood surely evokes sentimental memories among those who experienced the once close-knit Armenian communities in Lebanon and Syria, made up mostly by the survivors of the Armenian Genocide and its first and second generations. Surely they are dwindling in number by the day taking with them their memories of the way it was once. Attached is my translation of Ara Mekhsian’s take. I took the liberty of changing the title by quoting a passage from his short story he posted on his Facebook page, titling it "My Paradise". Vaհe H Apelian
 |
| Ara Mekhsian, on the right, with is friend, Garabed Saghbazarian M.D., in a Aleppo public garden. |
The fog of fifty-six years has largely obscured my memories of Aleppo, but some memories remain indelible to this day.
In the fifties and sixties, the Armenian-populated Nor Gyugh (New Village) town of Aleppo consisted of four neighborhoods, simply numbered first, second, third, and fourth. I don’t remember whether the streets that made up those neighborhoods had official names or not. I think most of them did not. The main avenues were exceptions. The main road, where the Karen Yeppe National Djemaran and the Sahakian National School were located, was named Yazji. Our house was on a secondary street, and there was no neighborhood or street name. Instead of the name of the neighborhood, there would be a fractional number on the envelopes, and under it in Arabic, Midan (the official name of Nor Gyugh), Halab (Aleppo), Syria would be written. As for the boundaries of the four neighborhoods, where they began and where they ended, I will leave that to a reader who like me was born in Nor Gyugh and lived there for a considerable time, and is more skilled in geography than I.
Although the neighborhoods did not have their own names, that did not mean that they were nameless. For example, our neighborhood was named after Bakhal (grocer) Andranig. It was also referred to by his endearing name, Anto, as Bakhal (grocer) Anto’s neighborhood. The grocer’s shop was located in the northwest corner of the neighborhood and it was run by Andranik and his wife Azniv. They were a diligent couple.
However, it often is also happened, that another well-known shopkeeper was also located in the same neighborhood or at one of its corners. In that case, according to the descriptionist’s preference, the neighborhood could be named after that second merchant. In the southwest corner of our neighborhood, opposite the barber's shop, there was a very popular barber who could rival Picasso's skill with his razor and, if he had lived in the eighteenth century, would undoubtedly have aroused the envy of Figaro, the barber of Seville, with his mastery of the scissors. This venerable Armenian's name was Haroutiun; so many in our neighborhood called the immediate vicinity where the barber was located, as Haroutiun’s neighborhood, instead of grocer Anto’s neighborhood. If they wanted to appear a little more educated and refined than ordinary mortals, they referred to it as Mr. Haroutiun’s neighborhood.
So, it went. A neighborhood was named after Haygaz, who was a haberdasher, he sold a little bit of everything in his store. Another neighborhood was named after a baker who hailed from Sassun and hence the neighborhood came to be known as the Sassuntsi’s neighborhood. Some of the neighborhoods were known by a person’s endearing moniker. Such as, a little further down was Karuch Ammi's – uncle Garouch’s neighborhood. Garouch was his endearing name. His name may have been Garabed. He sold “fool” (fava beans), humus, and licorice syrup. A little to the north was Langher Yaghoup's (he ran a cafe) neighborhood. No one I knew, knew why he was called Langher Yaghoup. Another neighborhood was called Attar Artin's neighborhood. “Attar” in Turkish mean pharmacy. Although he did not run a pharmacy but ran a bit “upscale” store for general merchandizing, Attar Artin may have rhymed well, hence the name stuck. There also was Leblebuji Seto's neighborhood. He had grocery store selling, nuts, roasted chick peas and the like. There was Ghasab (butcher) Kevork's neighborhood, Postaji's neighborhood. His store also functioned as the post office; hence the person who ran the store came to be known as the postaji. There was Jizmejian's neighborhood. Mr. Jizmejian ran a book store and bound books - (note: my mother-in-law’s bible was bound by Jizmejian as the stamp attests - Vahe). There was Makhfarin Kovi - next to the police station - neighborhood. There was also the neighborhood in front of the mosque, the neighborhood behind the mill, the neighborhood of the public bathhouse, the neighborhood of Krikor Lusavorich Church, which was also the neighborhood of Sahakian and Djemaran schools. Opposite the gymnasium was the Zavarian neighborhood. The neighborhood was named after the Zavarian elementary school, located on a small hills, whose dedicates teaching staff educated the children of its immediate neighberhood and instilled in them the pride in being brought up as Armenians. The Nor Gyugh, whose residents had long forgone that its official name is Maidan, was made up of dozens, upon dozens of such neighborhoods, all known by their Armenian designations. They were popular although they were unofficial designations. But they were more descriptive and much better known than their official names we did not know.
There are many people who believe in the existence of heaven. They pray that the Lord will send them to heaven after death. May God hear their prayers. I, too, believe in the existence of heaven. How can I not believe? I experienced it. Although my paradise was the slightly dusty, had slightly muddy streets and its neighborhoods were known by those strange, yet endearing names and were filled with the aroma of delicious food cooked by mothers and grandmothers. The sounds of craftsmen's tools conveyed vigor and vitality. The roar of cars at times, the sidewalks swaying with the quiet traffic of people, sometimes bustling with the lively chatter, permeated the neighborhood I lived. Along with them were our modest houses built of sundried adobe bricks. Finally, everything I, and everyone else I knew needed: roads, stores, artisan shops, churches, and schools were all there.
That four square kilometer was my Eden, where I lived the first nineteen years of my life without realizing that I was living in a paradise. Fifty-six years ago, I voluntarily and irrevocably exiled myself from the Eden I lived once
