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)

 

Killing Orders by Taner Akcam

Reviewed by: Vahe H. Apelian

I have been reading KILLING ORDERS by TANER AKCAM. It will be a slow reading partly because of the small font, crowded line spacing  on below quality sheets. Also, reading history is not like reading a novel. It requires concentration and hence time.

Taner Akcam’s book “Killing Orders” is about Talat Pasha’s telegrams. Many of us have seen these telegrams in Armenian books. They are in Ottoman Turkish.

How was it that the Armenians got hold of these telegrams? How can the Armenians claim that these telegrams are authentic? And, who was Naim Bey to have become privy of such important corded documents? Authenticating such questions constitute the crux of the reading of the book.

I had long been aware that Mazlumian brothers, the owners of the historic Baron Hotel in Aleppo played a key role in obtaining the telegrams. It turns out that an Armenian journalist by the name of Aram Andonian, who was arrested on April 24, 1915 but somehow escaped, was the person who purchased these telegrams from Naim Bey in Baron Hotel Mazlumiam brothers owned in Aleppo. There does not seem to a mention in the book if the Mazlumian brothers financially assisted in the purchase.  Naim Bey brought these documents in batches on the 6^th, 10^th, and 14^th November 1918. “On the basis of Naim’s recollection and the documents he sold, Andonian wrote a book in Armenian in 1919, which was published only after the English and French editions”, notes Taner. As to Naim Bey, money seems to have been his only motif to sell these historic documents.

Naim Bey was “the office secretary in the Department Office of the Aleppo Branch of the Interior Ministry’s Directorate for Tribal and Immigrant Settlement”. Furthermore, Taner Akcam notes that “the text that is referred to here as “memoirs” is not a book of collection in the classic sense; it is a collection of handwritten copies of some 52 Ottoman documents, along with supplementary notes explaining them, all written by Naim himself. Most of the documents within this collection are attributed to the Unionist Triumvir and Interior Minister Talat Pasha, and some contain his orders regarding the liquidation of the Armenian population”.

Obviously  Turkish historians have questioned the authenticity of these telegrams from Talat Pasha ordering the killing of the Armenians and have questioned if an Ottoman bureaucrat named Naim Bey in fact existed and have claimed that the telegrams and the person are figments of Armenian historians’ imagination.  Hence the Turkish denialists have long claimed that these documents and the memoirs themselves are forgeries produced by the Armenians. Akcam painstakingly disputes such allegations by the Turkish denialists with historical evidence backing their authenticity. His knowledge of Ottoman Turkish and the codes the Turkish officials used during the era help him greatly to make his case.

On an important side note, I would like to quote Taner Ackam’s claim that serendipitous turn of events lead him to lay his hands on a bunch of documents kept in the NAASR (National Association for Armenian Studies and Research) institute  that turned out to be Naim Bey’s memoirs and hence became the impetus for him to embark on his research authenticating that Naim Bey actually existed and these documents are real and not forgeries. Quoting from the book, Taner Akcam’s book “presents new evidence and arguments that prove the killing orders of the Armenian Genocide issued by Talat Pasha are authentic. For decades it has been claimed that these incriminating documents and the memoirs of the Ottoman bureaucrat Naim Effendi, in which they are preserved, were forgeries”.

I believe Tim Arango, a Los Angeles correspondent for NY Times,  best sums up both the author and the book in an article in NY Times on April 22, 2017,  claiming that Taner Ackam is the “Sherlock Holmes of Armenian Genocide” who uncovered lost evidence. 

Taner Akcam has deciduated the book to his “Dear friend Hrant Dink, who dreamt of bringing the Armenians  and people of Turkey together on the basis of ‘Truth and Justice’. His assassination in 2007 did not kill this dream, but instead inspired hundreds of thousands of individuals to follow in his footsteps. And to my daughter Helin, who gives me hope in the newer generation’s ability to carry on Hrant’s dream for a better future.”

Taner Akcam and Emanuel Macron

According to Wikipedia “Altuğ Taner Akcam is a Turkish-German historian and sociologist. He is one of the first Turkish academics to acknowledge and openly discuss the Armenian Genocide and is recognized as a ‘leading international authority’ on the subject.” He is the chairman of Robert Aram, Marianne Kaloustian and Stephen and Marian Mugar Armenian Genocide studies in the Department of History of the Clark University, in Worcester, MA.  Quoting from the back cover of the book, Taner Ackam’s  publications include “The Young Turks’ Crime Against Humanity: The Armenian Genocide and Ethnic Cleansing in the Ottoman Empire (2012), which was co-winner of the Middle East Studies Association’s Albert Hourani Book Award  and of Foreign Affairs.com’s Best Books on the Middle East”.

Last year the ANCA-Western Region recognized his contributions to Armenian Genocide study and recently President Emmanuel Macron of France praised him during a dinner hosted by the Coordinating Council of Armenian Organizations in France (CCAF) for standing up against denialists of the Armenian Genocide.

The book is 261 pages long with a rich bibliography and is indexed and contains pictures of the telegrams and other documents. The book retails on Amazon.com from where I purchased the copy I am reading.

Armenian Media's First Mention of the Word Genocide.

Shavarsh Missakian, "Haratch", 9 December 1945

Translation by Vahe Apelian

Levon Sharoyan posted a copy of the December 9, 1945 issue  of "Haratch” (Forward) Daily of Paris, where for the very first time its longtime editor Shavarsh Missakian first introduced the newly coined word "genocide" in his editorial and hence in the Armenian press.  Haratch ('Forward') (Armenian: Յառաջ) was an Armenian daily newspaper based in France. It was founded in 1925 by Schavarch Missakian.The newspaper was famous for attracting high profile names in Armenian literature and journalism. Schavarsh Missakian, died on Janauary 26, 1957.

 

The Editorial

“A new word that was used during the Nuremberg Trials, “Genocide”.

It means ցեղասպանութիւն (tseghasbanoutiun)

In fact, the four victorious governments declare in their historic accusation that “Germany is guilty of genocidal premeditated, planned crimes for eradicating national, religious or ethnic groups, especially the Poles, the Jews and others…..”

People knowledgeable in law note that it is the first time the word genocide (ցեղասպանութիւն - tseghasbanoutiun) appears in an accusation.

The author of the word is an American lawmaker by the name of Lemkin. He explained the origin and the meaning of the word in a recent book.

The word "genocide" is formed by adding to the Greek genos (race or tribe) cide (Latin) which means killing such as in homicide, infanticide. Thus "genocide" means to destroy according to a particular and premeditated plan the necessary foundations of a racial group to obliterate its political, social, cultural, linguistic, economic being. Genocide is directed against a racial group as a whole and its actions against individuals are not directed against them per se but as members of that racial group.

The act consists of two phases: first annihilate the leading cadre of the racial group and then replace it with a leading cadre from the perpetrator.

According to the American lawmaker, the law will not only punish the criminals during war but will assure the security of minorities in the future.

We read these words and follow the Nuremberg Trials. Our mind instinctively wonders away to a far distant world where thirty years ago war crimes were also committed according to a premeditated plan to annihilate, during a world war, a race left to its fate and on its own.

The same methods were used there also: decapitate the leadership;  dismantle, destroy and eradicate the political, social, cultural, economic foundations and uproot them. Massacre and obliterate them in groups on the spot, during their exodus or in the desert. Kill them with sword, dagger, gun, cannon, hatchet, stone, axe or hammer; by hanging or burning them; by starving or throwing them in the river or sea. Even inject them with deadly microbe, stuff their still-nursing babies in wooden boxes and nailing them shut.

In another word genocide (ցեղասպանութիւն - tseghasbanoutiun ). 

Where were the lawmakers and the judges of today? Had they not discovered the word? Or was it that the bloodthirsty monster was too strong to lay a hand on?

Our rage mounts tenfold particularly because the day’s victors were present then, where the crime was committed. They were there for full four years and ruled like landlords, much like they do nowadays in Germany. Then also hundreds were apprehended, and 70 hand-picked monsters were sent to Malta to be tried and punished commensurate to the crimes they perpetrated. Then?

Has the world changed for the better from Istanbul and Malta to Nuremberg and Auschwitz?

Let the hyenas of genocide be tried and punished mercilessly. But where did the first example of modern-day genocide take place?”

 

 

 

 

Our House in Canada

Translated and abridged by Vahe H. Apelian, February 2016

Rev. Hovhannes Sarmazian is the retired (2019) Pastor of the Armenian Evangelical Church in Cambridge, Canada, where he pastored since 1990. Formerly he was a teacher and a pastor of the Armenian Evangelical Church in Anjar. He was also the principle of the Kessab Educational Association’s evening school in Lebanon during his study for ministry in the Near East School of Theology (NEST). The attached piece is from his book “Can The Land Be Sold?” (Հողը կը Ծախուի՞)  published in 2006). 

( http://vhapelian.blogspot.com/search?q=rev+sarmazian )

Our House in Canada

"After long family discussions and arguments, last October finally we also got a house in Canada. Our house now has its owner, its own address and its unique telephone number. Our children are very happy as if they achieved a victory. They also seem to be a bit proud of their new house. Enthused they call friends a little bit everywhere and herald to them the news of their new house and invite them to come and see their new residence.

Buying a house had become an issue of contention lately in our family and cause for frequent arguments. My elder son who has an aptitude for mathematics had always tried to convince me of the benefits of buying a house citing figures and letting me know how beneficial purchasing a house can be over renting one.

- “Instead of wasting your money paying rent, you can allocate the same amount towards a mortgage and years later the house will be yours.”  My son used to tell me confidently. His sister and brother would join to confirm his saying. I, on the other hand, with my Middle Eastern mentality, used to ask myself,

- “Am I going to go in hundreds of thousands debt? That is not possible. In a situation like that I would lose my sleep during the nights. No, that’s impossible. It is not possible to buy a house when there is no available money for it”, would be my conclusion.

After all this commotion, I would look forward sitting in front of our television during the weekends and enjoy the Armenian “New Horizon” program. During airing of the program, a spokesperson from an agency that deals with buying and selling properties would invariably appear announcing in support of my children.

- “Are you tired of paying rent? Do you know how easy it is to become the owner of your own house? To know how we can be of help to you, call us”.

And then their business address and their telephone number would appear on the screen.

- “Let us take Dad to the office of the real estate agency, and ask him to stay there until evening so that he will come to realize how beneficial is buying a house instead of renting one”, used to say my daughter to her two brothers.

It is fair that I confess that as a student I also have been pretty good in the subject of mathematics. However, I have not been “open-eyed” when it came to matters of buying and selling. That is why I have always felt that people can easily take advantage of me and thus be able to sell me something they have set at a higher price than it is actually worth.

Finally, being left on my own in my viewpoint, I accepted my defeat and gave in enabling us to get a house for our own. Admittedly our new house is a pretty house with an appealing front yard laden with flowers and a fenced backyard filled with newly planted fruit bearing trees. With its garage and neatly arranged rooms, it is a very livable house. Everything pertaining to the house has been thoughtfully planned.

The previous owner was a former villager from Portugal who is now engaged in construction. What struck me odd is the following: after living in the house for the previous five years and with his own efforts planting the flowers and fruit bearing trees, with total ease and a little bit happy and without showing the slightest sentiments, handed us the keys of the house and walked down the streets during the sunset hours. For a brief moment I wondered if I was deceived this time around too. Why would the man look so happy for having sold his house?

Why should I lie, lest I sin? For some time my old car remained idle on the street as it was not operational any more. Three months ago, abiding to the order of the municipality, I called a special agency to tow it away. When they came and tied our old car to their special truck and started hauling it away like the carcass of a dead domestic animal, for a brief moment I followed them and then suddenly an overwhelming sadness overtook me. That iron thing without a soul had been my companion for many years and had served me well. How was it that the Portuguese villager could let go of the house he had tended with his own hands and without slightest emotion hand us the keys and walk away without even taking one last glance?

*****

1. Sarmzian's house. 2. The village school

We are already in our new house. My children are happy and negotiate among themselves as who would occupy which room. Household utensils, furniture, personal items are being placed in their proper spots.

Everyone in the family appears to be happy and enthusiastic. I also am happy to a certain extent. But the source of my happiness is not the house but the result of my children’s happiness. I have to confess that our new house in Canada does not lift my spirits. I do not know why I do not feel at home in the beautiful and comfortable house. It is not because I have accumulated debt that will take years to pay. Some inexplicable, mysterious and mystifying feeling keeps me from embracing without reservation our new house. I liken myself to the young village migrant in the big city who after leaving his first love back in the village, marries maybe a more beautiful but nonetheless a strange city girl.

Why is it that everything appears to be artificial and illusory to me in this remote land? These thoughts take me to a distant place, at the northwestern corner of Syria, to Kessab where, at the foot of the Seldran mountain, there is a small Armenian village called Baghjaghaz and to a small house in that village. That small house is our ancestral house. It is modest but entirely and really ours. My grandfather had built it with his hands.

In 1909, during the Adana Massacres, marauding Turkish mobs sacked and torched also Kessab and its surrounding villages. My grandfather returned to his demolished ancestral home once more, and with a renewed faith and with an Armenian stubbornness, had cut the huge pine tree in its yard and from whose trunk and thick branches he had fashioned logs and wood panels to build our house anew.

My father tended the house every fall and did the repairs so that its earth-covered roof and its thick stone-walls would stand the fury of winter rain and snow. I remember the blue stone quarry not far from our village. We called the blue stones Kuyruk. Every autumn the able-bodied men of the village would go to the quarry and bring the blue stones and lay them over the roofs and then go over them with large stone-rollers to crush and pack them on the rooftop against the rain.

Our Bagjaghaz house had history as to who was the carpenter who made the wooden windows and its shutters and who was the master mason who had laid down its thick wall and layered it with kirej - a special cementing material the villagers prepared. My father would tell us such things about the house with supreme patience.

The wooden logs supporting the roof extended approximately a foot or so beyond the walls. Over the extension stones were placed to contain the blue crushed stones on the rooftops. At times the stones from the perimeter of our roof would fall casting the image of an old person some of whose front teeth are missing. Below these stones, along one of the walls, three chicken coops were placed for the hens to lay their eggs. It was so pleasant to hear the hens vocalizing after laying their eggs and expecting my mother to offer them extra feed.

It is not possible not to remember the mulberry tree in our courtyard. In the evenings Uncle Elesha would come and lean against the trunk of the tree while holding his pipe and waiting for my father to step out of the house to chat under the moonlight of bygone days.

Our house consisted of two rooms. One was at ground level and was used as the stable. The other room was over the stable. On a June day I was born in a corner of its wooden floor without the assistance of a nurse or a medical doctor. Our unschooled but expert midwife Hannoush Nanar (grandma) had helped my mother give birth.

My mother would tell of the episode as if it was a fairly tale. “It was in late June; the fruits of the apricot tree in our yard had barely started ripening. It was harvest time and all of us had gone to the fields. I started feeling not well. I came home early and had people summon Hannoush Nanar. That evening, before sunset, you were born.”

Our ancestral home in the village, where I have first opened my eyes and uttered my first cry has anchored an unbreakable bond in me. I maintain a spiritual connection with its stones, wooden logs, and its cozy hearth however inanimate objects they are. I realize that the residence that resonates the most sentiments in the person is one’s ancestral home where the person is born and raised.

I liken myself to the restless lad in the poem who ventured out of their modest home at the foot of the hill, next to a creek in search of better accommodation. He went onto the world and saw many large and beautiful houses but in each one of them he found something amiss and longingly returned to his modest home at the foot of the hill, next to the creek.

And now in our new and beautiful house in Canada, I do not know why, I feel a stranger. I wonder why my joy is not genuine and unbound? Why is that, things on these Western shores appear alien to me? When? Why? And how is that I lost my ability to acculturate anew?

I direct my thoughts to our ancestral home in the village and wonder; what is that it is so magnetic and so profound that continues to attract me to it even half a century later? Small memories from my ancestral home continue to stir emotions in me and I revert to that little child I was who recited the poem proclaiming the sweetness of his home.  " 

*****

Ամէնից Լաւ Տունը

Էնտեղ, ուր հովը խաղում է ազատ

Ու ջուրն աղմկում, անվերջ փըրփըրում,

Էնտեղ իր բարի, իր սիրող մոր հետ

Մի շատ անհանգիստ տղա էր ապրում,

Մի գորշ խրճիթում,

Մի հին խրճիթում,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին։

 

Մի օր էլ եկավ անհանգիստ տղան,

Կանգնեց իր բարի, իր սիրող մոր դեմ.

«Մայրիկ, էստեղից պետք է հեռանամ.

Միակ ձանձրալի տեղը, որ գիտեմ,

Էս գորշ խրճիթն է,

Էս հին խրճիթն է,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին։

 

Թո՛ղ գնամ շրջեմ աշխարհից աշխարհ,

Ճամփորդեմ լավ-լավ տներ տեսնելու,

Ամենից լավը ընտրեմ մեզ համար,

Գամ քեզ էլ առնեմ ու փախչենք հեռու

Էս գորշ խրճիթից,

Էս հին խրճիթից,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին»։

 

Ու գնաց, երկար թափառեց տղան,

Մեծ ու հոյակապ շատ տներ տեսավ,

Բայց միշտ, ամեն տեղ պակաս Էր մի բան…

Ու հառաչելով ետ վերադարձավ

Էն գորշ խրճիթը,

Էն հին խրճիթը,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին։

 

«Գտա՞ր, զավա՛կս», հարցրեց մայրը,

Ուրախ, նայելով իր տղի վըրա։

«Ման եկա, մայրի՛կ, աշխարհից աշխարհ,

Ամենից սիրուն, լավ տունը, որ կա,

Էս գորշ խրճիթն է,

Էս հին խրճիթն Է,

Գետի եզերքին,

Ծառերի տակին»։

 

Յովհաննէս Թումանեան