The Armenian Weekly On-Line: AWOL
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AWOL (Armenian Weekly On-Line), Volume 73, No. 4, January 27, 2007
1. KILL BILL
After Killing Hrant Dink, the Turkish State is Now Trying to Capitalize on
His Funeral to Kill the Genocide Bill in the U.S. Congress
By Khatchig Mouradian
2. We are NOT all Hrant Dink
By George Aghjayan
3. Hrant Dink
By Garen Yegparian
4. R E Q U I E M
In Memory of Hrant Dink
By Tatul Sonentz
5. Saroyan Is Your Voice
An Appreciation of William Saroyan and James H. Tashjian
By Stuart Hyde
6. BITTERSWEET
By Hacob Karapents
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
7. The Italian Connection
Armenians, Gypsies and that Blonde Guy at the Hairenik
By Andy Turpin
8. ‘The Other Church’
By Tom Vartabedian
————————————- ———————————————
1. KILL BILL
After Killing Hrant Dink, the Turkish State is Now Trying to Capitalize on
His Funeral to Kill the Genocide Bill in the U.S. Congress
By Khatchig Mouradian
The Turkish state killed Dink.
Dink’s murder is the culmination of nine decades of denying of the Armenian
Genocide; of suppressing and silencing minorities; of brainwashing Turkish
youth by propagating Genocide denial in Turkish textbooks; of labeling
people who dare speak even a portion of the truth as "enemies of the state,"
"backstabbers" and "traitors," and persecuting them under Article 301 for
"insulting Turkishness."
And then faking surprise and mourning when someone puts bullets in the head
of one of those "backstabbers."
***
"Where were all these people when Hrant Dink was alive?" asked one woman on
Turkish TV as tens of thousands marched in Dink’s funeral holding signs that
read, "We are all Armenians, we are all Hrant."
Suddenly, everybody loves Hrant.
But Hrant was alone on that pavement when he took his last breath.
He was alone before that, too.
Many of the people who have suddenly become Hrant were not even half as
courageous as him. And when Hrant properly called the annihilation of the
Armenians in 1915 "genocide," many of his friends criticized him or, at
best, continued to remain silent, speaking instead of "reconciling Turks and
Armenians" and finding a "common historical ground."
Let’s harbor no illusions. The grave of Hrant Dink will not become a "common
ground."
Dink walked along the same road that Krikor Zohrab, Daniel Varoujan,
Siamanto, Komitas and hundreds of other Armenian intellectuals walked on
April 24, 1915.
A million and a half Armenians were killed in 1915, and 92 years later,
their ashes-graveless and scattered in deserts-haven’t been a cause for
"common ground" for Turkey.
A single grave will hardly change anything.
***
Now the Turkish state is trying to abuse the fact that tens of thousands
attended Dink’s funeral in Istanbul, saying, "Look, Hrant Dink’s death is
bringing Turks and Armenians together. A new phenomenon of reconciliation
has started: we are inviting Armenians from the Diaspora and we are talking
to the Armenians. So, Western countries, don’t disturb this dialogue with
your genocide resolutions."
We are already reading articles reflecting this mode of thought in the
Turkish as well Western media.
The West must realize that only by facing the past can Turks and Armenians
come together.
I have nothing to say to the killers of Dink, who are now attempting to
murder the bill in the U.S. Congress.
Here’s my suggestion, however, to those among the tens of thousands at Dink’s
funeral who have no desire to be a tool in the state’s hand, who genuinely
feel that they are Hrant Dink and that they are Armenian:
This year, on April 24-the day of the commemoration of the Armenian
Genocide, the day Armenian intellectuals were rounded up in 1915 and taken
to their death-organize a march on the same route that you marched during
Hrant’s funeral, carrying signs that say:
"We are all Krikor Zohrab."
"We are all Daniel Varoujan."
"We are all Siamanto."
"We are all Komitas."
"We are All Armenians."
That is the best way to honor Hrant.
—————————————— ——————————–
2. We are NOT all Hrant Dink
By George Aghjayan
I am not one of those that claim to have known Hrant Dink, the recently
assassinated Armenian editor of the newspaper Agos. I will not recite some
personal experience we had together.
At the risk of appearing to be one of the numerous parasites attempting to
capitalize in some grotesque way from the death of a truly brave man, I wish
to comment on what has become a mantra for those wishing to memorialize
Hrant – "We are All Hrant Dink, We are All Armenians".
This call to action is meant to make a life, ended too soon and in a
senseless way, somehow less senseless. It is to shout out that while one
voice has been silenced 1000’s will rise to take his place. "We understand
Hrant’s pain and we are showing solidarity with his cause."
I understand the sentiment, but the reality is that such sentiments are
shallow and fleeting. It is a sad commentary on society, yet within a week
Hrant’s murder will pass silently into historical forgetfulness.
The truth is that very few of us understand the humiliation, fear and
frustration of being deemed inferior. In a very real sense, we feel
uncomfortable at being reminded of class divisions – not everyone enjoys the
same liberties we take for granted.
Hrant was killed for being an "uppity Negro", an Armenian who believed he
had rights in Turkey because it was the country of his birth. One hundred
years ago, the Ku Kux Klan used intimidation and lynching to put those
"uppity Negroes" in their place just as the ruling elite of the Ottoman
Empire put those "uppity Armenians" in theirs. And now Hrant Dink has been
put in his place.
The government of Turkey, most notably its secular military component, has
long advocated a climate conducive to viewing the lives of Armenians as
worthless. Ermeni is a derogatory word to the likes of Ogun Samast and Yasin
Hayal, the killers of Hrant. Well-meaning Turks cannot fully comprehend the
humiliation and intimidation that exists.
When I was in high school, I was assigned to read the book "Black Like Me"
about journalist John Giffin’s experiences in the American South. Griffin
had a doctor artificially darken his skin so as to expose himself to the
experiences of an African American. Griffin’s account of the racism and
degrading living conditions is jarring.
No matter how sympathetic we may be to the plight of some group of people,
we cannot appreciate their suffering from the comfort of the privileged.
As much as I support the movement for reparations to African Americans and
Native Americans, I cannot truly be like them. There is a difference. The
best that the well meaning advantaged can do is break down the barriers that
create "others" and to atone for the decades of criminal treatment. Article
301 of Turkey’s penal code is just one example, but there are others ranging
from restrictions on the transfer of property to racist propaganda that
demonizes Armenians to outright killings.
Those of us born, raised and living in the Diaspora cannot possibly
understand the breath of the life Hrant Dink lived as an Armenian in Turkey.
He was a rare breed to stand for rights he believed Armenians deserved –
while the more natural tendency is to remain silent hoping to avoid any undo
attention or leave the country altogether.
At the same time, Hrant could not possibly understand the depth of
frustration of growing up in the Diaspora. This is not meant to be a
criticism; it is only to state something so obvious that it should not need
stating.
We are not all Hrant Dink – we did not share his life experiences or
perspective deriving from those experiences. There has been no honest and
investigative "Armenian Like Me."
————————————— ————————————————– —
3. Hrant Dink
By Garen Yegparian
What else could I possibly write about this week?
Hrant Dink’s murder may come to be a turning point in the history of
Armenian-Turkish relations because so many things are at play: the Turkey-EU
angle, the government’s denial angles, the Armenians in Turkey visibility
angle, the pressure on the U.S. Congress angle, the refocusing of Armenian
attention on Western Armenia angle, the massive funeral turnout angle.
As is common, there are even a distasteful, tacky aspects to the last few
days, but the dignity of the moment proscribes addressing those until a
later time.
Some may have had problems with what Dink had to say. Clearly many Turks
did. And, part of the propaganda angle emanating from the Turkish side
claims that some Armenians condemned his positions. Regardless of what
anyone thought of the man, what must come through loud and clear through the
sorrow, drama, and intensity of the moment is, as Robert Fisk said, Hrant
Dink is the 1,500,001st victim of the Armenian Genocide.
The Turkish state’s culpability for his murder has to been emphasized in
every conversation, from water cooler and kitchen klatch gossip to our
organizations’ formal communications and media appearances.
Don’t you wonder how the police caught the offender so quickly? Isn’t it a
wonder that his own father turned him in? And, they also know who armed the
young racist. I wish the FBI or any U.S. police department was that
effective. Could it be that they knew where to look? Could the local
governor’s threat to Dink three years ago be suggestive? Could the years of
free reign the Turkish government gave to right wing and religious groups to
grow, to counterbalance the left, under the military’s subtle aegis, have
something to do with this act and how easily the perpetrator was captured?
Most importantly, didn’t Turkey’s prevailing attitude regarding the Genocide
and Armenians, nurtured for years by the government and now taken up by
rightists as the former works on getting into the EU, create the social
conditions enabling such a murder? There are reports that gunman Ogun Samast
shouted something to the effect of "I killed the non-muslim." How much do
you wanna bet that included the term "giavoor"?
Certainly, the funeral procession of reportedly more the 100,000 people is
good sign. If you haven’t seen the pictures, find and view them. Clearly,
many were Turks of conscience. I feel confident that most of those were from
the political left of that society. This speaks to the need for us,
Armenians, and particularly from the Diaspora, to engage that segment of
society more closely, albeit with extreme caution. We’ve been burned by the
Turkish left as well in the past. Developing that non-governmental
connection from Armenia might be problematic because the Turkish government
and rightists would hatch an absurd conspiracy theory the Armenia is trying
to undermine Turkey, or some other such gobbledygook. But overall, Turkish
media and societal response speak to the agonizingly slow progress that has
been made in Armeno-Turkish relations.
However, watching the Turkish government doing backflips to distract
attention from its culpability is almost amusing. This, of course, rises
from the desire not to further complicate Turkey’s entry into the EU. The
condemnation of the murder, inviting Armenia to send official
representatives to Dink’s funeral, sending high level (though not the
highest) functionaries to the funeral, are all desperate efforts by the
government to avoid being tainted by this murder. But, again, they are
clearly culpable. After being alerted by Dink that he was getting threats,
why was no protection provided? It’s not as though Turkey has no history of
politically motivated murder.
The level of seriousness with which we should take official protestations of
innocence is also affected by other phenomena. Take Hugh Pope’s article
"Armenia Haunts Turks Again" in the January 23 issue of the LATimes (a
version of which also appeared in Lebanon’s Daily Star). This Turcophile
plays a standard game, sound reasonable, throw in "the charge that its
predecessor state, the Ottoman Empire, killed 1.2 million Armenian men,
women, and children in a genocide that began in 1915." Note how cleverly the
G word is couched. Note the numbers game he plays. Then he proceeds to
regurgitate that chestnut about Armenians siding with Turkey’s enemies and
demanding lands during World War I, usual distortions and fallacies put out
by Turkey’s propaganda machine. This guy was also invited to speak about
Turkey (he was the Wall Street Journal’s bureau chief in Istanbul for years
and his published a book of Turkish history) at the University of
Madison-Wisconsin by Turkish interests on April 24th of last year. The
Greeks have no love for this guy. So, do you think Turkey’s public relations
lackeys had nothing to do with this "timely" article?
In New York, Turks held a counter protest, heckling and trying to disrupt
our Hrant Dink vigil. We all know how "motivated" Turks in the U.S. are to
engage Armenians. Clearly, that effort was instigated. Another instance of
the Turkish government’s, and unfortunately society-at-large’s, prevailing
mindset.
Finally, even as I was writing this piece, I received an AP article that
speaks of the nationalist backlash to "leftists, Armenians, Kurds and those
intellectuals who favor multiculturalism."
So while the funeral provided glimmers of hope, the overwhelming Turkish
reality -governmental and societal- is still far from where it must be for
true progress to occur on our outstanding issues.
Speculation is also rife as to what the U.S. Congress will do about passing
a Genocide commemoration resolution. Might Dink’s murder create a moral
imperative that coupled with the power shift of the last election allow
passage?
But a largely unaddressed aspect of this tragedy is the internal, Armenian,
ramifications it presents. We have been forced into a much more real
relationship with Western Armenia, the remaining Armenians on those lands,
and the Armenians living in Constantinople- whose roots are all in that part
of our country. Remember, Hrant Dink was actually born in Malatia. How many
living Armenians can claim birth in our Western Armenia. Our roots are
there, even many living in the Republic of Armenian (and even Javakhk). The
Genocide was perpetrated on Western Armenian lands. Because of Armenia’s
obvious and imperative needs, the Diaspora’s focus has shifted there since
the Movement began in 1988. It must be a shared focus-both Eastern and
Western Armenia are ours.
Hrant Dink’s murder by Talaat’s heirs may have been the worst thing those
soulless brutes could have done for their cause. If we’re smart, it’ll
catalyze our outreach efforts to decent Turks, provide appropriate attention
to Western Armenia, and continue state building in our Republic in
preparation for the reunification of all Armenian lands and Armenians on
them. Let’s do it!
4. R E Q U I E M
In Memory of Hrant Dink
By Tatul Sonentz
Lord,
king of this
endless universe
master of all bygone
present and future times
of sin and redemption
conflict and harmony
nativity and demise
righteous judge of
Abel and Cain.
pray hear our
grievance.
Glance back
behold the slaughter
of the endless caravans
of that very first parish
of Your Son’s ministry
of faith hope and charity.
the silenced martyrs of faith
in a crucified Prince of Peace
and his message of peace
on earth and good will
among men.
Turn back
and behold once more
with Your all-seeing eye
the baptism of the orphans
in the blood of their widowed
mothers felled as fair offerings
to a jihad of jackals and wolves
on the butchered and charred
bodies of the last of their kin
the children of a robbed Eden
land of Noah’s lofty haven —
the sacred mountain where
Your rainbow of harmony
appeared in the heavens
as a solemn promise
of peace.
And now —
in the city of Constantine
in the muted shadow of
the captive temple of
Your Holy Wisdom
a clear righteous voice
of concord love and justice
is now silenced as a gray wolf
howls at a crescent moon
waning with each shot
in a sky the color of
innocent blood.
Tatul Sonentz
2007
————————————- —————————————-
5. Saroyan Is Your Voice
An Appreciation of William Saroyan and James H. Tashjian
By Stuart Hyde
Last week, I went to my Washington Mutual Branch in Bon Air to deposit some
checks. After waiting in line, my turn came so I approached the available
cashier and handed her my checks and deposit slip. I then looked at her
face, and then her name plate to verify what my eyes saw.
"You’re Armenian."
"Yes."
"Then you know Saroyan."
"Is he a customer?"
"No, he was a."
(Cutting me off) "I’m sure I’ve never met this person."
"No, William Saroyan, the famous writer."
"Never heard of him."
"William Saroyan is your voice, but have you heard it? Have you read his
words?"
"He’s not my voice! I’m sure of that!"
"But he is, and you must find him. You need to be embraced by his visions of
Fresno, of San Francisco, of Armenia. His voice will help you find deeper
meaning to your Armenian-ness. Once you find him, you’ll want to share him
with everyone! I found him years ago, but only recently did I really
discover him."
She looked at me as though I was crazy, perhaps the way Saroyan was looked
at by literal-minded rubes who didn’t know a wild, but gentle genius when
they saw one.
I used the back of a deposit slip to write down "William Saroyan." I told
her to check out My Name is Aram, The Human Comedy, and Peace, it’s
Wonderful. I added my name and e-mail address because I was sure that when
she found her Armenian voice, she’d want to know more.
She never contacted me.
Does a man who has no Armenian blood in him have the right to tell an
Armenian woman that she will not become fully human until she learns to see
the world through the eyes and heart of a man, now gone, who left us with
thousands of words centering around him, his Uncle Aram, his mother Takoohi,
his birthplace Fresno, and whose stories live on in those whose
sensitivities he nurtured, whose compassion he inspired, and whose love of
Armenia, Armenians and the Armenian language lived in him until his last
breath?
Yes, I think I have a right to do this. It took an Englishman, Lord Elgin,
to see and save the magical Parthenon frieze, neglected by Greeks for 2,000
years; and it was a Frenchman, Jean-François Champollion, who unlocked the
mystery of the hieroglyphs to give us the history and wisdom of the ancient
Egyptians.
I have no right to advise Armenians on any other subject, but William
Saroyan is special case. Earlier I said, "only recently did I really
discover him." Before I get to that, let me explain my connection with
Saroyan.
When I was a teenager, I discovered the writings of William Saroyan while a
student at Fresno High School. He was 15-years-old when I was born, so when
he was 30, I was ready to read his stories. If I’d known at the time that an
acquaintance, Cheslie Saroyan, two years ahead of me in school, was related
to him, I would have done almost anything to cultivate his friendship.
Through Cheslie, I would perhaps even meet the man who gave voice to my warm
quiet valley of home-the writer who turned me on to reading, to studying, to
writing, and most importantly, to living freely if somewhat wildly.
As an adolescent in Fresno, I was one of many high school kids who became
addicted to Saroyan early on. We couldn’t wait for each of his books to be
published. We had little money, so we shared his stories (money was very
scarce for us in those days), passed them around, and discussed them at
great length, dissecting them in meticulous detail. Eventually, we realized
that by our analyses we were treating the living Saroyan as a cadaver in a
forensics class: we could see all the pieces, but they explained nothing. If
we couldn’t "get" Saroyan through our feelings, our emotions, our guts, we
would never get inside the magic world of this giant. So, we gave up
de-anatomizing Saroyan, and let him enter our hearts.
But, I didn’t seek Cheslie out. So, I missed my first chance to meet
Saroyan.
Many years later, after living through the Great Depression, World War II,
the disillusionments of the ’60s-JFK, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, Robert
Kennedy, Gandhi-and after more years of studying and teaching, marriage,
children and their offspring, and much, much more, I came across a dog-eared
copy of Peace, It’s Wonderful and decided I’d revisit William Saroyan. I
didn’t start with this book, but with a biography, A Daring Young Man.
After finishing this book, I felt the need to see if my teenage addiction to
Saroyan would hold up, so I read the two books of short stories I’d saved
and carried on my ship throughout the war, and again to college and grad
school, treasuring them but never finding time (or perhaps the motivation)
to dip into them again until now. In re-reading his stories, I was awakened
to the wonder of a Fresno I’d failed to sense or appreciate growing up-a
wonderment that did not escape this sensitive artist.
During this time, I was aware that Saroyan was again living in Fresno, just
200 miles south of San Francisco. It would have been easy for me to drive
there, contact him, and, I’m sure, spend some time with him.
But, I didn’t. Too busy. Can’t leave right now, maybe next month. I’m needed
at work. My family needs me. And so on.
On May 18, 1981, William Saroyan died. So, I missed my last chance to touch
him.
I thought that was it. But this man would not let me go. One Sunday, several
months ago, I went to Fort Mason, a decommissioned old military base in San
Francisco Bay, to visit the Friends of the Library shop of used books, but
was diverted when I saw a large sign: TODAY ONLY: BIG USED BOOK SALE, PIER
5.
I browsed through the $1.00 book tables, saw many titles I found appealing,
but not enough so to bite on and, when I was just about to leave, Saroyan
struck again: I saw a hard cover book I never knew existed: My Name is
Saroyan.
I grabbed it, paid my buck, and left.
The book turned out to be a revelation, more than 100 stories, letters,
poems and plays that Saroyan sent to the Hairenik papers in Boston over the
years, beginning in 1933 and ending in 1954. Of the 97 stories, 68 had never
been published aside from their appearance in the Armenian periodicals! My
Name is Saroyan was edited and annotated by James H. Tashjian, who was for
more than 30 years editor of the Hairenik Weekly (later the Armenian Weekly)
and the Armenian Review.
In reading My Name is Saroyan, I was taken back to those Fresno days and to
memories of my friends, Bob Kuyumjian (best buddy), Aurora Vartikian (I had
a crush on her!), Mike Keshishian and Senor Saghatelian (outstanding
football players), Arpie Ohanian, Bobbie Kevorkian (class clown), and so
many more! And to the streets where I walked and rode my bike-like Saroyan,
the one with no rubber on the peddles. And to the nearby small towns of
Clovis, Fowler, Selma, Kingsburg, Kerman, Mendota…
I photographically relived the night Bob Kuyumjian and I snuck into Memorial
Auditorium to see the original New York touring cast performance of Saroyan’s
play "The Time of Your Life," which was truly the time of my life, for I
never escaped its magic, and knew from that moment on that I had to do
something in the theatre. (I wound up teaching drama, and then radio and
television.)
This adventure was immediately tarnished by one of my father’s co-workers.
My dad came home in a stew, and came right to the point: "Did you sneak into
the auditorium last night to see a play?" "Yes, Dad, I did." I expected him
to punish me for this minor crime, but that wasn’t the cause of his anger.
"Dan Bradley told me he saw you sneaking into the show with an Armenian
kid." "Yeah, Dad, it was Bob Kuyumjian." He cut me off, and went into a
tirade against his co-worker because, you see, he had immense respect for
the Armenians who had come to Fresno after the Turkish holocaust. So I wasn’t
the target of his rage. I felt more respect for my Dad at that moment than I
ever thought I could or would.
My Name is Saroyan also brought back the day in 1944, that I spent with the
Saroyan clan in Long Beach, where the extended family encamped for several
weeks to escape the blistering hot summer of Fresno. I was in San Pedro with
my ship, getting ready to head out into the Pacific, but when I was invited
to the Saroyan get-together by my friend, Dudley St. John, who was stationed
at an army base nearby, I received a pass and was on my way. One of the many
memorable events that day was shish kebab made in their penthouse apartment
in a large galvanized metal tub!
My strongest memories of that day, though, were dozens of short but
evocative stories told by the patriarch of the family-I may be wrong, but I’ve
always remembered him as Uncle Aram. Most of his tales were fables or
parables from the Old Country. But at one point he became very sober as he
recounted memories of his family rushing ahead of armed Turkish troops on
horseback, who were cutting down thousands of Armenians who only wanted to
reach Musa Dagh and safety.
As much as I was enjoying the day, I was keyed up, waiting for William
Saroyan’s appearance, but Dudley was wrong: Saroyan didn’t show up.
So, I missed another opportunity to meet him.
The deeper I got into My Name is Saroyan, the more I needed to contact Mr.
Tashjian, to tell him how much I appreciated his assembling and annotating a
book which-had he not had custody of the Saroyan papers and dedicated
himself to bringing them to the public-most likely would have remained in
the Armenian Weekly archives, unread, until some compulsive "neat-freak"
sent them to the recycling bin to make more storage space.
My Name is Saroyan brings to life an enigmatic genius, a man who revealed
himself in every word he wrote, yet one who remained a mystery in many ways
when he lived and when he died. In this book, touching indications of his
insecurities show up that are never found in his cocky, arrogant public
stance. The Saroyan most people thought they knew, but didn’t, is revealed
in these pages.
In A Fistfight for Armenia, written in 1933, he gives a furious picture of a
child who wants only to live in peace, yet can’t escape the pervasive
contempt shown to Armenians by many of "Fresno’s finest." The story is told
by "Caspar," obviously the alter ego of Saroyan himself.
"One evening he and Reuben Paul sat on the porch of his home talking when a
group of six or seven boys came up, running and shouting they had been
insulted. Roy Sommers, who had boxed in the ring of the American Legion, had
insulted them. ‘He called us dirty Armenians,’ said Ara George, a boy of
eight, who began to tremble and burst into tears."
Later, as Caspar and Sommers fight, a girl in the small crowd yells, "We’ll
massacre you like the Turks," she said. "You just watch. We’ll cut you to
pieces the way the Turks did."
As far as I know, Saroyan never in his stories revealed the ache that must
have lived in him every day, growing up in Fresno. The public knows only of
his deep love for his home town: "We drank the beer and my cousin cranked
the car and we got in and drove out of the hills into the warm, quiet,
valley that was our home in the world, in time, in the time of living."
The world knows William Saroyan as the brilliant writer who became suddenly
famous with the publication of The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze.
After that, people think, everything was roses. But, in My Name is Saroyan,
we learn about his subsequent struggles. Perhaps his story most revered by
the multitudes is The Human Comedy. Here is what he wrote to the editor of
the Hairenik Weekly in Jan. 1942:
"I took the manuscript to Metro and they read it without talking about
money. A couple of days later one of Hollywood’s greatest authorities called
me in and said, ‘Saroyan, we’ll give you $25,000 for that ream of junk, even
though we don’t know what we’ll do with it; we’re doing you this favor since
we called you, you didn’t call us.’ I was not at all impressed at his
generosity. I asked ‘what’s your next best offer?’ ‘Not a sou more’ he said
(educated Hollywood people always use ‘sou’ for ‘cent.’"
Were it not for editor James Tashjian, the world would never have been told
about his constant struggle to preserve his income and his integrity.
These are but two examples of the many revelations in My Name is Saroyan.
The millions of readers whose lives were enriched by his words and his
wisdom will never see Saroyan in all his dimensions without reading this
gift from James Tashjian.
On Nov. 21, 2006, I sent this e-mail to the Armenian Weekly:
Hello. I am writing to learn more about Mr. Tashjian. I recently came across
"My Name is Saroyan," and am incredibly grateful for this book and for the
vision of Mr. Tashjian who made it possible.
I grew up in Fresno, and was one of many high school kids who discovered
Saroyan early on. We couldn’t wait for each of his books to be published; we
read them, shared them, and discussed them at great length and dissected
them in amazing detail.
Anyway, I hope Mr. Tashjian is alive and well, and if so I’d like to hear
from him.
Sincerely,
Stuart Hyde
Emeritus Professor,
San Francisco State University
On Nov. 30, I received this response:
Dear Professor Stuart Hyde,
I am sorry to inform you that James Tashjian has just passed away. I wanted
to visit him as well to wish him well and also printed your email so that he
got a chance to read it, but he passed away before we had a chance to visit
him. I do not know Mr. Tashjian in person-I moved to the U.S. a few months
ago-but all those who knew James Tashjian and worked with him only have good
words about the man.
Regards,
Khatchig Mouradian
Editor, The Armenian Weekly
So, once again, I missed an opportunity-not to touch William Saroyan,
because I’d already lost that chance-but to at least get nearer to him
through the man who expanded and deepened my knowledge and understanding of
this great author, the editor who made William Saroyan a more complete
figure in the Pantheon of great storytellers.
I end by paraphrasing what I said to that teller at the Washington Mutual
Branch, but what I say now to readers of the Armenian Weekly:
William Saroyan is your voice, but have you heard it? Have you read his
words? You may need to be embraced by his visions of Fresno, of San
Francisco, of Armenia. His voice may even help you find deeper meaning to
your Armenian-ness. Once you find him, you’ll want to share him with
everyone! I found him years ago, but only recently did I really discover
him."
Thank you, James H. Tashjian.
————————————— ———————————-
6. BITTERSWEET
By Hacob Karapents
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
As April showers poured outside the window, grey and muddy, a wet gloom set
on the road. Beyond, on the other side of the woods, was the horizon,
ephemeral and undefined. He clung to the indefinite, hoping to find beyond
it the infinite chaos, which someday would assume form. Thus, he never had
the opportunity to gaze at the inner chaos. He remained unaware, knowing
full well that all things change, that yesterday’s pain has changed to
thought, the thought to line, the line to shape, the shape to body, only to
turn to leaves and dust. He wanted to be where he had not been, where he had
dreamt to be and not to be. Today, he had told her that it was better not to
be-that is, to be in a state of nonexistence which is more perfect. Margarit
had understood nothing. How could she, when no one else could? He himself
had not understood it, yet he knew it was true-as to why? He didn’t know.
Standing in front of the window, he knew that at this very moment they were
selling dreams in all the streets of the city. They take the dream, they
package it, they tie it up with colorful ribbons and display it in the
window. If no one buys it they bring down the price. After a month they
announce a fifty percent reduction. It must be sold before the dream ages.
Who’s the fool that will go for an old dream?
Some have turned the dream into an industry. They pick bits of dreams here
and there, they wash them, iron them, mix them with artificial colors, feed
them into the gears of colossal machines. At the other end of the factory
comes out the gleaming end-product. Dream-1, Dream-2, Dream-3, Dream-4, and
so on, until there is no dream left in the huge cauldron. But, God willing,
tomorrow the trucks will haul piles of smashed dreams to the bulldozers, the
rest is technology. Everyone must have their dream, even if painted over and
reconstituted. How can one live without a dream?. A dream is a dream is a
dream, as Gertrude Stein would say.
My grandfather’s name was Hacob. His grandfather’s name was Karapet. Karapet
had a son called Simon. Simon had come from Gandzak, settled in Meghri. No
one knows how my grandfather had reached Tabriz. Many things had happened in
Tabriz until I was born, and no one knows why. That year there was no
scarcity of fish. Fish multiplied in the Caspian Sea. People ate fish and
there was no famine. White fish proliferated in the river. And now I’m
constantly looking for fish in the seas, in the museums, particularly in the
canvases of Matisse and Klee. But that’s not it; the point is that I never
knew my father’s dreams and now that he’s gone, I’ll never fathom the
distant mists covering his countenance, the rhythm of his steps, the
untranslatable mystery of his words, his self, his man, the scorching fire
of his desires, the hidden shudders of his loves, he who held the key to the
universe when I was a child, lively and barefoot in Yaghchali Darband, in
that God forsaken corner of the world which, nevertheless, led to the pebbly
streets of Lilava and from there to the luminous roads of the world; he and
I, my father, whose dreams I never knew.
Nineteenth century romantics were ensnared in the painful throes of
universal duality, always striving for a more enlightened world where
majestic reality reigned-the all engulfing holocaust, forgetting the holes
in their shoes and the muddy roads when the body is weak and the soul
supreme. I say one must descend naked to the bottom of the mud, feel the
dark flow of tainted currents and with a cleansed soul look into the pupils
of the beast, continuously and relentlessly, so that there is no deceit and
illusion; when this is what there is, the entire chain of furtive moments,
which when squeezed turn into life, a bit of memory, a taste of love and
endless suffering-the panorama of absurd, daily surveys. That year Hripsik
had come to Tabriz from Tehran. The entire summer turned into a white
summer. She had brought with her the aura and aroma of the capital, the
fashion and the pink velvet of her arms. She had green eyes with black, long
eyelashes. She exuded the cultured refinement of the wealthy. We were both
twelve, feeling the joyful, distant vibrations of casual contact, coming
from the mountains and gorges nearby. Hripsik and her mother were guests of
my friend, but she was always with me, together we revealed the
fruit-scented days and gold-tinged sunsets of Tabriz, and in between, the
innocent mornings of our puberty. And suddenly, one day Hripsik didn’t show
up. Suddenly summer turned to autumn. The aroma of her hair lingered on the
walls of Karashen, on the blue sail of my memory. They said Hripsik had
returned to Tehran. They said, a boy next door loved her so much, he killed
himself one early morning without revealing his love to anyone. They said
things like that, until one day, years later, I saw Hripsik in the courtyard
of the Church of the Holy Virgin in Tehran, by now glamorous and
swan-necked, surrounded by a group of young men. I said, "Hripsik, do you
remember that summer, Tabriz, and our endless ice-cream cones?" Hripsik
looked me in the eye and said, "Do I know you? I’ve never been to Tabriz." I
felt ashamed of her lie, hung my head, felt like crawling into a hole. The
young men around her smelled of eaux de cologne. I was as yet a juvenile, I
didn’t know-I still don’t know-why Hripsik did not recognize me since we had
painted the summer white together? And now when I look at Margarit I
remember Hripsik, a totally white summer. I wonder if she, too, will not
recognize me?
The point is, I’ve begun not to recognize myself. It’s not clear where the
other one went. It’s not clear where the others went. Will I recognize them?
Those I left behind at the crossroads of various cities, alone in
exile-variations of my own being, each one a Don Quixote, hung on the
impossible dream, those holy scoundrels, lost in the streets of a scoundrel
of a world. Logos! Logos! Logos! I won’t let them kill you, even as the TV
newscasts declare to the entire world that people have killed you a long
time ago, you, who are the cause and the only word! Otherwise,
totalitarianism is inevitable. Nuclear holocaust is inevitable. But, how
shall I utter the word? Which word? Is there such a word? There is only the
exile. There is my exile. There is the exile of man. There is the political
exile. There is the exile of being a man. The inner exile of man. The mass
of the exiled in an exiled world. I know I’ve fallen into self-delusion, but
I have no other course and I am no longer me, I’m no longer that which I
was, maybe I am that which I wasn’t, maybe I never was, if I were me, I
wouldn’t look for the answer in external appearances, I, who no longer
recognize me, never have and never will recognize me.
Still, you’re the apple of my eye,
Without your tender gaze I’d sooner die,
Why wouldn’t you be my sweetie pie?
For your long tresses I’d gladly die.
How’s that? Of course it’s O.K! If it hadn’t been, there would be no San
Francisco, which is on the California seacoast, approximately 350 miles
north-north-west of Los Angeles, geographically at 37 degrees 47 minutes
north latitude and 122 degrees 26 minutes west longitude, including two
southernmost peninsulas that embrace the Golden Gate between the Pacific
Ocean and the Bay of San Francisco-one of the best harbors in the world.
Around the Bay spread out the interconnected counties and suburbs, reaching
the fertile valleys, which are geographically and economically connected to
the Bay. Thanks to networks of sea and air lanes San Francisco is one of the
liveliest cities of the Pacific and the main springboard to distant lands of
the Orient. From the Pacific shore to the center of the Bay, the city
occupies 93.1 square miles, 44.6 of which are land. San Francisco sits on
hills, of which the principal ones are the Telegraph, Nob, Russian hills,
starting almost at the coastal cliffs. The Twin Peaks, Mount Davidson and
Mount Sutro rise more than 900 feet. Mount St. Bruno, just south of the
city, is 1,315 feet high. The peaks ringing the Bay are Mount Tamalpais in
the north Marine peninsula, Mount Diablo in the east and Mount Hamilton in
the south. The lower altitude vegetation is rich with sequoia, oak and
eucalyptus forests. Nature is green during the winter and spring, golden
brown in the summer and fall. The trees are clad in deep blue. The hills
form the San Francisco Bay amphitheater.
As to what is the real San Francisco? That’s another story which, to be able
to write, one must turn to ashes and be reborn, squeeze the scattered
moments to a degree where they turn to emeralds and decorate the ravishing
decolletage of the Bay. In that city, during the summers of my student
years, I waited on tables and wrote my first novel, whose heroine emerged
one day from the agitated foam of the Pacific and said to me, "I am Almira,
for whom you were waiting." Now, every single stone of that city has turned
into a word and is hounding me. Stone and word have become story and are
chasing me. Now I don’t know which is real and which is unreal. That is a
story that in order to write one has to go back to the beginning, when there
was faith in the word, blood in stone, and salvation in art.
My dear, today the temperature rose to 42 degrees Fahrenheit. It’s a sunny
day. There is still snow here. It glitters in the sun. Here and there,
rivulets have formed in the garden. In the meadows out front layers of pale
green grass have appeared, harbingers of the approaching spring. There is
already a breath of spring in the air, in the sun, on the naked trees. I’m
waiting anxiously for spring. Winter was too long. Last week we had the 21st
snowfall of the year. Thus, 21 layers of snow have settled on each other. I
wonder what the field violets are feeling? Maybe they are safe under the
white sheets. Who knows? They say that when the winter is severe, there is
less illness. The locals say that. Right at this moment, as I’m writing to
you, the radio is broadcasting a nocturne by Chopin, I don’t know which
opus, but it’s your favorite, with Claudio Arrau-I think that’s his name.
After meeting you I’ve returned to Chopin, whose music is a salve in the
insanity of my daily chores. You see? Gradually I too am becoming sensitive,
something which I avoid, knowing full well that sensitive people are
trampled in this brutalized world. That sounded a bit poetic, but never
mind.
I’m glad that you agree with me. Many are the ones who advise me to write in
English. But, to be part of American literature one has to be American. I am
Armenian, a Diasporan, which is a unique creature in the history of the
world. I’ve changed several countries. I’ve lived in a few dozen cities,
undergoing many cultural influences. Spiritually I’m tied to Armenia, but
New York is my home. Although I’ve lived in America for many years, I’m not
an American. I’m not a super-pure Armenian, either, so to speak. However, my
‘Armenianness’ is my originality, my certificate to walk among the crowds
while feeling different. So, New York is my world. I don’t feel foreign in
New York, because New York is the city of foreigners. Each one has arrived
from a different place. I’m more the result of my immediate environment than
of America. It would have been different if I had been born in America, or
had spent my early, formative years in America. Then, the message of E
Pluribus Unum would have applied. That is why, in America they take me for a
European, in Europe, for an American. While in Armenia, God knows what! In
other words, I’ve never depended on American history or culture. I’ve also
not depended totally on Armenian history and culture. Perhaps, I and those
who are like me represent the new Diasporan type that confounds everybody.
Now, New York is the extension of my family. Where this leads, I don’t know.
All I know is, I don’t feel fully American and I can’t be part of American
literature.
Last night, in New York’s Martinson Hall, I saw Colleen Dewhurst in the role
of Carlotta Monterey O’Neill, playwright O’Neill’s mistress-wife, who in her
hospital room, relives her life with the writer, their love and passion, the
trivial and tragic instances, O’Neill’s struggle between alcohol and
literature, from city to city, hotel to hotel, unanchored and uncertain, and
in all this, and as a result of all this, his journey from day to night, and
then the light of his poetry on the firmament of American literature.
Carlotta, who loved the man, the child, the madman and the genius in O’Neill.
Colleen Dewhurst was magnificent in the role of Carlotta. I’m enclosing the
program.
Yesterday was also the requiem of Aram Haikaz. How swiftly the year passed!
I met you in Los Angeles on the day of his death. I don’t know why his
senior and junior literary peers were absent. Archbishop Mesrop spoke very
well, focusing on the character of the writer as a man and an artist. At
least, Armenian writers should have attended! The breath of the incense
coming from the Armenian church among the blackened buildings of 27th Street
was uplifting. If people don’t go to church, there is no church. Aram
Haikaz-a great pity! He is the patriarch of American-Armenian writers.
Today, the entire day, I’ve been rushing in and out of bookstores looking
for a four-volume psychological encyclopedia to send to Tehran, to Vachik
Petrosian, who has read in "Alik" that Professor Tutunjian has a pedagogical
article in one of those volumes. There’s your Armenian who’s constantly
looking for an Armenian! They promised to find the particular volume that I
needed. Let’s see what happens.
You see? I do everything to avoid what I’m supposed to do. You see how I
write about everything to avoid tackling the real subject? I don’t want to
write about what I feel. Because when I write it, it becomes reality. I’m
knocking about just not to say that which I want to say, fearing that there
will be nothing left if I do.
March, 1987 – Connecticut
————————————– ——————————————-
7. The Italian Connection
Armenians, Gypsies and that Blonde Guy at the Hairenik
By Andy Turpin
WATERTOWN, Mass. (A.W.)-Last week, I went to the DMV on my lunch hour to
change my driver’s license to show my new home in Massachusetts.
The clerk was an Armenian woman. Of course, in Watertown, the chance that
you’ll come across Armenians in everyday situations is a reality as assured
as death and taxes. When I presented her my passport in its Republic of
Armenia protective sleeve (a souvenir from my sojourn in Lori), she asked
the inevitable question: "Du Hye es?"
It seemed reminiscent of some British comedy skit to answer in the
affirmative by stating, "Yes, please. But only before 1850." Sufficed to
say, there is a story there, which I will now impart, and which may prod you
to reach your own conclusions.
I am best classified ethno-geographically as an Italian-Welsh-American. My
mother is of Italian descent, and my father, it follows, is of Welsh
descent. But my mother-never secretly, but in low tones-would always remind
my sister and I that along with being Italian, "We are gypsies." At
Bellocchio family gatherings, this would inevitably lead to a change of
subject and to at least one person skulking from the room discreetly.
My grandfather, the Bellocchio patriarch, was only too willing to discuss
his father’s family in Northern Italy and their educated partisani efforts
during the WWII, yet never provided even a side note to his family who were
Calabrese Southerners.
Yet, what always came across in his career and encounters as a sailor, NYPD
officer and jeweler, was a love of Armenians, passed on to him by his
father. I was close with my grandfather, and was thus ingrained with the
same sentiments. But as I grew older, I began to ask more ardently: Why?
Those answers came on my first trip to Italy, just after I graduated from
college. (I had majored in Mediterranean history, with a focus on
Armenians.)
I visited my 76-year old great-cousin and her daughter in the city of
Trieste, a former Austro-Hungarian capital and port city, which still serves
as a melting pot of cultures from across the Balkans similar to Thessalonica
in Greece.
They are staunch Piedmontese Northerners, but when I asked about my
grandfather’s mother they said, reminiscently, "It was a long time ago and
we never met her. But wasn’t she an Armenian gypsy?"
I had never heard this facet of family history declared in such a forthwith
way, given a past that no one had been willing to fully disclose.
I found out that the Bellocchios had at one point been known as the
Malloccios-which is Sicilian/Calabrian for "the evil eye"-and had migrated
north from places unknown to the city of Bobbio around 1850.
Bobbio, like Trieste, was a center for both Jews and Armenians, a place of
monastic learning and a merchants’ haven. (Armeniapedia notes that in 1773,
Mkhitarists set up a branch of their faith in Trieste and in 1811 moved to
Vienna.) In fact, exhibitions of Armenian art may still be found in Bobbio
museum collections. Thus despite my own lack of familial data prior to the
Italian Risorgimento period, it spurns me to inform people about the
existence of Armenian gypsies and their place in Italy and the Diaspora.
The late Peter Maas, author of The Valacchi Papers and Serpico, was an
expert on gypsies and the American mafia, and how they fit in with the
Armenians-particularly in the history of New York and New England. In his
1974 book, King of the Gypsies, he related how Sicilians and Armenians both
played a collaborative part in the gypsy community. In the 1930’s, these
relationships were strengthened through solidarity across all three
communities in the Methuen, Mass., labor unions and, in New York, in
response to Mayor Fiorello La Guardia’s laws that were intended to make life
harder for those he considered gypsies. La Guardia and his family, not
coincidentally, were from Trieste.
In 1974, Maas was a pioneer in making even tentative links between
Italian-Sicilians, gypsies and Armenians. He was also a journalist, and not
an anthropologist or historian, but did give credence to the paradigm of
gypsy migration by writing: "Most anthropologists believe that gypsies came
from Northern India. The best clue they have for this is Romany, which is
classified as belonging to the Indo-Aryan language group. But until
relatively recently, there have been only tentative efforts to codify it on
paper. Romany was only spoken, and whatever ancient catastrophe, man-man or
natural, caused the gypsy tribes to emigrate remains unknown."
He continued: "There is some evidence they wandered from the Middle East
around 800 A.D. Even then they were the subject of much hostility, and they
kept traveling-in scattered, leap-frogging groups rather than in a single
great mass."
Trieste was infamous during the Holocaust as the site with the only
concentration camp on Italian soil, the Risera Di San Sabba, a former rice
factory built in 1913. Author Jan Morris gives exquisite details of the city
in her book, Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere. Maas writes how the gypsies
hoped the Nazis would spared because of their Aryan descent, though Nazi
theoreticians soon declaimed that "The Jew and the Gypsy are today far
removed from us [racially] because their Asian background is completely
different from that of our Nordic forbearers."
Today, the person considered the expert on gypsies is Isabel Fonseca. Her
1996 book, Bury Me Standing: The Gypsies and Their Journey, describes the
Armenian-gypsy connections by stating: "In addition to place of origin and
the migratory route, the study of Romani has also yielded a controversial
ethnic possibility. This lies in the word the Gypsies widely use to refer to
themselves (and literally to mean man or husband): rom among European
Gypsies; lom in Armenian Romani; and dom in Persian and Syrian dialects. And
so we see that the term rom, as in Romany, has nothing whatever to do with
Romania, where, confusingly, the Gypsies have lived in great numbers for
many centuries."
She expounds further by saying: "Only two Romani words are definitely from
the Arabic: kis (purse) and berk, which means breast. . Yet the language is
peppered with Armenian: dudum is gourd; bov is oven; chovexani is witch;
grast is horse; and the Romani for leather is the Armenian mortsi. Therefore
the Gypsies must have passed through Armenia on their way to Europe. But the
most significant influence of Armenian on Romani was a shift in sound. Words
pronounced with a ‘bh’-that is, an aspirated ‘b’-came to sound like ‘ph’. So
that whereas in Middle Eastern or ‘Asiatic’ Romani the word "sister" was,
and is, bhen (as it is in Hindi), in Armenia, and subsequently in Europe,
the word is phen."
"According to language fossils.the invasion of the Seljuk Turks in the 11th
century uprooted the Armenians as well as the gypsies among them. They moved
into the western-Byzantine territories of Constantinople and Thrace-areas
still heavily populated by gypsies-where the first reference to them appears
in 1068, in a hagiography written at Mt. Athnos. From there they spread into
the Balkans in the 13th century and soon over the rest of Europe."
The Lomavren, as Armenian-gypsies are known, were most recently catalogued
in 2004 by SIL’s , with the entry: "50 in Armenia (2004).
Armenia, southern Caucasus. Also spoken in Azerbaijan, Russia (Asia), Syria.
Alternate names: Armenian Bosha, Armenian Bosa, Bosha, Bosa. Dialects:
Gramatically restructured to be like Armenian with phonology and lexicon
also influenced by Armenian. Classification: Mixed Language,
Armenian-Romani."
In the meantime, next time someone asks me, "Are you Armenian?" I’ll come
prepared to explain myself with a diagram and folding chart-for those who
missed this article.
My blond hair and blues eyes still leave me grasping at genetic straws. And
well it should. Neapolitan ice cream may come in three different flavors,
but it’s still considered Italian.
The difference in Italy, anyway, is that nobody cares anymore to ask you the
question.
————————————— ————————————————– —
8. ‘The Other Church’
By Tom Vartabedian
In an effort to get the New Year started off on the right foot, I attended
service at another Armenian church.
I figured it would be in my best interest to practice some unity in my life
and give others a reason to take notice.
I’ve written about church unity, spoken about it too. Time I put my words
into action.
The "other" church is located about five miles from my church-up one street
and down another. An echo could probably reach there. The fact that one seat
is in Antilias and another in Etchmiadzin doesn’t make one church any better
than the other.
Now here’s the rub. Both are about ready to launch major construction plans
with money that’s tough to secure these days. Two of their churches combined
forces into one. Our church is functioning on its own.
While touring Armenia this fall, our group went church-hopping. In one vank
and out the other. We prayed together, lit candles together and drew a
parallel with our Armenian faith.
No one questioned an affiliation. One God. One church. One Armenia.
"You’re going where?" my wife proposed.
"I’m off to the ‘other’ church," I said. "Maybe if I take an initiative,
others will follow. It’s about time we laid our differences aside and
worshipped in one church. Think about it. If you merged both congregations,
it wouldn’t even come close to filling one sanctuary on a Sunday."
As embarrassing as this may seem, my wife and I attended a Badarak Armenian
Christmas Eve, and were joined by two others in the congregation, a priest,
one deacon, two choir members and an organist. We were soon joined by my
daughter and her husband. That was it. We could have all fit into a broom
closet.
I had a plan. I wanted to make a noticeable presence and therefore chose to
sit by myself in the front pew. I walked in the door and shook some hands.
"To what do we owe this privilege?" said the Board chairman, who was passing
out bulletins.
"No particular reason other than to follow my heart," I told him. "Perhaps
we can begin to patronize each other’s church and therefore be part of the
same flock."
Another thought I had come there as a disgruntled parishioner. One other
assumed I had lost my way.
Eyes turned as I sauntered to the front. And there I remained for 90 minutes
while taking an active role in the worship. On any other Sunday, I was the
one who took a rear seat and followed the flow. Now the flow was following
me.
The Hayr Soorp delivered a sermon on humility and our eyes crossed more than
once. It was as if he was directing his remarks toward me as an occasional
smile was met.
After receiving Holy Communion and reciting the final prayer, downstairs I
went to the coffee hour where I took the liberty of shaking hands with a New
Year’s greeting.
I must say, the hospitality was both wonderful and not unexpected, since
many of the parishioners were familiar to me. They’ve attended our picnics.
We’ve patronized their fairs. Both Sunday Schools have conducted joint
sessions in the past.
So why is it that we cannot function from ONE church? It would be OUR
church, not the "other" church. We could take the money being raised for one
construction project and send it to Armenia to rehabilitate our homeland.
Or, invest it into our own welfare with both sides together.
I understand the red tape. Or maybe I don’t. If I did, I probably could find
a solution as to why the hierarchy cannot make ends meet.
I can only say that the best way to improve our plight is by one individual
at a time. Each of us should take the initiative to cross barriers and wage
a personal fight toward unity.
Word quickly got around town that I had changed churches to the point where
one clergy called the other.
>From my vantage point, I do look upon strangers with a bit of curiosity when
they walk into my church. They’re accepted like our own and we make everyone
feel at home, whether they belong or not.
Do yourself a favor this Sunday. Try a different church, even if you don’t
feel the urge. Take time to look around. It’s too short a day to be
intolerant.
***
(c) 2007 Armenian Weekly On-Line. All Rights Reserved.