NOTHING LIKE THE REAL THING: A TRAVELER VISITS KUGHI
Betty Apigian-Kessel
June 13, 2012
I’m sitting in front of the computer; one drawer of the desk also
harbors my make-up. I begin to paint my face, mirror in hand,
thinking to myself as I spy a reappearing patch of gray in my hair,
“What startling physical changes will the next decade bring?”
I was in this casual mode of needless worry when I spied a new
e-mail labeled “Kughi.” I was not prepared for the news and photos
that unfolded before my unbelieving eyes. It was like a direct
communication from old Armenia that jolted me with such euphoric
emotion that it had to be read several times to sink in.
It gave me chills to think that your grandparents might have been
baptized in that church, that they may have run and played in these
fields.” (Photo by Khatchig Mouradian) It was from the Armenian Weekly
editor, Khatchig Mouradian. I furrowed my brow in curiosity as I read
the message that told me what he had been up to in his travels.
I was shaken to the bone. After being my editor for many years, he knew
me better than I realized. My reputation had preceded me in a nice way.
Mouradian, a Ph.D candidate, had just returned from a trip to western
Armenia, this time traveling the genocide-ravaged regions of Kharpert
and Kughi. These travels to what is now referred to as eastern Turkey
are vital to scholars who search a thorough understanding of the
topography of the land and the attitudes of the now mostly Kurds who
occupy it.
Although a picture is worth a thousand words, nothing can take the
place of being an actual traveler to the confiscated lands of your
ancestors and seeing it for yourself. Mouradian has done just that. I
was the beneficiary.
He knows my father was from Kughi and, as he says, “When we left the
car to walk into the village there, I visited the church ruins and
I said the ‘Hayr Mer’ for the soul of your grandparents who hailed
from that village. It gave me chills to think that your grandparents
might have been baptized in that church, that they may have run and
played in these fields.”
This is what connects all Armenians together, our common history of
exile, deportation, and the death march.
Mouradian sent me photos of the stream my father often spoke of,
fondly describing the water that came flowing down from the mountain
and rippled over the rocks “as cold, clear, and anoush.” Now I could
see it with my own eyes, just like Dad always said it was.
The Ottoman-Turks decided the fate for all Armenians when they planned
the Armenian Genocide. I was born much later than my three siblings
but the scars of what the Turks did were imbedded in my genes even
before my conception.
No one with a sense of humanity about them can account for the
brutality and senseless mass killings the Turks inflicted on their
Armenian population.
“I wonder how many Armenian children washed their faces, bathed,
and played in its waters, and later, the tears of how many Armenian
mothers mixed with them.” (Photo by Khatchig Mouradian) Kindness and
sensitivity will always remain in style, and Mouradian demonstrated he
has these qualities when he thought of my family. He wondered if it was
in that same church that my grandparents were baptized and later wed.
“How much love, faith, and dedication have these church walls
witnessed,” the young editor pondered.
Evidence of using stones and pillars from the old churches were
visible in the repairs of the Kurds’ homes. They have no connection
to the land like the Armenians do.
He continued, “The stream that runs through Kughi is just beautiful.
The closer it gets to the village, though, the more garbage bags and
trash you’d see in it. I wonder how many Armenian children washed
their faces, bathed, and played in its waters, and later, the tears
of how many Armenian mothers mixed with them.”
Mouradian said one of the two destroyed churches had walls, but they
were so open to the elements that a garden had been planted inside it.
The Kurds also told him the Armenians always picked the most attractive
places to build their homes and villages.
It was comforting to know my Kughi, the place of my roots, the region
that gave me the father I adore, the man who was my finest teacher,
was a lovely place to live.
My treasures and gifts come in many ways. This was by far the most
special and unexpected. They say you never know what tomorrow will
bring and I, the analyzer and jaded, still have lessons to learn. Stay
open, receptive, and positive to the unknown future.
The photos of Kughi’s houses, churches, and the stream for me are
priceless gems but the words of my editor are engraved in my heart.
“Kughi’s stream sings the song of all its Armenian children scattered
around the world. I could hear it. And Kughi is lucky, really lucky,
despite the sad shape it is in today. It is lucky because its children
have not forgotten its stream, its churches, and its houses. Because
its children, living across the Atlantic, still sign their emails
‘Betty from Kughi.'”
It’s not the end, my fellow Hyes-it is the beginning. Stay strong
and never give up the fight for justice.
http://www.armenianweekly.com/2012/06/13/nothing-like-the-real-thing-a-traveler-visits-kughi/