EARTHQUAKE SURVIVOR: SEVERAL HISTORIANS AND A SINGLE ORPHAN
Samuel Armen
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18:10, July 7, 2011
Part I
On October 12, 1988, a boy who would become I, had the infinite
blessing of being born in Gyumri, Armenia – the country’s second
largest city.
On December 7, 1988 the ancient land shook violently with a devastating
6.9 magnitude earthquake that collapsed schools and structures to dust,
and ended the lives of at least 25,000 men and women – most of which
2nd generation genocide survivors – and children who might have had
a brighter future if their school ended five minutes earlier.
25,000 strong Armenians were no longer dancing, singing, speaking,
breathing, or living. I was 56 days old, a fragile infant of less than
two months of age, presumably incapable of even crawling, yet, I lived.
>From that moment to the age of five my life is shrouded in mystery,
illuminated only by the details told to me by five individuals. What
they told me is a series of miracles that has led me to a blessed
journey of life. Surviving the Gyumri-Spitak earthquake was my first
miracle.
Just as the earth was created with the aid of the heavenly
constellations, my life’s fortunate journey to a family began with
Stella.
I heard the name a few times in stories – Stella Grigorian this,
Stella Grigorian that. At the age of fourteen I was told she would
have answers of my past that no one else could tell me. So through
the help of Alice Movsesian – another of my past’s historians – who
tracked down Stella, I was able to speak to her. In the order of my
known life, she would be the first person I knew to thank. I was
fourteen, nervous and in my room clutching the telephone receiver
tightly with sweaty hands and a racing heart as the phone rang and
rang. “Samvel?” an enthusiastic voice suddenly sang with more than a
hint of joyful youth. It was tranquilizing; her calming voice settled
my nerves and our conversation began with a chapter of my life too
obscure for anyone besides herself to find.
She told me, my last name was originally Darakashvilli, my biological
mother is half-Georgian, my father was a mechanic and the name of my
orphanage. Stella worked across the street at Lenshintrest – the state
construction offices – working for the JDC (Jewish Joint Distribution
Committee) working to build the JDC Children’s Rehabilitation Clinic
and training local medical professions as physical and occupational
therapists. Several times, she would see me outside from her second
story window playing in the backyard of the orphanage.
Being one to explore and one who is familiar both with children and
children in need, she visited from across the street. She had already
known this particular orphanage was for mentally disabled children,
but could not understand why I was there. She found soon that my eyes –
my cross eyed vision and appearance – was the defect that led to such
a mistake. Because I was too young to express my intelligence, and
because the medical departments were old and already outdated, I had
landed in this particular orphanage for mentally challenged children.
Stella wanted more than anything to adopt me then and there, but she
was already pregnant, and was afraid of not being able to provide
for two children so quickly. Fortunately, she would soon receive news
from Alice Movsesian that I was in good hands.
Between Stella Grigorian, Arthur Halvajian – the Armenian-American
philanthropist involved in numerous outreach programs – and Alice
Movsesian – who worked under Arthur – I would be brought to America
with the excuse of having my eyes corrected. Without Arthur’s
approval of going to America to get my eyes fixed, I would not be
given a visa, and thus remain in the orphanage. But in the times
between any such surgery, they – especially Alice Movsesian – were
determined to find me permanent parents. They were also determined to
introduce me to America; to have my senses amazed by the sight of the
towering Manhattan Skyscrapers, the rushing feel of an elevator rise,
the soul-stirring sounds of Jazz, and the taste of biting into a New
York City Burger.
It would be in New Jersey at the age of 3 where I would find my first
real home.
Digeen Mariam (Ms. Mary-Anne) and Baron Krikor (Mr. Gregory)
Saraydarian were my caretakers. But as they say, quoting a four-year
old me: “I give you life.” They were the first parents I truly loved
and still love. They gave me my first friend, my first family, my
first birthday at the age of four, and I nearly gave Digeen Mariam her
very first heart attack when she lost me inside of a toy store. Even
after my adoption, they would come visit or I would visit them and we
would talk about anything for hours. They were the ones who told me
about Stella Grigorian, and told me that Alice Movsesian could get
a hold of her. They were also related to the first person to make
a prediction about me. Baron Krikor’s father, whom I called Babuk
George, watched over me for an hour when no one else was in the house.
When his son Krikor returned he told him, “That boy is either going to
be something spectacular, or end up in a federal prison – watch him.”
(See the picture 1: Samuel smiling with his hero, Sesame Street’s
Big Bird.)
When I turned four years old, Digeen Mariam and Baron Krikor surprised
me with my first birthday party. Baron Krikor had his brother dress
up as Big Bird from Sesame Street. When the doorbell rang and Mariam
and Krikor asked me to get it, they could hear from any corner of
the house the wild delight of a young boy who had come face-to-face
with his hero. At some point during this party, Big Bird lifted me
in his arms and one destiny-weaving photographer took a picture of
me – a young boy with a patch on his eye smiling from ear to ear –
which would eventually appear in the Armenian Reporter.
One week later and 25 miles away in Long Island, New York, in a
blessed moment in space and time, my third miracle began. A man named
Dr. Garo Armen received a call from a family friend that there was
a photograph of a boy in the Armenian Reporter up for adoption who
sort of looked like his own son, Zachary. After speaking to his wife,
Valerie, the two wanted to at least see this boy.
By the time Garo and Valerie began their drive to the Saraydarian
house in New Jersey I was four-and-a-half and their daughters Alice
Saraydarian and Karen Arslanian, I was sort of an attraction in the
Armenian community in New Jersey. Families would ask to borrow me,
take care of me, feed me, have me sleep over, and meet their own
children. To this day I find it quite strange that I know a family
of beautiful Armenian girls whose parents could have adopted me,
making all of them my sisters.
No matter who wanted to adopt me, Baron Krikor and especially Digeen
Mariam were very strict. The parents had to be good enough for this
young boy they had grown to love. And through the nearly-mystical
precision of Armenian hospitality and the placement of a blanket,
that family would be known.
When the Armen’s first called they were turned down because another
family was taking care of me.
It was this one family that came, that seemed alright, and that wanted
to adopt ,e. Krikor and Mariam allowed the family (like many other
families whom they knew) to take care of me for a week. As they got to
know them, Digeen Mariam rose to serve food, and frowned clandestinely
when my potential mother did not budge or even offer to help.
Nevertheless, they let them take care of me for a week. Before leaving,
Digeen Mariam isolated the mother, handed her my favorite blanket,
and whispered to her that she should put that on or near the bed I’d
sleep on, as it would comfort me.
When Digeen Mariam visited me in my potentially new home, she was
infuriated with what she saw: The blanket – my favorite blanket –
was tossed aside, collecting dust in some room far from where I slept.
After interrogating the mother, Digeen Mariam’s mouth dropped when she
stated that “it’s okay – we’re giving him a cleaner blanket.” Needless
to say, this family had lost their change of adopting her little boy.
But it was during my stay with that family that the Armen’s called
and had to be turned down. After Digeen Mariam excommunicated the
family from me (so to speak), the Armen’s were called back.
At the time, my father was in Dublin, Ireland. When he received
the message from the other side of the globe, he began calculating,
and it wasn’t long before he decided that a 3,187 mile flight and
half-hour drive was worth seeing me.
When Digeen Mariam rose to make food, my mom leapt upwards. When she
told them about the blanket, they nodded with a sincere countenance.
When Digeen Mariam visited, she saw me wrapped comfortably in the
blanket and sound asleep.
It was then decided, these would be my new parents.
I was told this news in New Jersey, and began crying instantaneously.
I asked to Digeen Mariam and Baron Krikor, “Why can’t you take care of
me anymore?” sensing that perhaps I had done something horribly wrong.
To this they responded, “We are too old.” I turned lugubriously to
Garo and Valerie Armen and asked them “Are you too old?” Fate had it
that they were not.
Picture 2: Samuel (right) and Zachary (left) playing at a family event.
Just as Digeen Mariam and Baron Krikor were the first family to make
me feel loved, they were the first family to break my heart. I was
convinced, for some reason or intuition, that I would never see them
again as I sobbed in the backseat of the Armen’s car. Fortunately,
that was definitely not the case. By the age of 5, I was adopted into
the family and slowly becoming very close to my English and Armenian
speaking brother, Zachary. As we grew older we played, we fought,
and most of all, we learned from each other and still from each
other today.
Today I love them like family, because family loves, cares, and
teaches.
Today brings me to why I am writing this. My life and many of its
mysteries can only be found in Gyumri. In less than five weeks I
will be going to Gyumri to lift off the veil of my past as much as
possible. There are still too many questions I have: Where did I live?
Are my parents alive, were they killed during the earthquake, or did
they already pass away in the last two decades since they’ve last seen
me? Why was I cross-eyed? Why do I have particular phobias? Why do I
look the way I look? Why do I have three small scars on me since as
long as I can remember? Why do I write? Why do I calculate people so
much? Who gave me my eyes, my nose, my voice, my chin, my face? What
was I like as a baby? Did I cry and talk too much like I talk too
much today? Why is my hearing so sharp and my vision so blurred?
I write this all in Yerevan, and my hands shake at the thought of
being somewhere I haven’t been in twenty-one years. When I come back,
I will write my experience, detail any and all of the answers I have
found, and introduce to the best of my ability the complexity of what
it truly feels like to be adopted.
Picture 3: Samuel Armen at age 21 – Photo taken in 2010