At the Church of Holy Cross on Aghtamar Island

THE CALL OF THE LAND

By Mary Terzian

It is difficult for a diaspora Armenian to respond to “Where do you come from?” in one short sentence. We are made of a collage of parts, some of which we have to look for across the world in order to complete our fragmented identity. We travel to one country to look for our parents’ birthplaces and to another country to visit their graves, while living in neither. We go back to cities long forgotten or transformed, to villages long abandoned or ruined, to a country that gives the illusion of homeland but isn’t and to another that is ours and yet foreign.

That is why we are in Istanbul, early May 2004, to discover our roots in Historic Armenia and Cilicia, under the expert leadership of Armen Aroyan of the Armenian Heritage Society. All eighteen Armenian-American members of our group have a vested interest in certain areas that we will visit in turn. We are not alone. A host of ghosts are traveling with us – the souls of our ancestors. This is an atypical trip with an inverse perspective, for example looking eastward to Ararat, treading on familiar soil in a foreign land, or holding a visa to visit our memory.

We are divided into two groups with an overlapping itinerary. Group A – a nest of lifetime friends – is in the Interior already. Ten of us in Group B savor the local color in Istanbul on arrival. We hop over to the famous “covered markets” to get a feel of the shopping scene. In the evening our group leader, Aghavni Tashjian, takes us to a local restaurant, to get a taste of what is to come. The menu is as familiar as Mama’s cooking – Jajik, Tavuk Geoksi, Hunkyar Beyendi, etc. In fact, for those of us who originate from the Middle East, it feels like a recall of old times.

The next day we walk over to Essayan school close to our hotel, then venture to the Getronagan, which appears rather small for all the giants in literature that it produced. We continue to the recently renovated elaborate Patriarchate with a manicured yard, and St Mary’s Church right across from it. After a glimpse of Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque we visit the famous Surp Prgich hospital, an extensive facility where the sick and aged are treated with loving care.

In the evening our flight to Diyarbakir, in the heart of Turkey, lands in pouring rain. We manage to recover our valises from the baggage claim area, amid the disorderly but civil crowd, and make it to the hotel safely. Our instructions are 7-8-9 meaning wake-up call, breakfast and departure respectively. From then on we stick to this pattern.

As indicated, we are ready in the lobby at the appointed hour, after breakfast. We walk over through narrow streets, vegetable laden carts, and small shops, to the remains of St. Giragos church, a large enclave open to the sky. The ceiling caved in a few years ago. The debris on the ground has recently been removed. The rectangular church encases seven altars facing the entrance, making it unusually wide for an Armenian church. There is no visible division between the narthex and the nave. Nature has not been able to erase the traces of smoke on the bare walls. Outlines of some altar paintings are traceable underneath water stains. Prayers under the glistening archways awash with bright rays seem to reach the sun god instead of the Lord.

“Grandpa did remember being taken to a church when he was five years old,” says Dr. Shake Toukmanian, of Toronto. “He also mentioned the fire.” Could this be the one? If not, it is only the first of many burnt churches we will explore, attesting to the once thriving life of a community.

After some group pictures, we move across the yard to the chapel nearby. It is as large as a spacious living room. Altar vestments, enveloped in dust, hang by the wall. Two pairs of equally old altar slippers, embroidery unraveling, sit neatly on the floor beneath them, like wilted flowers after festivities. The place calls for prayers, to chase the musty smell. In situations like these Armen is in his element as choirmaster, Jim Yogurtian serves as deacon, Onnik Dinkjian and Vart Rose Avakian alternate as soloists. The rest of the group follows the lead. As the trip unfolds, emotional moments like these leave a trail of indelible impressions behind.

We pack our valises into the van to get on the road. We have a long day ahead. We travel through green mountains and valleys. At a suitable spot, by the roadside, in plain view of the Maratuk mountain in the Sasun region, we spread out on the rocks and weeds, to consume our spartan meal in a hurry and resume our wandering life. The hours slip by but the mood in the van is upbeat. Towards twilight we pass through Bitlis, a city with a unique architecture of dark stones. We make it to dinner at a lakeside hotel on the outskirts of Van, weary and hungry.

The next day’s breakfast, in full view of lake Van with Aghtamar Island in the distance, seems like a page from a romantic novel. The deep blue body of water sits in the lap of a snow-capped mountain range, the Sipan peak standing high in the sky. Fluffy clouds kiss the mountaintops where the snow has started to melt, creating zebra carvings on their crests. The ripples by the glassy surface’s edge lap the pebbles in the hotel yard. A few brown ducks wade in the mellow morning sun.

An unforgettable “Kodak” moment occurs in Ankugh, named after Dork-Ankegh of Armenian mythology, where Hachig Kazarian hits homeland. He stands on the soil that indirectly gave him life, so intimate yet so foreign. Pulling information from the elderly as to which building was his father’s house is an effort in futility. We stop our vans on a small plateau with an eagle-eye view of the area. Frustrated, overwhelmed, Hachig pulls out his clarinet, sits on a stone and expresses himself the way he knows best - playing music. He blows his clarinet with all his soul and might, elated by the scenery and the euphoria of being “home,” bringing to life Vanetzi tunes he learned as a young man.

As “Makruhi Jan” and “Im Vorteen Sokhag” resonate loud and clear in the land where they belong, the normal routine of daily life stops. Birds throng closer overhead, women washing their carpets in the creek stop cold and watch us keenly, and children from the village surround our vans. A few ladies from our group line-dance the “shurchbar.” A car carrying a bridal party honks. Hachig plays “Hars ou Pesa” (bride and groom) in their honor. He is in flow. In Aroyan parlance this is the “Arshak II phenomenon” of vigor acquired when one treads on the soil of his forefathers.

We explore the area some and set sail for Aghtamar in the afternoon. The air is crisp but our course is steady on the water. The island, barely visible in the distance, grows gradually on the horizon. Surp Khatch Church rises high as we approach, dominating the scene. We need to climb the hill where she stands, a major undertaking for some of us. We step on weeds and wild flowers, hold on to shrubs or to each other, and shoot photos whenever the angle is favorable. The 10th century jewel is adorned by typical Armenian grapevine designs in high relief as well as carvings of Biblical figures and other saints: Adam and Eve, David and Goliath, St. George. The belfry is empty. Everywhere the scourge of neglect is visible.

It is a moment of awe. We file in quietly, pulling in others with us from the picnic grounds in the vicinity. A local young girl brings me and other ladies small bunches of wildflowers expecting a reward. We form half a circle in front of the altar where outlines of paintings still linger. The other walls are bare and rubbles of stones cover the floor. The sun sheds its afternoon light from the openings of the windows, creating lights and shadows.

Hachig brings out his clarinet from the pouch and once again “Der Voghormia” fills the ghostly skeleton of the church. Onnik sings “Amen, Hayr Yergnavor” and Vart chants “Krisdos Ee Metch...” We all join in with “Hayr Mer.” We are overcome by the powers of music and prayer that can turn a grave into a sanctuary. Tears are visible on every Armenian face in the audience. The onlookers respect our emotional encounter with the Lord in this old church that comes to life with a handful of migrant Armenians.

Outside, broken Khatchkars, toppled stones, some worn, others partially lost under ground cover lie asunder. Sure, a few improvements are visible. Benches and picnic tables in the surrounding park prove that American dollars are well spent on preserving “national monuments.”

Hachig sits on a stone close by the church and looks out at the lake that glistens in the afternoon sun. He draws a sigh and brings out his clarinet. Another moment of fulfillment ensues by the lakeshore of Van, as he pours out his Vanetzi soul in “Dele Yaman,” putting in it all the might of his lungs. Onnik joins in singing. We all would, if we didn’t work so hard at restraining tears. Hachig is in tune with the universe again. He continues with “Shirvani,” “Dersim” and other favorite dance melodies, as the sun heads southwest. Even the locals are energized. To our amazement they put on a show of line dancing, following the rhythm of his tunes. The mood is reparatory, an effort at reaching out. For a split second I have the urge to join in. I remain nailed to the ground.

“It has always been my wish to play ‘Dele Yaman’ at the shore of Lake Van”, Hachig admits later. We suspected it but were not aware of his secret agenda. “I was gratified to see the locals gather and start dancing. It was a most memorable experience even though I really was playing for my ten-year-old grandchild, Tamar,” says the proud grandpa. Akh… Tamar.

. It is the last call back to the mainland. The descent is easier but our hearts are laden with the burden of something terribly gone wrong - the pain of the itinerant son on one side, the guilt of the usurper on the other. The gap is too wide to be filled with a handful of field flowers stained by blood.

Igdir is our next stop. It is a long day. By twilight we make it to open terrain from where Mount Ararat should be plainly visible, but for now she is hiding behind the clouds like a shy bride. As we wait for a glimpse of our national emblem, Hachig unsheathes his clarinet and Onnik joins in with “Armenian Hoghuh”. A shepherd meets us with a beast of burden. We get the illusion that he is Armenian. He is not. We feel at home around the skirts of Mount Ararat but we are not. We go to Igdir to spend the night with mixed feelings.

Our pilgrimage continues through Kars – a city that still bears the traces of Russian occupation – over to Ani, the city of 1001 churches. Of these only a handful remain, some whole, some ruined, scattered behind the lingering city walls, amidst the wild green fields. Not a house in sight. The Republic of Armenia is visible across the river, so close, and yet so inaccessible from here. We have our lunch in the wilderness of what used to be a thriving city. Hachig is nowhere to be seen. Apparently he was in the Cathedral, being taped by Mary Ann Zamanigian during his private audition with God, playing “Der Voghormia" and “Ee Verin Yerusaghem,” for the benefit of Ani, his other granddaughter. We go our different ways exploring the ancient city. When we all meet at the Cathedral, we resume our hymns. Vart chants “Der Voghormia.” God’s mercy is indeed direly needed here, where part of the church has recently given way to nature’s ravages.

On to Erzurum. Of Sanasarian school only a skeleton of stones remains. We visit smaller towns: Palu, Havav, then Elazig (formerlyMezreh/ Kharpert). We climb on the hillside where the defunct Euphrates College commanded a view of the city. An orchard sprawls where Armenian residences used to be. Not even a cemetery, not a headstone, but land recovered with verdant new life, pulling a veil over history. Two nondescript dilapidated ruins up the street tell the story. At night we visit a restaurant of renown, on top of the hill. Dinner is served country style, on low seats or “meenders” for those who wish to experience local color. The rest of us, the more mature, hold on to our regular seats. As usual Mom’s specialties are on the menu. The owner of the restaurant entertains us with his “dumbeg.” Ara Dinkjian brings to life the chords of an old village “oud” on the premises, moving the heartstrings of everybody present. Hachig joins in with his clarinet. Another evening is filed in the archives of memory.

We stop by Sakrat, then Khuylu, where Charles and Ophelia Menzigian almost find their parents’ home while Jim entertains the local children. He has a gift to always rise to the occasion, any time when a service is needed. In Husenig the residents in Mary Ann Zamanigian’s grandparents’ home receive her like a homecoming queen. An elder from the village finds it admirable that we long for our forefathers’ homes and have come all the way to look for them.

“May I invite you to tea,” he pleads, “You are our guests and I would like to honor you.”

On meeting silence, he hesitates for a moment.

“I’m not sure who is whose guest any more,” he says, “since your ancestors lived here.”

I freeze at the admission.

“I leave it up to you to decide that,” I reply.

I notice that guilt feelings have traveled through time. Everywhere I see an urge by locals to clear their chest about events beyond their control, about feelings they harbor, about memories they cannot chase out or hopes they still cherish. There is very little exchange though. The language impediment and hurt feelings limit our communication. The fields may be verdant, but peaceful sleep does not come easy to a guilty soul.

We proceed past Malatia, in search of Ashoti village which has now become Gulpinar. We ask around. Information is scarce. We sound like people on a witch hunt. In every village we follow gossamer threads of memory like “she always talked about the range of mountains,” “there was a waterfall by their village,” “they picnicked in a park,” “lived on the heights by the church,” “a river ran by.” Jemal, our resourceful Kurdish driver and Armen, our versatile tour director, often put their heads together to trace the route to villages that do not appear on the map. They will resort to any measure to reach the undetermined spot, such as Kighi, because it means so much to a member of the group. Fortunately, Armen has made a science of studying old and new names of cities and villages. If everything else fails the Arshak II phenomenon confirms the find. As soon as a traveler hits home soil, he/she gets bolder and more assertive in talk and walk. After all, the sap in the soil travels through one’s blood.

Our presence in any village creates excitement. The peasants rarely see tourists. With few exceptions their reception is warm. We are treated like travelers from outer space, getting the stares of young and old, each with different expectations. The elderly have an urgency to talk, as soon as they find out we are Armenians, but don’t always have the privacy. A sense of guilt feelings pervades. They show eagerness to direct us to what is left of Armenian churches, schools, or houses, occupied or not.

On to Cappadocia, a biblical region, especially attractive with strange conical or soft rock lava formations wherein the early Christians sought refuge. Here, as everywhere else, one can trace history from the Romans through the present day. Civilizations die but the structures they built remain. We don’t stay long, to Jemal’s surprise, who cannot understand our oversight of museums in favor of expeditions to the countryside. We do, however, visit St. Gregory the Illuminator’s church in Gesaria where Vart’s parents were married, and her mother and sister were baptized. She chants a solo “Der Voghormia” and we join in with “Hayr Mer” in this still active church.

We explore Keller in the Yozgat region, then Gomedi near Evereg where the inhabitants feel proud of their lost son, Jim, the only person who came back after ninety years.

We drop by at Vakif village, an all-Armenian community in the Musa Dagh area. An eighty-year-old man walks home after working in the fields over ten hours. He speaks fluent Armenian. A local lady still makes oya mats and table covers. She sells them too. The community has a new church but the future is uncertain. The young live in Istanbul or in Europe.

We make a small detour to Iskenderun to enjoy a lovely dinner by the seaside. I am restless and try to keep my feelings to myself. The next stop is Antep, a rendezvous with the past in my mother’s birthplace. Will I be able to trace her steps?

Antep turns out to be a very modern town where an old fort and contemporary buildings share space, unperturbed by the centuries and animosities that divide them. The old Armenian quarters are still around, now inhabited by non-Armenians. Apparently these houses were all connected with subterranean tunnels to St. Mary’s Church, which still stands erect but is now a mosque. Next door, the Haiganushian school for girls, where mother graduated from, is in ruins. Ex-consul Kara Nazar’s stately mansion has become a museum/café where we rest a while. The Karamanukian house is now an ethnographic museum. On some houses built early in the 20th century, one can still read the year of construction, initials in Armenian letters and other details characterizing them.

As usual, Armen, adept at offering support, is on standby, handkerchief in hand, camera rolling, to catch the “moment of personal encounter with the past” at the precise moment a traveler hits the reality of hometown. I am no exception. The rest of the group watches in silence and compassion. We feel for each other.

Kilis, my father’s birthplace, turns out to be a small town. Shops line the main street, exhibiting their wares. Between Antep and Kilis, the green fields are abloom with red poppies. We pause. We shoot photos. I want to take in the scenery, to redress the flaws of my imagination, to resize space, to clear misconceptions. I want to visualize what life was like then, ninety years ago. I can’t shed a sense of belonging. Homeland takes on a deeper, fuller meaning.

Jemal, an Antep native, sings a Turkish song that brings back memories of childhood. He has become an insider, after 5000 kilometers with us.

“I transport thousands of passengers, but with you guys I feel a kinship no other group can bring about,” he says. We feel it. Jemal does not mince words. He is a devout Muslim and a respectable human being. He prays during breaks or writes poetry. Maybe he carries Armenian blood he is not aware of?

“This land was enough for you and for us, I don’t know why we could not live together,” he says. “May those who caused the events receive their due from God.” He is obviously perturbed. I embrace him like a brother because he cared for me like one during the whole trip. It is our last day.

We return to Istanbul. At the upper level of Haji Baba’s restaurant, close to Taksim Square, we exchange impressions and opinions during our last supper together. We have become kin but will disperse again to our respective “villages” somewhere in America, carrying a missing fragment that complements our identity. Maybe we will call each other, or send a Christmas card or correspond via e-mails. We will probably meet again, in the United States, in Canada, in Armenia or at events of national importance. We may even meet on the moon one day, but we will still remain an itinerant society, unsure of where is home.