I belong nowhere. But maybe some of my ashes belong here.
Our roots are definitely here. Of that there is no doubt. Whether we like it or not.
So, when my turn comes to turn to dust, I'd rather nurture those roots with what would be left of me.
If I am to eventually feed a tree, I'd rather feed a tree here. With some of my ashes. Other ashes should go to other places. You will have to read my will to find out where. The chances of that happening is almost as good as you winning a lottery.
I'd go for the lottery if I were you.
I wanted to see my father's Memento Mori. I wanted to see how it is being cared for in the Tcharents Institute of Literature and the Arts.
My father is known more by his literary pseudonym, Armen Tarian. His real name is Alphonse Attarian. He is the only Armenian I know whose name is Alphonse. If you know of another one, let me know. I suspect that there are some Armenians in Argentina who are called Alonso or something like that, but that doesn't count.
The Tcharents Institute is named after the great poet Yeghishe Tcharents, who was killed by the Stalinists in 1937. The Ottoman government murdered most Western Armenian intellectuals in the 1915 Genocide of Armenians. Stalin murdered most Eastern Armenian intellectuals in purges in 1936-37. We have never recovered since.
I have not slept. I could not sleep. Just blogged some more until it was mid morning.
I followed her directions, looking for a park. I saw some policemen repairing their vehicle. A lot of old rust-boxes on wheels. Some dogs sleeping under parked cars which looked like they have been parked there for over a decade.
There are too many stray dogs here. Who feeds them?
I kept looking for a park as a landmark until I realized I was actually in it.
It was probably a park with lined trees, trimmed grass, and fountains. It was probably so over twenty years ago. Now, it is rampant with weeds, even poison ivy, which were growing between all the tufa (tufa is the wonderful volcanic stone which is used to cover most of the facades of the amazing Armenian structures) and concrete slabs. Whatever trees were left were stunted from lack of water. The weeds were growing even in the fountains. The only indication that there were fountains was some of the rusty piping left behind.
It is nice to see that people still imagine the places as they were, not as they are. At least it helps to think about them that way, in case one day the time comes to restore things to their former glory. My parents and grandparents used to say that Yerevan is the place of thousands of water fountains, both decorative and for drinking and that you could never go thirsty in Yerevan. I am yet to see any single such water fountain.
They first visited Armenia in the early sixties. Over 45 years ago. The Soviet Union was at the top of its glory. It had started and actually won the space race. It was supporting liberation movements from colonialism around the world. It had emerged as a challenging superpower and ideology to Western capitalist consumerism. Plus, it was starting to dust off the Stalinist darkness from its people, who were opening up to the rest of the world. Judging from external appearances, it was not a bad place to be. A worker's paradise.
No one seemed to remember how brutally the Hungarian uprising was crushed in 1956, and no one foresaw the looming destruction of the Czechoslovakian human-oriented socialism in 1968. Most chose to be blind.
My father chose not to be blind. He loved the Armenia he saw then, but he could not take the stifling of the creative mind. He was bitter about the regime since 1956 and turned angry in 1968. He never reconciled his conscience with that ideology after that. In the end, in 1990, I think he died heart-broken of what his country had become.
Just like my father, the Soviet Union was on its deathbed then. There was death and destruction in an earthquake-ravaged Soviet Armenia. There was blood, rape and murder of Armenians in Sumgait, Baku and Artsakh. War for our lands was imminent. There was war in Beirut where my parents were living.
He just wanted out. He couldn't take it any more.
Armenia was not born then. It was born in 1991.
My son Armen, his first grandson was not born then. He also was born in 1991. he is older than Armenia by 3 months. He will always be older than Armenia by three months.
My father, the writer, did not see the nascent Armenia. My father, the writer, did not see his grandson Armen.
Hope for the best my maternal grandmother said. My father did. Maybe he just was not patient enough. And he went poof.
He also loved Tcharents. I love Tcharents. My wife Datevig loves Tcharents. I think my son Armen would love Tcharents, if he knew enough of his work and his life. I should make it a point to let him discover Tcharents when I get back.
My son Armen loves Armenia. He says so a lot these days. He never lies.
In a sense, it was the same system that killed Tcharents and caused the deadly grief of my father.
And now, 17 years later, I am roaming the streets of Yerevan, searching for a place named after Tcharents; a place where my father's last intellectual resting place is, and will continue to be long after I and his descendants are gone. Memento Mori.
I, my sister Hourig, and my children are my parents' Memento Vivi.
There are many many people in Armenia who are also my parents' Memento Vivi. They are their friends. I will be meeting some of them.
Living is one long sequence of creating Memento Vivi. You could say it is the purpose of life.
Once they go poof, most people will have a single Memento Mori. Usually called a tombstone.
The funny thing is, the tombstone can only be a Memento Mori as long as someone is visiting it. I have never visited my father's tombstone in Beirut. I had come from Canada to see him one last time, and left just a couple of days before he died.
I want to do it now and in a better way. It is a long overdue visit.
Some people never even have a Memento Mori. They are called unknown soldiers who get killed in war. Sometimes they get a fake Memento Mori. It is usually called the Monument to the Unknown Soldier or something ridiculous like that. Usually people who masquerade as leaders of their country put flowers there during official ceremonies.
Wars are immoral, because they cause parents to bury their children. The natural order of things is the other way round.
We have to bury our parents. It is the most direct way to realize and face our own mortality. It is the only way to know that it is time to move on. It is the only way to grow up.
Wars are immoral because they never allow the soldiers to grow up.
All soldiers are child soldiers.
The people who masquerade as leaders of their country have never been in any wars. They only pretend to know what it is like. If they did know what it is like they would never ever send the children of their countrymen to go poof in war.
I think they do it because they like putting flowers on monuments. They should just plant flowers instead. They would be neither insulting nor ridiculous that way. Planting flowers or anything for that matter is always better than laying wreaths for the dead.
Others who never get a Memento Mori are called victims of genocide. There is one gigantic Memento Mori for them here. It is called Dzidzernagapert. I will be going there soon.
I think that the Memento Vivi of my ancestors who were the victims of genocide is Armenia itself. I have come here to find out if that is true.
There are a few whose Memento Mori are also simultaneously their Memento Vivi. They are called artists, writers, painters, sculptors, musicians, composers. Take your pick.
I am of course speaking about their work.
My father was one of them. I'd like to be one of them. I am trying.
I meander back through the streets and find the door I am looking for. It is on Aram street, right at the back of the National Gallery and Museum. The entrance is blocked by a large and massive solid wood door, intricately carved.
One other strange thing here are exactly these solid wood massive doors. All office entrances have one, and so do many homes. My hotel room door is one. My hotel closet doors are like that and you need to be a body-builder to open them. The same goes for my hotel bathroom door. If you knock on these doors, you could really break your knuckles. I have no clue why this is so. It really baffles me.
Maybe they were designed to keep the voices in from snooping ears in the old days (but why on my closets?). Maybe it was designed to muffle the cries of pain. I can imagine scenarios. None of them are pleasant.
The door is not locked. I go in.
I step into the 1920s. High ceilings, old plaster. Paint coming off the walls. Chipped and worn stairways that have taken on a shine of almost a century of use. Considering its physical state, the place is relatively clean. There is a hallway that leads to the National Museum courtyard. There are two doors on my right and one on my left. The stairways lead upwards. A small sign suggests that there are exhibition galleries upstairs.
There is a window next to one of the doors on my right. I peer in. An older man, perhaps a janitor lifts up a weary and surprised head. I don't think anyone walks in here who is not a member ofthe staff. At least not anyone who would ask him a question.
"Baron Pakhchinianin em pndroum" , I say. (I am looking for Mr. Pakhchinian).
Henrik Pakhchinian, is the director of the archives. "A most noble soul", my sister Hourig calls him.
"Na fonderoum glini", says the man (he must be in the area of the fonds). I have no clue what that means. Even if I did, there is no sign that tells me where the fonds might be.
In Western Armenian, one of the two main branches of my mother tongue, and the one we have used for generations in my home, the word fond could refer to funds or foundations. For example, when I was a student at the American University of Beirut, I was a recepient of a scholarship from the Calouste Gulbenkian Fond as we would be calling it, meaning that foundation. The word connotes a large sum of funds left inside a foundation to serve a specific, usually benevolent purpose.
Calouste Gulbenkian was one of the world's richest men in the early decades of the previous century. He was an oil middleman. A masterful negotiator who worked on megacontracts. He took a percentage of the deal as his reward.
He owned 5% of the revenues of British Petroleum from the Iraqi oilfields. They called him Mr. 5%. He always knew when and how to create win-win solutions. So what if he took a cut. He was a "most noble soul".
When he died, he left all his wealth as well as his amazing museum housing his unique historical and art collection to a foundation. He had gone poof so he didn't need any of it. His foundation is his Memento Mori and Memento Vivi. You should go to Lisbon, Portugal to see that museum. I should go to Lisbon, Portugal to see that museum. My people are all over the world.
A century after Calouste Gulbenkian, the world's most powerful country has been making the people of Iraq and its own soldiers go poof in exchange for 100% of the wealth of Iraqi oilfields.
Everyone wants to be Mr. 100%. There can only be one Mr. 100%. Everybody else would be Mr. 0%.
A century after Calouste Gulbenkian, we find ourselves committing collective suicide because we use too much oil. Because we need too much oil.
We kill each other for it. And then we kill ourselves and the planet with it.
Kind of like drug addicts who are fighting over their next fix.
The world is in desperate need of a Calouste Gulbenkian. But I bet that he would not want to get involved. There is no possibility to create win-win scenarios.
Calouste Gulbenkian would walk away. Too many 0%s do not a happy world make.
But here in Armenia, where the spoken language is Eastern Armenian, and specifically in this institute, the word fond obviously has another meaning. I look baffled.
The man decides to accompany me. He opens several doors as I follow him. He finally shows me an office where a middle aged woman is sitting behind a desk. Next to her on a chair is a slightly older man. Probably in his late sixties. But you cannot tell. In Armenia, all men look older than their age.
"Paron Pakhchinian?", I ask (Mr. Bakhchinian?)
"Yes em" answers the man and stands up to shake my hand (It's me).
I introduce myself. I describe why I am there. He asks me questions about my mother, my sister and my family. Satisfied that he has confirmed my identity, the smile on his face broadens. He then introduces me to the lady in whose office we are sitting. She is Ophelia Outoumian. Another "noble soul" I would call her.
I now realize what fond means. It actually means the archival material itself which they are in charge of keeping. Therefore my father's archives would be the Armen Tarian fond. Considering that each of these archival materials is an actual national treasure which has been left in the custody of the government of the Republic of Armenia, I am not surprised that they are referred to as such.
Ms. Ophelia goes to fetch the catalog of my father's archive as well as the first box as a sample. She returns in a few moments.
I examine the catalog. In a very neat handwriting so characteristic of Soviet times, I read the contents of my father's archive. There is a lot that is there. His manuscripts. Rare letters. Speeches, lectures and essays. His pen. His glasses. His house robe. My mother did a good job.
All who went to school in Soviet Armenia from the early days and well into the seventies, have the same handwriting. The same flowing cursive script that is the product of years of controlled handwriting courses that were taught during that period. If you did not see a signature nor had an expert eye, you could not distinguish one writer from the other.
The only people to whom the above did not apply were authors. Specially those who resented any intellectual shackles. You could see their rebelliousness in their handwriting.
Tcharents himself was one of those.
When I was a child, starting in kindergarten, I took handwriting classes in Armenian, Arabic and English. In three totally different scripts. I was not special. Everyone took them. These days no one takes any handwriting classes. It is not necessary in the world of word processing.
My handwriting now is different from what I was taught. It is clear and unique to me. When I scribble, which is very often, it actually becomes illegible except to me. My handwriting is my own cipher. I send secret messages to myself when I write.
All writers are engaged in a monologue despite themselves. All writing is a message in a bottle.
You are hoping for the best. But chances are that no one will read it. Especially if you write in Armenian.
One lost art today is the art of Armenian calligraphy. I practice that art, usually on cards of various special occasions, and anybody who sees me do it is totally amazed.
I partly owe this special talent to my handwriting classes. I partly owe it to the genes that I inherited from my parents. There is also a part of me that wants to resurrect an ancient tradition of scripting manuscripts. We all need to experience resurrection.
Life is about resurrection. Otherwise it is only about slow death, which starts the second we are born.
That is why all things sacred, all myths and legends, all rituals are ultimately about death and resurrection. When a child is born, it resurrects the parents' genes.
Ms. Ophelia has brought one box containing the actual archives as a sample. I examine its contents. All is neatly arranged and is as the catalog suggests.
I continue my talk with Henrik (Armenian for Henry) and Ophelia. Armenians must have been fascinated with Shakespeare to name their children after characters in his plays. Either that or they were fascinated with the Vahram Papazian performances of Shakespeare.Vahram Papazian was one of the greatest Armenian stage actors and directors. His archive also resides in the Tcharents Insitute of Arts and Literature. In fact, it is in the same room. My father is in great company. More Memento Mori.
Henrik has to leave for an important meeting. I am left alone with Ms. Ophelia. I remark to her that while I understand that the state has truly meager means, but that the national literary archives house immense treasures and must have better facilities. She shakes her head and answers that now the times are much better than they were in the early nineties. I remark that there does not seem to be any fire protection equipment and that many people smoke in the building which is very old and could go up in flames, destroying all of our cultural heritage with it. Ms. Ophelia apologizes and says how much the staff actually love their job and are very careful in the handling of the national treasures. She adds that they are all cognizant of these facts, but have no influence on matters. She is almost teary eyed. I regret my persistence. I can see how genuinely she loves her job and cares for what has been given them to guard. It is not her fault.
I divert the talk to my uncle's archives. My uncle, Karnig Attarian, was a poet and political figure in Lebanon. He died in 1986. He was younger than my father. The high school no. 133 in the region of Nork in Yerevan is named after him. I shall visit it tomorrow. Ophelia tells me that my uncle's archives have not yet been donated to the institute and that something needs to be done about it. I know. My uncle died heir less and only his widow remains in Beirut. I promise Ophelia that I will communicate with my family and intervene in this matter. She smiles a sad caring smile.
Sad caring smiles are always genuine.
I ask to see the archive room itself. She hesitates. She then guides me to a recently renovated reading room where researchers come to examine the archives. She tells me that this room was recently renovated by a grant from the Gulbenkian foundation. I look around and I see a couple of readers.
As we leave the room, I plead with her to take me to the real archive room. I promise her that my intentions are very honorable. That I am ready to face the worst and that I am one who cares equally about what happens to this place. I tell her that she should consider me a member of this "family" with a right to know. Especially since this is the last resting place of my father's mind.
She nods. She understands. She agrees. She smiles again, a sad caring smile. Her eyes are teary again.
And then we enter a place that literally smells of history. The archive room.
There are neatly arranged boxes everywhere on typical library style metal shelving. There are about about 6-7 isles. The boxes are labelled and arranged historically, thematically, alphabetically. The vault of the minds.
She points out some known names. Sayat Nova, Khatchatour Apovian, Ghazaros Aghayan, Hovhannes Toumanian, Shirvanzadeh, Mouratsan, Avedik Issahakyan, Yeghishe Tcharents, then of the Diaspora, Komitas, Roupen Sevag, Siamanto, Arshag Tchobanian. We then walk to a second level and I am finally shown the place where my father's mind rests, all five boxes of him.
I have seen the treasures. Yet I cannot go away in peace.
The archive room is not in good health. Like the country itself. There is a new humidity control system but that is about it. The structure is ancient. Falling apart. There are traces of water damage and fungus on the walls. The shelving, while sturdy, is rusty at places. The second level staircase is a safety hazard. So is the second level floor, it contains wide openings between the floor panels that could cause a fall.
I contemplate the reality and how I want to imagine it to be. There is a vast difference.
"Shenorhagal em ays angeghdzoutyan hamar", I say to Ophelia (Thank you for this honesty).
She nods and then we walk out. She then leads me upstairs to the galleries. And soon I step into a place where even greater treasures are exposed. I look and cannot even stop to catch my breath. Komitas' piano. Toumanian's glasses, Siamanto's pen, Tcharents's buried and damaged manuscripts in an urn (they were buried to hide them from the Stalin's henchmen, and were irreperably damaged over decades, before they were dug out). All neatly arranged in various halls, chronologically and thematically. Labelled, explained.
"We are the continuation of Madenataran you know", says Ophelia. She is referring to the world famous scriptorium of ancient manuscripts which is one of the most unique repositories of human intellectual achievement on this planet. I shall be visiting it soon.
I realize now what she was saying. She wanted the world to know that what she and Henrik's team were guarding was equally important. It was indeed the uninterrupted heritage of the mind of Armenians that was being safeguarded for the future.
She felt like the neglected child. She wanted me to be the spokesperson of the place.
There, I have done it. Now you know.
To whom it may concern. And it should concern you, and you and you and you as well.
We should be grateful for the guardians.
We should all be guardians. Otherwise there will be no more need for them soon.
It is now past midnight. I decide to take a stroll in Republic Square. I need to examine Tamanian's creation more closely.
I look at her and then continue walking. As she recedes in my lateral vision, it seems that she is already speaking with someone else. He might actually take her up on her "offer".
No comments:
Post a Comment