YEREVAN TO DIYARBEKIR AND BACK: PART 2
Hrant Gadarigian
hetq
13:29, October 29, 2011
I was introduced to Zakaria Mildanoglu, the Armenian architect who
worked on the restoration of the Holy Cross Church at Akhtamar. He
told me that St. Kirakos now legally belongs to the Foundation set
up by Istanbul-Armenians who spearheaded the restoration.
In addition, given that the Patriarchate in Istanbul has no legal
status per-say, it is the Foundation that must assume the court battle
to receive compensation for former church properties that have been
used to build stores and other commercial enterprises.
Given that St. Kirakos belongs to the Armenian community, unlike
Akhtamar, it can hold religious services and cultural events whenever
it wants. I assume that the Foundation, probably with the consent
of the Patriarchate (read Locum Tenens Archbishop Aram Ateshyan),
will set the agenda.
Archbishop Ateshyan’s Words Anger Many
But given the conservative nature of the Patriarchate, a
complaint I heard by many in attendance, including a fair number of
Istanbul-Armenians, it remains questionable whether St. Kirakos will
grow into something more than a religious site for periodic worship.
I heard of plans to hold concerts and other cultural events – even
organizing Armenian language classes. Let’s hope the visionaries
win out.
In fact, many found Ateshyan’s words at the event a bit too
condescending to Turkish sensibilities. His homily began with a
rhetorical homage regarding the tragic death of Turkish soldiers
at the hands of “terrorism” – a referral to a recent PKK attack in
the south. Many saw it as yet more proof of the Archbishop’s “raya”
mentality of the Ottoman past.
In contrast, Diyarbakir Mayor Baydemir spoke of the need to pay
respects to all “victims” of terror and hate – a veiled reference to
the innocents slaughtered in 1915.
In short, the entire affair was a nuanced dance around an issue –
the 1915 Armenian Genocide, Kurdish participation and Turkish state
policy – that needs to be critically dealt with before any real talk
of dialog amongst the sides involved takes place.
The reopening of St. Kirakos in the heart of Kurdish Turkey is just
the beginning, albeit an important one.
As Raffi Hovannisian aptly put it – “It is exceedingly important for
the two peoples to engage in dialogue, but without forgetting that
great, dark disaster of history, like genocide.”
We left Diyarbekir after the Sunday service at St. Kirakos. There
was a long road ahead of us back to Yerevan.
Taking the north-eastern route, we passed through Silvan and Bitlis –
William Saroyan country.
Van: Tremors at Night
We hit Tatvan as night descended, unaware of the tragic scene awaiting
us at Van.
Max got a phone call from his wife telling us about the massive quake
that had hit the area. But it was too late for us to turn back.
Pulling into Van that evening, we immediately saw the effects of the
quake. Much of the city was without power. Traffic lights weren’t
working and cars ferrying frightened folks out of the city had created
impassable jams.
A maze of confusion and despair.
Everywhere, people wrapped in blankets, were wandering the darkened
streets, seeking refuge from the freezing night air. Hundreds of
people were camped out in the main square, huddling around fires of
whatever fuel could be found.
Max finally found his way to a hotel he had stayed during a prior
trip. The young Kurdish clerks told us that there were plenty of
vacant rooms – no one wanted to stay inside due to the ongoing tremors.
With more than a bit of trepidation, we decided to book a room. The
alternative was to freeze outside. The clerk told us to keep the room
door open if we needed to make a mad dash outside during the night.
Khachik said he remembered reading somewhere that usually a major
earthquake’s subsequent tremors diminish in strength. We hesitatingly
took this bit of unverified fact as comfort and went to sleep fully
dressed.
Soon after, a powerful tremor shook the hotel room. We made in out
and downstairs in record time. But we were exhausted and sleep got
the better of us. Early the next morning we were back in the jeep
and heading north around the shoreline of Lake Van.
The next morning, we took a walk around our hotel. To our surprise
we noticed that just two blocks away a corner building had collapsed.
Work crews were digging through the rubble.
Earthquake Epicentre
Max wanted to go to the epicentre in Ô±O~@Õ³Õ¥Õ· – Artchesh (now
called ErciÅ~_). More photo opportunities were in store.
On the main road leading to this town of some 70,000, we saw Turkish
military trucks carrying troops and equipment. Ambulances quickly
passed by.
We entered the city, parked the car, and headed off on foot.
Building flattened like pancakes greeted us. Heavy construction
equipment – bulldozers and excavators – made their way down the narrow
two lane main street now full of people.
Turkish police, automatic rifles at the ready, were helpless at
maintain any semblance of organization. Large crowds had gathered at
each collapsed building, watching frantic emergency crews trying to
remove the tons of concrete and rubble.
It was a weird scene of destruction. Most of the houses that collapsed
from the earthquake’s might appeared to be structures of four or more
stories. Many of those remaining standing bore large cracks in the
walls and would probably have to be razed.
It seemed like the main fault line ran right down the main street –
destroying some buildings while others remained intact. After visiting
the area by helicopter, Turkish Prime Minister Erdogan lashed out at
those builders who cut corners and built such death-traps.
I and Khachik walked the streets while Max went off on his own.
The Turkish press had descended on the town in full force; news
cameras and reporters were scurrying here and there.
We saw victims of the quake being carried out in body bags from the
local hospital as frantic friends and relatives of those unaccounted
for waited for news of their fate.
In the midst of the unfolding melee, local and state politicians
soon arrived to survey the destruction and pay their respects. I
witnessed Kemal Kilicdaroglu, the leader of the main opposition CHP,
being mobbed by residents as made his way to the center of the town.
Huge white tents, trucked in by the army, were being carried away by
those left homeless and those who were too afraid to go back to their
homes. Back in Yerevan, I read reports that many of the incoming
military trucks had been looted of their tents, many of which were
being sold on the black-market.
Even Erdogan was forced to admit on Turkish TV that the initial phase
of the search and rescue effort had been lacking in organization and
efficiency…little comfort for those in the disaster zone.
We finally regrouped at the jeep and left Ercis heading north and
the border.
Back to the Border
More scenes of the quake’s wrath dotted the road as we made our way
to Horasan, the Erzeroum highlands, and the Georgian border beyond.
Hours later and under the cover of nightfall, we pulled into the tiny
hamlet of Posof, high in the pine forested mountains.
Another detailed search of the jeep awaited us at the Turkish border
crossing early the following morning.
>>From there it was another hour or two through Georgia till we
reached the border with Armenia at Bavra.
We had travelled some 3,000 kilometers all told.
It was a journey to remember and one I hope to repeat soon. Just
another attempt to reconnect with a fading past.