Tuesday, Jun. 09, 2009
Keeping Armenia Alive in the Capital of Sudan
By Sudan

"If Armenians are to be great then they have to pray," says Father
Gabriel Sargsyan. "As long as there is one Armenian left, there will
be a church."
Perhaps, but only a handful of the 50 or so Armenians left in Khartoum
have turned up for mass – held in the evening, because Sunday is a
working day in the capital of predominantly Muslim Sudan. After the
service, the small group sits on the porch of the St. Gregory Armenian
Church, sipping sugary coffee and remembering the days when the pews
used to be full.
Despite the Khartoum government having ‘Islamized’ the north of the
country through the imposition of Shari’a law, there is no sense of
religious persecution here at St. Gregory’s. Leaders of the Armenian
and the neighboring Ethiopian Orthodox churches say they feel safe in
Khartoum, and that the persecution of Catholics and Protestants from
southern Sudan is a product of the country’s north-south power
struggle – the small Orthodox Christian communities pose no threat to
the predominantly Muslim government. "We respect the law of the land
and stay out of trouble," says Eyasu Tadele, an official of Khartoum’s
Ethiopian Orthodox Church. (See pictures of Darfur.)
The Ethiopian Church, in fact, fares somewhat better than its Armenian
neighbor, attracting a flood of worshippers every Sunday. That may be
a product of shifting patterns of immigration. Many Armenians came to
Sudan as refugees from the mass murder in Turkey that began in 1915,
while a second wave of immigrants arrived in the 1950s, seeking
opportunities in the newly independent country. St. Gregory’s opened
its doors in 1957, and at its peak, the congregation was 2,000
strong. But many have since left in search of opportunity in Europe
and North America, while the Ethiopian expatriate community in Sudan
has steadily grown. "First they were coming because of the political
crisis and now because of economic reasons," says Tadele.
As much as he appreciates the company of his Christian neighbors,
Father Gabriel is concerned that several Armenians have married
Ethiopian Christians and Copts, producing children who are taught
Arabic or Amharic rather than Armenian. "When one person stops
speaking Armenian, our Diaspora is lost," he says. That’s why he’s
working hard to resuscitate the old church school to teach the
Armenian language, although with wealthier members of the community
having emigrated, he struggles to find the necessary funds. More
families are contemplating leaving for fear of a new season of
instability as fallout from the international arrest warrant accusing
President Omar al-Bashir of war crimes in Darfur. Only a few children
remain at the school, but Father Gabriel would be happy to teach even
just one student. "Armenia lives through our language," he says.
One Sudanese Armenian who claims he will never leave is Jeriar Homer
Charles Bozadjian, whose family history in Sudan dates back a hundred
years. Bozadjian runs a restaurant called Big Bite in Khartoum. "I
have never seen Armenia," he says. "Sudan is my home."
Despite the imposition of Shari’a law, "This is not like Saudi
Arabia," says Wafaa Babikier, who studies Management at Ahfad
University for Women in Omdurman city. "Girls have the freedom to do
everything." Not everyone answers the call to prayer; women drive cars
and attend co-ed universities; and they outnumber men in many offices
and educational institutions. Others, like Alfred Taban, editor of the
Khartoum Monitor, demur, warning that behind the facade of tolerance
is a more hardcore Islamist outlook. "A foreigner would not notice,"
he says. Taban claims to have been whipped for drinking alcohol in a
traditional toast at the birth of a relative’s son.
But Bozadjian aggressively defends his homeland’s plurality. "Sudan is
a unique country," he says. "Muslims helped to build this church." But
others note that many Armenians left Sudan after their properties were
confiscated under the radical regime of President Jaafar Nimeiri
during the 1970s. Elizabeth Jinjinian, a 70-year-old businesswoman,
recalls how the land of the Armenian club was taken away when the
community began to shrink, "We used to have many balls, picnics and
parties."
Often tempted to join her sons in London or New York, Jinjinian has
stayed on to run her small cosmetics business, which has survived
years of war and sanctions. "Exports and imports dried up," she
says. "We had to get goods into the country in suitcases."
Despite the resilience of many of the community’s veterans, the
efforts of Father Gabriel to sustain his culture in this corner of the
Armenian Diaspora face mounting odds. Indeed, the priest himself is
slated to leave soon, because the community no longer has the funds to
support him. He hopes someone in the community will step forward to
run his school. "If you have a school, your nation is going on," he
says.
The collective memory of the horrors of 1915 may be the most powerful
factor in sustaining the community’s identity. On the dusty church
verandah, Jinjinian animatedly narrates the tale of her mother’s
escape from Turkey after her grandparents were killed. "She was at the
dressmakers so she was saved." Her tale is well known to the
congregants, but everyone listens respectfully as a warm breeze ushers
in another hot summer.

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