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The Armenian Weekly; Volume 73, No. 30; July 28, 2007

Arts and Literature:

1. The Search: From Tigran Mets to Sayat Nova (Part III)
Article and Photos by Knarik O. Meneshian

2. Morgenthau Arrives in Constantinople (A Short Story)
By Kay Mouradian

3. Wisdom from the Eye of the Storm
‘The Struggle for Kirkuk’ Explains Iraq as Only an Armenian Can
By Andy Turpin

4. Summit-Bound My Heart
By Zahrad
Translated by Tatul Sonentz

***

1. The Search: From Tigran Mets to Sayat Nova (Part III)
Article and Photos by Knarik O. Meneshian

We had been living in our apartment on Sayat Nova Street for a couple of
weeks now and quickly becoming accustomed to life in Gyumri. The November
days were growing chillier and the nights colder. Already, the smell of
burning wood, rubber, plastic, leather-anything that could be used to heat
homes-permeated the air, especially at night, and seeped through cracks and
crevices into buildings, into rooms. The smell was everywhere. One by one,
trees were losing their limbs to saws. Some people explained, "In order to
keep warm." Others said, "To enable the sun to shine into our homes." So
far, our little electric space heater did a fine job heating our combined
living and dining area. When we went into the kitchen to cook, when we took
our baths in the baghneek (bathroom), the heater came with us.

It was Saturday morning, the day for household chores, food shopping both at
the shuga (market) and grocery stores, preparing lesson plans, and if time
permitted, a stroll with a stop at Yegheeshe’s internet and stationary
store. There were two other internet cafes nearby; but Yegheeshe’s place,
although the smallest, was congenial and customers did not smoke there.
Months later, during one of my visits to the store, a well-dressed man in
black attire stopped to see Yegheeshe. "But I have paid already!" Yegheeshe
whispered again and again, his pale face turning red as he clenched his
fists on the counter. When the man left, Yegheeshe lowered his head and with
his hands still clenched stood frozen at the counter. After that incident,
both Murad and I noticed a marked difference in this quiet, cheerful, and
hardworking man. He had grown quieter, somber, and less energetic when he
worked. One day his wife Vartoosh said, "Yegheeshe has gone to Russia to
work and we do not know when he will return. (He is still working there
while his wife and children await his return home-someday. Unable to afford
the added expense, Yegheeshe’s store is now only a tiny shop where his wife
sells a small selection of books, magazines, stationary and school
supplies.)

The magnificent voice of one of Komitas Vartapet’s students, Armenak
Shahmuradyan, singing Hayastan (with Komitas Vartapet at the piano)
thundered from our battery-operated cassette player as I ironed clothes on
the kitchen table I had padded with towels, and Murad stirred a pot of
borsch cooking on the gas stove. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door! We
both stopped what we were doing and went to see who had come. A muscular man
of average height holding a bunch of long sheets of paper curled at the ends
in one hand and a pen in the other announced, "Our records indicate that you
have not paid your electric bill. If you do not pay immediately your
electricity will be cut off."

"Eench (What)?" we both blurted out. I wondered how we would live here
without electricity. There would be no heat, no lights, and daily life as we
knew it would come to a halt.

And then Murad explained, "Bayts baron (But sir), we have paid. We have paid
in advance for the month of November just as our landlord instructed us to
do. When we rented this apartment, our landlord told us that we could pay
him the suggested amount and he would go and pay the bill for us since we
are new here."

"You will have to talk to your landlord about this because our records
indicate that payment was made for the outstanding October bill only and
nothing for November. If we do not hear back from you shortly the
electricity will be cut off," stated the man as he made a notation on one of
the long sheets of paper and left.

Murad picked up the phone and dialed. "Gamo, ays eench pan eh. (Gamo, what
is this thing.)? I see. So, you will take care of it immediately then."
After hanging up the phone he explained, "Gamo says that we should not
worry, that apparently there has been some kind of mistake and that he will
take care of the problem right away."

Putting on his jacket, Murad walked to the front door, "I’m going over to
Gamo’s place to talk to him about this, and then to the store to buy weather
stripping and plastic for the windows. The apartment is beginning to get
cold." Already, there were times we had to wear our coats indoors. As I
looked at the blankets still drying after three days on the plastic ropes I
had tied to the two wicker chairs in the foyer, at the clothes still drying
in the living room on the two metal "clothes dryers" (racks I had purchased
at the shuga), I waved goodbye and said, "Tell Gamo and his wife that we
found the picture of his son wrapped in a sheet on top of the wardrobe in
the bedroom, and didn’t they want it?" Murad nodded and left.

I went back to the kitchen to stir the borsch boiling on the stove.
Suddenly, the flame grew small. I turned the knob, but it remained small.
Would it go out soon, so soon after Gamo told us that the gas balloon was
full and would last a very long time, a few months even? I thought about the
electric bill we had paid him in advance, and now the threat of having the
electricity cut off. Where was the gas stove we had paid him for soon after
moving into the apartment and he had promised to bring how many times
already? "I will bring it today.tomorrow.in a couple of days for sure.when I
go to Yerevan.!" he had said so emphatically each time. Why did he leave his
beloved son’s picture in the apartment tucked out of sight on top of the
wardrobe? I recalled the assuring manner in which he said that the blankets,
wrapped in plastic bags, he had brought over shortly after we moved into the
apartment were "absolutely clean" and that even the bedspread was
"absolutely clean." And now, those "absolutely clean" things were hanging to
dry after I had washed them in the bathtub not once but four times before
they finally rinsed clean, the water no longer black with soot and grit. I
had given up hanging the laundry outdoors because of soot, clothespins that
stained, bird droppings, and rain.

The borsch stopped boiling. The flame was out. The iron stopped heating. The
electricity was out. (Since the electricity went out from time to time, we
had grown accustomed to this occurrence.) It was well after nine in the
morning and there would be no water again until evening. I unplugged the
iron, put away the clothes and towels, and covered the table again with the
oilcloth I had purchased at the shuga. Shahmuradyan’s final
combined-selections on the tape, "Goojhn Ara (I took the Jug)" and "Gna Gna
(Go Go)" ended. I turned off the cassette player, put on my coat and headed
towards the shuga, the heart of the city.

Already, changes were taking place in Gyumri. That certain tranquility in
the air, that quiet, peaceful feeling, the kind that comes before winter,
was becoming more apparent with each passing day. The trees had shed most of
their leaves. The sun wasn’t as warm or bright anymore. The drying of wool
on white sheets spread on the ground, on ropes, on railings and the drying
of wheat on white sheets spread on walks in front of houses, on balconies,
were coming to an end. The canning was done and cupboards were stocked with
jars of jams, fruit juices, greens, and pickles. Boots stored in wardrobes
were retrieved and polished, winter coats were brushed. Piles of chopped
wood were stacked on balconies, against the sides of domeeks (metal
containers), and homes. In the little park across the street, next to the
Avedik Isahakyan Tadron (Theater) fewer young people now strolled there, and
even fewer parents with their small children. Early in the morning, after a
rain, thin sheets of ice glistened on streets and sidewalks, but disappeared
later under the wheels of vehicles and footsteps. There was the gradual
appearance of specialty foods such as sujukh (stringed walnut halves dipped
in doshab, a thickened fruit syrup, and then dried), and items such as
shimmering garlands and ornaments, the ever-growing hustle and bustle in the
stores and the shuga in anticipation of the upcoming holidays-New Year and
Holy Christmas.

I had read that long ago the people of Armenia baked a white, wheat bread
and ate half of it in the old year and the other half in the New Year. As I
walked past Yegheeshe’s store and down Gorky Street lined with its old
buildings, I wondered whether people still practiced the tradition. I liked
it for the continuity and the planning for the future it conveyed. I passed
a few shops-one that sold groceries and pastries, one that sold flowers and
gift items, and one that made and sold hats. I passed apartment buildings, a
church built in 1870 (Saint Nshan), small stone houses, and a black stone
Russian-era restaurant with an arched entrance leading into a courtyard.
There was a menu on one side of the entrance and a sign on the other that
read "Khash, (boil)," inviting customers to a piping hot bowl of boiled cow’s
feet and stomach cooked until thick and hearty, and when served, seasoned to
taste with plenty of salt, garlic, lemon juice or vinegar with onions and
greens on the side, and lavash bread, followed by vodka. (The old-timers
added the sounds "Pah! Pah! Pah!" to this eating ritual as they grinned,
breaking pieces of lavash into the steaming bowl of broth.) It is said that
the delicacy originated in this, the Shirak, region. An elderly man was
sitting on a rickety old chair in front of his house-a shack-looking at
nothing in particular. I wondered what he was thinking, and I greeted him
with a "Barev dzez!" He returned the greeting with a weary nod. At the end
of the street, an old woman in a babushka and shabby clothes sat on a crate
selling sunflower seeds. I stopped to buy some. With eagerness the woman
ripped a sheet of paper from a child’s tattered notebook filled with graded
homework. She made a small cone, filled it with the seeds and handed it to
me with a toothless grin. I walked a little farther down the street and
turned around making my way back towards Yegheeshe’s store. Across from his
store, Yegheeshe, as usual, was selling newspapers and magazines on Kirov
(now Rishkov) Street along with other folks selling things. There were piles
of used shoes, clothes, and linen; dishes, silverware, and glasses; books
and magazines. There were stacks of new magazines and newspapers; candles
and toys; small household goods and trinkets; CDs and cassettes. Rabeez
(pop) music blared up and down the street. In Yegheeshe’s store, his wife
was at the counter tending to a customer, while Gayane, one of two clerks,
was arranging a few Russian and English language books on a shelf. Ruzanna,
the other clerk, was helping someone with an internet problem. I bought
several notebooks, postcards, and pens. "Did you want to use the internet
too?" asked Vartoosh as I paid her and she put my purchases in a bag.

"Gootse eereegoonuh (Perhaps in the evening)," I replied and then wished
them a good day as I stepped out of the store and headed towards home. As I
strolled past shops and street venders, bolts of material lined on a table
in front of a well-run fabric store brought me to a quick halt. I had to buy
something to cover the ugly gas balloon in the kitchen. I searched and found
material not only for it, but for our bed as well. I decided that the
material with little blue flowers on a white background would make a fine
covering for the gas balloon, and the thick flannel material with a
snow-flake design would be perfect for our bed. I bought some needles,
thread, and scissors as well. Since day one in our apartment something about
the bed bothered me. I had thoroughly washed and ironed the sheets and
pillow cases that had been neatly folded and left at the foot of the bed,
but still I couldn’t help feeling that I had to cover the entire bed with
thick material. I guess it had to do with our night’s stay a couple of years
earlier at an acquaintance’s house in Yerevan’s Nor Sepastia area. During
the night, I was awakened by things biting me. I reached for my flashlight
on the rough, wood floor and shined it under the covers on the course sheet.
Worms were inching their way up from the sheet we were sleeping on. I didn’t
have the heart to awaken Murad sleeping so peacefully, unaware of the
dancing, slithering, biting critters. I shuddered and cringed and wished it
was morning. When it finally did come, one of the worms was still dancing-on
my toe!

Although the electricity was still out, there was yet plenty of light
shining through the windows. I went to the kitchen, threaded a needle and
began sewing a skirt for the balloon. With each stitch and pull, the fabric
began taking shape. Then, one final stitch, and it was done. The gas balloon
looked very good in its floor-length skirt! Now, one chore remained having
already dusted and cleaned. I plunged a long piece of cloth into a bucket of
soapy water. Wringing it out, I wrapped it onto the T-shaped wooden pole
standing in the corner, just like the one in the first apartment we had seen
on Tigran Mets Street, in all the other homes we had visited, even those in
Yerevan. As I pressed down on my "mop" and pushed it back and forth,
stopping once in a while to adjust the material, I began thinking of the
fabric and trinket shop owner who sold me the material. "Ha,ha (Yes, yes),
those are the dimensions.havada (believe)!" she had said in a loud and
assuring tone when I asked her if the material in the old plastic bag was
indeed the length and width indicated on the scribbled slip of paper taped
to the bag. Later at home, I discovered that the material in the bag was
half the width and length she claimed it was. Just like the lady on the
street corner who swore that the neatly folded and starched pillow cases she
sold me were new, just like the man at the shuga who sold me rotten tomatoes
by switching my bag full of selected good tomatoes with a bag full of rotten
ones, I returned after each discovered incident and told the vendors that I
would never buy anything from them again because of what they had done. The
Armenian saying, "Avelee lav eh meguh eera ashguh gortsnee kan te anoonuh
(It is better to lose one’s eye than one’s reputation)!" was true. As far as
I was concerned, they had lost their reputation and they knew it. Every time
I passed the lady standing in front of her fabric and trinket store selling
her goods, the lady on the corner selling her pillow cases, the man at the
shuga selling his fruits and vegetables, I would look at them, they at me.
And then, they would stare with obvious disappointment in their eyes at my
bag full of purchases made elsewhere. The made-to-order shoe store on
Shiragatsi Street, not far from the shuga, however, was, like some of the
stores in the city and some of the venders in the shuga, an example of a
well-run business. As a result, it was a pleasure frequenting such places.

Having nothing more to do indoors I went out on the balcony, which
overlooked the courtyard. Women were collecting their laundry from the
clotheslines and balcony railings. Neighbors were chatting with each other
from one apartment balcony to another, from one apartment building to
another, and below, from one domeek to another. Those domeeks, covered with
brick to resemble houses, lined one side of the crumbling courtyard. The
spry old lady in the domeek next to our side of the apartment building was,
as usual, calling to her three cats. She called them at intervals throughout
the day, and again late at night. I waved to a young woman hanging a few
pieces of laundry at a nearby balcony. She stared at me and then continued
with her work. I had waved to her before and received the same non-response.
I looked down at children petting street dogs that had claimed the courtyard
as their own. The lady with the cats waved and then pointed to me, then at
her eyes, and shouted, "Aghcheek jan, meg had el agnots choones eendz hamar?
Achkerus el lav chen desnoom (Girl dear, do you not have a pair of
eyeglasses for me? My eyes do not see well anymore)."

"Che, choonem (No, I do not)." I said, wishing that I did. She shrugged her
shoulders, and went about her business, this time beating a small rug on her
clothesline as her three cats meowed around her.

Murad came home carrying a bag of chocolate covered biscuits, my favorite,
in one hand, and weather stripping and plastic sheets for the windows and
balcony door in the other. Just as it was growing dim, the electricity came
on. I heated the pot of borsch on the electric stove, and set the table for
dinner. Along with the borsch, we were having parsley and cilantro with
Chanakh baneer (Chanakh cheese) and Matnakash hats (Matnakash bread). Mighty
fine food! Later on, as we worked on lesson plans, with the space heater
warming the room, we would have hot tea and chocolate biscuits. Gyumri and
the apartment were becoming home to us.

"Deegeen Knarik, my mother would like you and Baron Murad to come to our
house after classes today for a visit. I have talked so much about the both
of you that she said she wants to meet you," said the cheerful girl of
fourteen with the long, black hair and short skirt. Because of various
obligations, we arranged to visit later in the week. The day had come and
the girl could barely contain herself because she was so excited to finally
have us come to her home. "Let us go now! My mother is waiting," she said
trembling with excitement as she took hold of my hand and then Murad’s. "Mer
doonuh shad mod eh (Our home is very close)," she said as we walked and
walked and walked. Every once in a while she squeezed our hands and giggled.
"Oh, if my father saw me walking down the street in this short skirt he
would get very angry.! He is quite strict, you know. But, I like to wear my
skirt short and so on my way to school every day I shorten it like this,"
she said, revealing her rolled-up skirt, "and then, just before getting home
I lengthen it like this," she explained, tugging at her skirt until it
reached its original just-below-the-knee length. Suddenly spotting someone
in the distance, she gasped, "Vai (Oh my), that is our neighbor.!"

We entered the girl’s apartment building. It smelled musty. The dilapidated
stairwell with sooty and cracked walls was dim, and the railing was loose
and leaning. "Oh, do not hold on to the railing! It is dangerous. The
earthquake damaged the building." We followed the cheerful girl, who at
times was almost running up the stairs, first one flight and then another
and another until we reached the top where she lived. I could not believe
that people lived in such a dangerous place. (In the winter, open entrance
ways and stairs leading up to apartments were an added danger because of the
snow that blew in, leaving behind thick, slick ice. It was not customary for
people to clean the snow and ice from the walks and steps outside or the
entrance ways and stairs inside buildings, and so one had to always tread
carefully. One unfortunate woman near our apartment building had fallen in
front of her entrance way and sustained severe head trauma.) The teenage
girl’s two other sisters answered the door and showed us into the small,
cramped living room. The mother, a graceful and pretty young woman with
missing teeth greeted us warmly. I wondered how she had lost so many teeth
at such a young age. It was obvious everyone was excited. Visitors had come
from afar, another country! "Please, sit down," said the mother softly, her
head slightly lowered. It was in a tone and demeanor reminiscent of a meek
village hars (bride) speaking to her in-laws. We sat on the sofa, a
rug-covered bed. There were three such "sofas" in the room along with a
wardrobe stuffed with bundles of clothes on top of it that stood in a
corner. The high ceiling and walls were darkened with soot. The mother
nodded to the girls and they quickly left, returning with a plate of
chocolate biscuits, most of them crumbled, and a two-liter sized Fanta
bottle filled with a home-made, diluted fruit drink. It was apparent that
they had saved these special treats for guests-for a long time. They offered
the refreshments to us with joy and grace. Sipping our drinks in small
glasses, Murad and I each took a broken biscuit piece explaining that
although the biscuits were delicious we were quite full. The girls giggled,
and they ate and drank with relish. They giggled and ate and drank some
more, while their mother wistfully looked on, at times at them, then at us,
then at the floor, not touching the biscuits or the drink. "My husband is a
banvor (laborer) and works in construction, but still it is difficult
getting by," she had explained with downcast eyes.

That evening, I thought about the family we had visited-the mother, how
happy and carefree her girls were despite their poverty. "We love to sing
and dance," they had said with eyes sparkling, "and we have such fun with
our friends!" The world to them was yet like that described in an early 20th
century traditional English language poem (author unknown) titled "A Bird’s
Thought," and translated into the Armenian by Hovhaness Toumanyan
("Trchoonee Mdatsmoonkuh").

As I pulled back the curtains and looked out of our bedroom window at lights
barely illuminating the night, as I listened to the howling of prowling
street dogs, I thought about our life in this apartment and the poem’s first
stanza:

"I lived first in a little house
And lived there very well;
The world to me was small and round,
And made of pale blue shell."

"Yes abroom ehee mee pokreek dan mech
Arad oo anpooyt,
Ashkharkn eendz hamar glor er anverch,
Geghevuh gabooyd."

At this moment, I feel like that too, I thought, and released the curtains.
The "world" was draped again. From this window, in the coming months I’d
view segments of life as it is lived in this little corner of the world: The
village woman, a widow and mother of three, getting off the bus at the end
of the street every Sunday morning, lugging her bags full of cheese and jars
of fresh matzoon (yoghurt) and milk to sell in the neighborhood; church
bells ringing in the near distance; speeding vehicles honking their horns,
screeching to a halt; the man down the street making a coffin, the sounds of
his sawing and hammering continuing late into the night; the man the people
said "died of joy" in our building on the third day after he and his family
moved in from one of the domeeks in the courtyard they had lived in since
the earthquake, the heart-rending keening that followed echoing throughout
the building and trailing into the street where, surrounded by loved ones,
he lay in an open coffin on a table before he was carried away; the man
across the street selling used bottles in front of his domeek; the two cab
drivers at the end of the street waiting, regardless of the weather, from
early morning until late at night for passengers; the sounds of the doodook
(flute-like musical instrument) stirring the soul as it resounded down the
street; funeral and wedding processions, some elaborate, some modest, some
on foot, some in cars that circled Khaghaghootyan Oghak (Peace Circle)
making their way either to final resting places or new futures; campaign
hoopla and fanfare; holiday celebrations and festivities; children running,
playing, walking to and from school; dogs, cats, rats, chickens skittering
or ambling about; both young and old people pushing, some pulling, carts
full of things to sell, even on holidays; beggars returning home with alms;
the affluent in their boutique finest riding in expensive cars or strutting
up and down the streets with heads held high, oblivious to the crumbling
cracks at their feet; the youth strolling about in the latest fashions from
the shuga. And, the changing seasons.

First it was the gas balloon that went out, then the electricity, and now an
electrical fire in our combined living and dining area. It was early
afternoon, December 31st, and our television was smoking and emitting
noxious fumes. We could not open the windows in the room or the back door in
the kitchen that led out to the balcony because of the weather stripping and
plastic coverings Murad had sealed them with. ".Quick, get me a towel!" he
called out as he ran to unplug the TV. Coughing as he did so, he shouted,
"Run! Wait for me downstairs, and leave the door wide open!" Coughing as I
covered my nose and mouth with one hand, I opened the door with the other
and ran down the stairs to the first floor. I waited anxiously for Murad to
come down. He came a few minutes later, wiping his forehead. "I called Gamo
and he said, ‘., do not worry, my friend will come by later on and change
the wire. And I will bring you another television set, an even better one!’"
Not long after this first electrical fire, a second one occurred, this time
in the kitchen. In both cases, it was the inadequate and dangerous wiring
that was the culprit. I remembered the blackened windows I had seen both in
Gyumri and Yerevan and wondered how many lives have been lost because of
such wiring?

It was evening, and only five more hours remained before the clock struck
twelve heralding in another new year. Despite what happened earlier in the
afternoon, the customary New Year’s Table in our apartment awaited
tomorrow-the day families, friends, acquaintances, and neighbors visited and
wished one another a "Happy, Healthy, and Prosperous New Year!"

"Let’s go for a walk," said Murad. It was snowing as we made our way down
Rishkov Street to the square where the Donatzar (Holiday Tree) stood tall
and bright, and Dzmer Bab (Grandfather Winter) awaited us all. What would
the New Year, 2003, bring?

July 2007

To be continued.
————————————— ————————————————

2. Morgenthau Arrives in Constantinople (A Short Story)
By Kay Mouradian

Constantinople, November, 1913

The train swung around a great curve by the Golden Horn, the inlet adjacent
to Stamboul, the oldest section of Constan-tinople. Henry Morgenthau felt it
slowing down, heard the brakes squealing, and was once again aware of his
wife’s absence. He missed Josie already.

He had not wanted to go to Constantinople alone, remembering the loneliness
he felt that summer he remained in New York while the family vacationed in
Europe. He planned to send for Josie as soon as he was settled, but until
then his eldest daughter, her husband, and their two children would
accompany him. They had boarded the famed Orient Express in Paris three days
ago and as the train came to its final stop, Henry led his family to the car’s
vestibule. Having read stories about this prominent city at the edge of
Asia, he was exhilarated and anxious to plunge into the mysteries of
Constantinople. As they descended onto the wooden platform they were swept
up by throngs of people hurrying to the customs house.

In the midst of the chaos two distinctive men zigzagged through the crowd
rushing toward them. One was tall and slender with a head of heavy brown
hair and wore a finely tailored brown suit. He had the forthright look of an
American. The other man was older, shorter, and portly with striking white
hair, a white mustache, a very correct grey suit and appeared to be an
Ottoman. People brushed by as the younger man hastily reached out and shook
Henry’s hand. "Welcome to Constantinople, Ambassador Morgenthau." Henry
stood out with his well groomed van dyke beard, round rimmed spectacles and
vital brown eyes. "I am Hoffman Phillip, First Secretary of the Embassy.
Please.follow me." Turning quickly he and the white haired man led the
American party past the long lines at customs, through a door marked
private, and approached the presiding Turkish officer in charge of customs.

"This is the American Ambassador," the white haired man said in Turkish to
the official and handed him some papers. Turning toward Henry he said in a
polite and cultured British accent, "May I have your passports?"

Phillip quickly introduced the white haired man. "This is Arshag
Schmavonian, the embassy’s dragoman. He is our legal advisor and
interpreter."

"Welcome, Mr. Ambassador," Schmavonian said as he noted the new ambassador
as well-refined and wearing his fifty-seven years well. He took the
passports, handed them to the Turkish official who quickly stamped them with
a noisy flair and then returned the passports to the Ambassador. Motioning
for two men in the customs area he again turned to the Ambassador and said,
"The embassy staffers will see to your luggage. Please give me your claim
checks."

At once several Turkish workers dropped whatever they were doing, went
scurrying in search of the bags, and within minutes the luggage was loaded
into one of the embassy’s carriages. Noticing the amazed look on Morgenthau’s
face, Schmavonian said, "Ambassadors are privileged persons in our country
and are treated as such. " He leaned forward, almost bowing to the new
Ambassador, and he and Phillip led the new arrivals out of the customs
house.

Immediately Morgenthau saw the three fancy carriages with impressive mosaic
seals of the United States on their doors. Schmovanian motioned for a
coachman to open the door for Henry’s daughter and her family. As soon as
they were comfortable in the black leather lined coach, he went to the lead
carriage where Ambassador Morgenthau and Phillip were waiting. Piles of
luggage filled the third coach.

"How did you recognize me?" Henry asked as the carriages started to move.

"The State Department informed me you would be accompanied by your daughter
and her family," Phillip answered. "Americans tend to stand out in the
Orient and there were no other American children in the station." Phillip
was well prepared for the new and very wealthy ambassador. He had been told
that Henry had been a major player in Woodrow Wilson’s election. "I was
informed your wife will arrive at a later date?" It was more of a question
than a statement.

"Yes. I want to be sure the climate in Constantinople is agreeable to her
constitution. She is not always strong." What he did not tell Phillip,
however, was that his wife had a strong and willful mind and was not keen on
living in Turkey.

They rode through the city weaving in and out of the crammed and jammed
streets. Henry eagerly gave his attention to the domes and minarets of the
magnificent mosques. Everywhere were Turks, Albanians, Armenians, Serbs,
Greeks, Montenegrans, Egyptians, Syrians, Bulgarians, and Kurds, some of
whom were dressed in their national costumes. Most of the men wore the
traditional red fez and the Turkish women were heavily veiled.

The stately horses pranced through the cobblestone streets, their clip clop
sounds ringing with an even rhythm. Henry heard copper beaters noisily
hammering out their artifacts, watched men molding and forming horseshoes by
hand, and observed cobblers cutting and sewing leather boots in their
outdoor shops.

Constantinople was a crowded city. Men on horseback, fancy carriages, humble
carts, oxen, and donkeys were everywhere. A car careened by them, dodging
the animals and people. Henry enjoyed the passing scenes and some of the
smells. The whiffs of herbs, coffee, tea and perfume were so pleasant. They
passed an area with a pretty bad stench.

"You’ll get used to the smells," Phillip laughed. "When Lord Byron was here,
he made a census of stinks and counted seventy-five separate ones! But the
city is cleaner these days, particularly since dogs are not allowed to roam
as they once did."

Henry vaguely remembered having read an article about how Turks solved their
long-standing problem of roaming dog packs in Constantinople. Five thousand
stray dogs were shipped to a deserted island in the Sea of Marmara where in
due course they starved to death.

They were approaching the Galata Bridge. Crowded with people, beasts of
burden and every kind of vehicle imaginable, the popular bridge spanned the
Golden Horn, a six mile inlet which formed a harbor at the juncture of the
Bosporus and the Sea of Marmara. Henry remembered seeing pictures of a
charming wooden bridge that didn’t look like this one. "Is this pontoon
bridge new?"

"Yes, it replaced a rickety old bridge that had passed its prime," Phillip
responded. "German engineers completed this one last year."

Henry observed the German efficiency and smiled. Then he noticed the
imposing tower on the other side of the Golden Horn. "And the tower?"

"It’s quite ancient and was originally built to observe ships entering the
harbor, and now it is used to survey the city to catch outbreaks of fires,"
Phillip said. "Devastating fires have been the curse of Constantinople. The
city has been rebuilt more than thirty times since it was the Emperor
Constantine’s capital."

"It is the landmark of Pera-Galata, the European section of Constantinople,"
Schmovanian added. "Pera-Galata is where the embassies, private clubs, fine
restaurants and hotels are located and where important financial dealing
occurs."

Henry liked the ring of this man’s crisp British English. The new ambassador
also felt a certain chagrin that the most elementary facts about this place
had been unavailable despite his best efforts to equip himself beforehand.
It was apparent that the State Department was woefully ignorant of even the
most basic intelligence about this place.

After crossing the bridge, the carriages turned left and arrived at the
American Embassy almost immediately. The handsome, marble, three-story
structure was surrounded by a high wall. It was once a mansion for the
mistress of a wealthy Ottoman and had recently been purchased by the United
States to house their first formal embassy in the Ottoman Empire, a great
contrast to the shabby building the former American Legation had shared with
a local dentist.

As they entered the compound, Henry was delighted to see gardens surrounding
the main building, and after climbing the stairs onto the porch where the
view of the Golden Horn and Stamboul was spectacular, Henry put an arm
around his daughter and said, "How marvelous."

It was a dramatic setting. Ferries, steamers, and boats of all sizes and
shapes were steaming through the busy bay. Henry looked and listened. He
heard a whistle, a blast of a horn, and then a feeble toot from a small
ferry. Over the bay toward Stamboul, a huge mosque with a series of half
domes and a magnificent grand dome held a commanding presence. He felt
strange and wonderful at the same time.

He felt as if he were home.
——————————————– ————————————————–

3. Wisdom from the Eye of the Storm
‘The Struggle for Kirkuk’ Explains Iraq as Only an Armenian Can
By Andy Turpin

WATERTOWN, Mass. (A.W.)- They say that if you can see a tidal wave coming at
you on the horizon, you’re already dead. That watery bit of sage may seem
out of place when it comes to discussing a memoir of life in Iraq, but it
seems somehow fitting for Dr. Henry D. Astarjian’s The Struggle for Kirkuk.

Hindsight in foreign policy is 20/20, and Astarjian’s insights into how the
Iraqi quagmire came to fruition are about as hawkeyed as any author can get.

Kirkuk chronicles Astarjian’s life in the city of the same name, from his
childhood in the 1930’s to his immigration to the United States in the early
1960s. It details in both artful anthropological prose and concise analysis
everything from his own community politics to the sordid and backbiting
Iraqi national devolution that led to his torture and imprisonment in the
aftermath of the 1958 military coup.

Far from biased, Astarjian points out at every juncture the idiosyncrasies
of loyalty and Realpolitik that hounds him still as an American citizen, an
ethnic Armenian, and an Anglophile who knew then that British actions were
responsible for even the chain of events that led to his own dungeon hell.

He remembers many in every political camp who showed him kindness; yet no
group leaves Iraq’s borders or Astarjian’s pages with clean hands, although
the British receive more rebuke than others. He recalls, "For Iraqis,
Britain was the master of deception; ‘If two fish fight in the sea, be sure
it is instigated by the British,’ was a common saying in Iraq."

Even Armenians do not escape his cavalcade of accountability for
opportunistic actions-not in the case of Iraq but regarding the genocide and
WWII.

He writes, " Victoria [the author’s Tashnag aunt who survived the genocide]
also despised organized church, priests, and all God’s deputies on earth.
She used to tell me stories about how some deceptive clergy of the time
collaborated with the Ottoman authorities and turned in Armenian Fedayees
thinking that by doing so they might protect the church form the evil eye of
the Muslim Turk. She used to tell me stories about the Fedayees, even before
the ARF had ‘cleansed’ the communities from these ‘Madnitch Houtahs’
(Judases)."

Speaking of the sometimes varied and conflicting alliances Armenians forged
with nations as safety valves in their quest to restore republicanism to
Western and Eastern Armenia, Astarjian recounts of the WWII period: "General
Tro, an Armenian military commander, had organized an Armenian battalion to
fight on Hitler’s side in the Caucasus. Communists and Leftists blamed him
for waging a war against the fatherland, yet other Armenians were
supportive. ‘We support the Allies all right, but how about if they lose,
where will we be then? At least with Tro we will have some credit with
Hitler."

Astarjian is particularly gracious in his descriptions of his Arab neighbors
and hosts in those chapters that provide background to the Armenian
community in Iraq. He writes: "Shereef Hussein admired Armenians who had
planted a bomb to assassinate the Red Sultan in 1905. He sympathized with
the Armenian cause, and considered them comrades in arms: On the eve of the
Genocide and massive deportation of Armenians, he issued a directive to all
Arabs asking them to help the Armenian refugees, settle them on their land,
and treat them kindly, ‘as if they were one of your own.’ That signed
document still hangs in the rectory of the Armenian Church in Baghdad."

Armenians have always been a much-loved part of the Islamic mosaic, and such
passages are valid for any Armenian-American reader that may be particularly
flag waving or anti-Arab without thought to the real motivations behind the
current war.

Astarjian also notes the trends that have always inflicted the region where
he grew up. "Iraq has never had democracy in its glorious past," he writes.
"Yes, millennia ago Babylonian Hammurabi’s Codes governed society, but that
never provided for plurality."

The conflict between the moral cost in human life and the financial cost in
government ledgers is as much a running theme of Kirkuk as it is in everyday
Iraqi life.

He writes about the Soviet Union’s role in the Cold War, as well, saying its
"backing of the Kurds was not motivated by admiration for the Kurds, rather
it was an attempt to control the ‘Two Liquids,’ which they had in abundance:
Oil and Water. Oil in Kirkuk and Mosul, and the waters of the Tigris and the
Euphrates in Turkish Kurdistan."

As for the capitalist perspective, personified by the British ambassador who
came to visit after Abd al-Karim Qasim took power in Iraq in 1958, it was
said that "the Ambassador’s first question was about union with [the
president of Egypt] Nasser. The Ambassador said, ‘Britain objects to Iraq’s
union with the United Arab Republic, and if Nasser’s hands reach the oil
wells, Britain will have a different posture. The British forces are in
Jordan and the American forces are in Lebanon. Oil must flow."

Perhaps the hardest brunts to bear from the The Struggle for Kirkuk are the
bookends, which are dedicated to the follies the U.S. continues to make in
Iraq, and to the false battle cries for freedom from a nation that for years
was an overt backer of authoritarianism and repression-first via British
economic policies, then under Saddam.

Astarjian harkens back to a time before the rise of U.S. hegemony and
egg-faced rhetoric. "The world loved America for its ideals: freedom,
justice, fairness, charity, and lawfulness. She was the antithesis of
colonial Europe who had sucked the blood of its colonies. The world knew the
difference, and that’s why they loved America. America was good, America was
great."
———————————— ————————————————– —

4. SUMMIT-BOUND MY HEART

Heart of mine-you cannot swim without me-
Love is vast as seas-but the sea is not love
It grabs and moves
to seven distant seashores-
Do not be enticed
My heart – do not leave

Heart of mine-you cannot shine without me-
Love is sun-the sun is not love
It sears – it burns
it pours seven-hued flames on you-
Do not be tempted
My heart-do not burn

Heart of mine-you cannot shudder without me
Love is a shiver-shiver is not love
It freezes
It covers you with seven layers of snow-
Do not be entranced
My heart-do not freeze

Heart of mine-with or without me
It is not proper to crawl in the dust-
My love is a radiant mountain summit-
Hear the mountain-calling-
it sings a seven-string song along
the sad endings of all loves-
Do not despair
My love-as a pair
Let us rise to the summit

By Zahrad

Translated by Tatul Sonentz

From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress