National, International, Armenia, and Community News and Opinion

6 The Armenian Reporter | November 1, 2008
Community
THIS ARMENIAN LIFE
Adventures From
History – Der Zor
Part II of
II
by Tamar
Kevonian
The last room under the church
held little treasures and relics of the
time. The walls are lined with glass
cased filled with etched silver belts,
embroidered baptismal clothes
and church paraphernalia. There
are also photos of the villages and
towns, capturing a moment in time
before they were emptied of their
residents in 1915. Next to them
were their corresponding statistics
like population numbers, number
of churches and schools. There were
also a few family or school group
photos of healthy, robust people
dressed in their regional costumes,
some western some clearly ethnic.
Strangely the displays have not
affected me. This memorial had not
been a part of any of the horrors. I
needed to go into the desert where
the Armenians met their end in
those long ago days.
We drive deeper into the desert,
crossing the beautiful wide expanse
of the Euphrates in sight of its famous
suspension bridge. “It’s just
like the Golden Gate Bridge” says
Toros referring to the famed orange
landmark in San Francisco. It was
hard to believe this river had once
been the watery grave of so many
women and children that their intertwined
bodies had formed a solid
bridge where one could cross it
without getting their feet wet. The
bits and pieces of stories I’d stored
in the deep recesses of my memory
where removing themselves from
the shadowy depths of lore and
anchoring themselves in today’s
sharply focused reality.
Very quickly the desert takes over
and we see no other landmarks besides
the clusters of mud-plastered
homes with low slug roofs, small
windows and smooth rounded wall.
Occasionally the monotony of the
mud brown color is broken by the
bright green of the small, cultivated
rectangular fields. An hour later we
pass the small sign on the right announcing
our destination, Merkadeh,
and a hundred yards past it on
the left is the chapel set against the
small hill. It was built at the same
time as the memorial and church
in the city. It is new and bright
with straight walls and sharp corners.
The gate to the courtyard is
locked and we go in search of the
caretaker.
Abu Nshme is a tall, gaunt
man with a weathered face. He is
dressed in a traditional tan colored
robe. He steps out of his house and,
seeing we are westerners, knows
why we are there. He greets us
with a slight nod of his head and
climbs into the minibus. His movements
are calm and reserved. His
voice rumbles from the depths of
his abdomen and sounds at odds
to his thin frame. He barely moves
his lips when talking, as if excess
movement would sap him of the
precious energy he needs to survive
in the hard conditions in which he
was born to live.
The chapel is a much smaller
version of the church and equally
sparse. I want to be in the desert
walking where all those others
walked before me. The hill behind
the courtyard wall beckons and I
make my way to the top. The sand
engulfs my feet and the jagged
rocks scratch my ankles. At midday
the temperature is over a hundred
degrees. I try to drink from the water
bottle in my hand but I can’t
swallow the warm water and spit
it out. I feel guilty about my vain
attempt to satisfy my thirst. The
top of the hill is a wide flat expanse
that looks out across a desolate
desert where the wind is blowing
vertical columns of sand straight
into the sky. The flatness stretches
out to the horizon.
Besides this one, there are a couple
of other hills in the immediate
vicinity. They rise suddenly from
the monotony of the terrain. They
are all similar in shape and composition;
porous and pockmarked
with small caves that have been
filled for the past ninety odd years.
During World War I the entire
region was under Ottoman control
and the hill across the road from
where I stand was the site of a military
garrison. The Armenians, hundreds
of thousands of women and
children, arrived in large caravans
after a long march across Turkey.
The elderly could not last long and
died by the droves where they fell
along the human caravan. Many
of the rest were starved, tortured,
and raped. They were used a target
practice for sword play where
babies were thrown in the air and
skillfully caught on the blade, gambled
with by guessing the gender
of unborn babies then cutting open
the mother’s belly to settle the bet,
buried alive up to their necks and
used as balls in a game of polo.
They devised all sorts of ingenious
distraction for their entertainment
during their long and arduous execution
of duty.
“You dig with your bare hands
and can find bones a few inches below
the surface,” Father Massoyan
told me at the memorial site when
he heard of our plan to journey to
Merkadeh. The remoteness of the
location coupled with the small
community makes it impossible
for a priest to stay long and the
Mother See has devised a rotating
schedule of visiting priests. Remembering
Der Hayr’s words, now
I can’t keep my eyes off the ground
as I climb the hill. I’m partly hoping
and partly dreading coming across
a sun weathered piece of bone.
Aysham and Aysan, Abu Nshme’s
sons, follow behind me. Both are
wiry and thin like their father but
Aysham, about fifteen years old, is
more friendly and talkative than
his brother. I want to be alone to
feel the essence of the place but the
chatter in Arabic follows me to the
crest. They stop when I stop. Aysham
waves me over and points to
the ground. I’m not the first pilgrim
he’s encountered and knows
what my search entails. He speaks
no English and I no Arabic. He
points at a small hole in the side of
the hill where a few shards of bone
are visible. He expects me to reach
for them but all I manage to do is
stare into the dark hole at the small
glowing specks of white. I am torn
between the conflicting desires of
finding a bone to take home as a
physical reminder of my pilgrimage
and preserving the sanctity
of these long troubles souls. I say
nothing. Aysham repeats the only
words of English he knows, “I’m
sorry. I’m sorry.”
These mounds, clustered in the
quarter mile area were once pockmarked
with caves. When the
Turks collected the Armenians in
this desolate spot, some sought
refuge from the sun and their tormentors
in the fissures in the hills.
When the time came the Turks
began to slaughter every single
one of the starving, exhausted,
barely living bodies. They hunted
the Armenians like Aysham hunted
the jackrabbits I’d seen gamboling
between the rocks. Those
Vartan Oskanian honored in Los Angeles
as the Professional of the Year
Adam Schiff, Vaughn
Gregor, and Carla
Garapedian in
attendance
Armenian
Professional Society
celebrates 50th
anniversary
by Shahane Martirosyan
who hid in the caves for shelter
soon found them converted into
tombs. The local Arabs, not knowing
who these bedraggled people
were, assumed they were criminals
brought here for punishment
and did not interfere. An exposed
body in the desert does not take
long to decompose and soon, to
avoid the spread of disease, the
villages came to bury the dead,
laid out like an Oriental carpet
across the hills. That is when they
realized that the dead were women
and children. Those already
in the caves were simply covered
with dirt while others were placed
in freshly dug graves. They prayed
over their souls and harbored the
handful of survivors.
When the Turks finally retreated
behind their current borders, the
villagers vented their pent up anger
by burning the military garrison
and renaming their town. They
Vartan Oskanian.
LOS ANGELES – Inside the elegantly
appointed walls of Sheraton
Universal Hotel, hundreds of Armenian
professionals from all over
Southern California gathered on
Saturday, October 25, to celebrate
the 50th anniversary of the Armenian
Professional Society (aps).
Vartan Oskanian was honored as
the Professional of the Year while
Vaughn Gregor, one of the founding
members of aps, took a minute
to chronicle the accomplishments
of aps over the past 50 years.
Mr. Oskanian was the foreign
minister of Armenia from April
1998 to April 2008. He has since established
the Civilitas Foundation
in Yerevan.
The reception began with music
by Salpy Kerkonian on the flute,
accompanied by Armen Mangasarian
and Garik Terzian on the
violin. The guests took their seats
and a night of celebration proceeded
with the national anthems and
welcoming remarks from master of
ceremonies Arthur Avazian. aps
president Ara Assilian also welcomed
the guests of the evening
and dinner was served.
The atmosphere of the event was
friendly as the guests greeted one
another and toasted each other
with wine while the musicians entertained
with classic songs such
as “Bésame Mucho” and “What a
Wonderful World.”
As the evening progressed, Mr.
Gregor was honored with a recognition
award as one of the organization’s
charter members. It was
in Mr. Gregor’s home that three
of the original members, Leo Garapedian,
Virgil Arklin, and Mr.
Gregor talked about an Armenian
professional organization. Five
more members were added to this
group, forming the Armenian Professional
Society.
Fifty years later, Mr. Gregor got
up in front of hundreds of Armenian
professionals and reflected
on the five decades of the aps. In
his detailed address, he expressed
his special appreciation to all those
members who started the society.
He asked the attendees to applaud
Carla Garapedian – who in her
own right has become an Emmy
Winning documentary director.
Mr. Gregor went on to say how
proud he was to be part of an association
that has never forgotten
about the homeland. He remembered
how aps was one of the first
organizations in the United States
that made the conscious decision to
send a group of Armenian-American
professionals to Gyumri after
the 1988 earthquake for assistance.
He noted that the professionals
in aps are more than just friends;
they are comrades. He said in his
speech that although comrade
sounds like a communistic term,
he calls his friends at aps comrades
because they have served that purpose
as part of the organization
during his lifetime.
Mr. Gregor also mentioned one
of the more unique members of
the Armenian Professional Society,
Hermine Mahseredjian. Years
ago Ms. Mahseredjian received a
scholarship from aps for her graduate
studies. She went on to work
as a professor at California State
University, at Northridge for 24
years, where she served as founder
and director of the Armenian
Studies Program. During her professional
career, she joined the aps
and soon became the first woman
president of aps.
Ms. Mahseredjian was also honored
during the evening’s festivities.
She remembered her time as
part of aps and paid tribute to Mr.
Oskanian, who welcomed her in
Armenia when she took one of her
classes to visit the motherland.
The most anticipated moment
came near the end of the evening
when Mr. Oskanian was presented
with the Professional of the Year
award. As he walked to the stage,
the crowd got on their feet to applaud
the man of the hour.
Mr. Oskanian accepted the award,
first thanking aps for the work
they have done for the Armenian
community. His emotional speech
was well received by the audience
who applauded continuously. The
speech put great emphasis on Armenians
in the diaspora and in the
homeland to stay connected.
Mr. Oskanian, who is originally
from Aleppo, Syria, has degrees
from Fletcher School of Law and
Diplomacy, Harvard University,
Tufts University, as well as Yerevan
Polytechnic Institute. Mr. Oskanian
has played a great role in
Armenian statehood. For over a decade
he was the lead negotiator for
Armenia in the Nagorno-Karabakh
peace process. His speech at the
event encouraged a more involved
relationship from the diaspora and
urged a united front.
Representative Adam Schiff (D.-
Calif.) was present at the event and
made a small speech in honor of
Mr. Oskanian. Mr. Schiff emphasized
that the relationship between
Armenia and the United States is
more important now than ever before
considering Russia’s moves in
Georgia. He also commended Mr.
Oskanian’s work in Armenia.
The Armenian Professional
Society for the past 50 years has
granted scholarships to students
of Armenian heritage. As the event
came to an end, Armen Donigian
presented two graduate students
with their scholarships. aps has assisted
300 students since its foundation.
Continuing the tradition,
this year’s scholarship recipients
were Armen Kiramijian and Mikael
Oganesyan.
Mr. Kiramijian is currently attending
California Western School
of Law. He has a BS and MS in
economics from the University
of Southern California. As for Mr.
Oganesyan, he is currently at usc
Thornton School of Music Prestige
Program. He graduated from Tel
Aviv University in 2007 and also attended
the Buchman–Mehta School
of Music. Both of the young men
accepted their scholarships. Each
thanked aps and expressed their
thoughts on Armenian heritage.
The event was a celebration from
the second it began to the minute it
wound down. After concluding notes
by the master of ceremonies, crowds
of people approached the Professional
of the Year, Mr. Oskanian,
congratulating him and thanking
him for all his efforts throughout
the past years in Armenia.
call it Merkadeh, the final resting
place. It is in honor of the thousands
of people who are buried on
their lands.
Aysham leads me back to the
courtyard where, sitting in the
shade of the wall, Abu Nshme is
recounting the stories passed down
to him from his grandparents. His
grandmother was a survivor, the
niece of an archbishop and the sister
of a priest. In a long life spent
with her saviors, she never learned
to speak Arabic properly. I’m impressed
by the lifetime of pain and
anger that fueled this defiance
against her fate. But perhaps it was
a small way of holding onto her
original identity? There’s no way to
know since there aren’t any people
left alive who remember those long
ago events.
The villagers here or the estimated
twelve million Armenians
around the world have not forgotten
history. Nine decades after the
events of 1915, the descendents of
the survivors of the first Christian
nation have found a way to thank
and repay their Muslim counterparts
in this remote location by
building a hospital a short ways
up the road from the chapel. It is
an apt and much delayed show of
thanks to the Muslim villagers who
took care of and continue to protect
the people of the first Christian
nation. It is the ultimate irony
in light of today’s political and religious
arena.
During the drive back to the city
everything is out of focus and the
scenery outside my window passes
without registering on my brain. I
feel numb. It’s only as I begin to
write these words do the images of
what I’ve seen and the visions of
long ago past events come together
in a cohesive tidal wave of emotion
and I begin to cry.