A Friend in the Old Country | An Adjacent Story of Us.

I have been researching — learning — expanding (and contracting) the characters and places of great grandmother Miriam’s life.

This research led me in many places like:

The Sunken City of Lake Hazar. A place where in 1834 a tectonic fissure shifted and filled the valley of this 1000 year Christian city. And the place that in July of 1915, the Turkish Gendarmes took the already tortured Armenian leaders from Harpoot and Diyarbakır to their deaths.

And the place where these Armenian leaders defiantly refused to admit to treason, denounce their beliefs; saying one-by-one — “I will not raise one finger.”

To which the Gendarmes said, “Then go swim with the dead of your God.”

The American Consulate of Eastern Turkey — Harpoot. I am now in possession of an out-of-print copy of American Council (Ambassador) Leslie Davis’ official eye-witness account of the brutality. (*original report sent to the American State Department in 1915.)

In his report, Davis documents 1) the secret hiding of prominent Armenians in the compound and 2) his work help them find safe passage across the Syrian desert to Aleppo.

(Family note: In Davis’ report he references the Consulate Jesse Jackson – Aleppo. Jackson is same American official that Miriam mentions to Edwin in her 1943 oral history. to him.)

Davis’ report not only provides an official eye-witness account of what happened in July of 1915 but chronicles his relationship to the leadership of the college and the Armenian community.

It is not a far stretch for us to think that Miriam, Kevork, Terez would have been part of those prominent Armenian families that were hidden at the Consulate after Hackadoor and his pears were captured.

And then, a more hopeful discovery of a young man Miriam likely grew up with — the Armenian Poet and Resistance Activist from Harpoot; Rupen Zartarian.

Why do I think this matters?

Based on the social and geographic ecosystem of the time, I became fascinated by a very plausible connection between the Zartarian and Shooshian families. And, based on age, the likelihood that Rupen and Miriam grew up together in the same village.

While in their teen years, Rupen was at “The Red School” the artistic Armenian school established by writers and artists and Miriam was one of the youngest woman at Euphrates College.

Rupen and Miriam; same neighborhood. Same church. Part of the same academic elite.

So here is a bit about Rupen’s story and how it might have overlapped with our family.

Rupen Zartarian, Armenian Poet, and Resistance Activist . (1874–1915)

Born outside of Diyarbakır, — ‘a days ride by horse’ to Harpoot.

While he grew up in the Harpoot his writing often reflected the culture and beauty of the Armenian highlands.

Rupen also had a prominent a mentor — the Dean of The Red School known by his chosen single name ‘Tlgadintsi’. At this time Tlgadintsi was already a a world-renown Armenian author and was part of the academic elite who tried to resist the Sultan Hamid II.

(Also worth noting to the family— Tlgadintsi would have been Hackadoor’s intellectual peer at the time as both were Armenian Deans of higher education in a very small community.)

Rupen was considered one of the best Armenian poets — noted for his fable and myths. But more notably, Rupen was political rebel and used his skill in writing to establish the ‘Rrozmig’ (the Combatant) and ‘Azadamard’ (The Freedom Fighter) for the Armenian resistance.

It was that work that forced him out of the country at age 19 out of fear of political retribution. But even in exile, Rupen continued to write for justice.

I my mind’s eye, Miriam and Rupen were childhood friends and stayed connected (by letters?) until he was martyred with a dozen other Armenian Scholars and leaders on April 24th 1915 outside of Constantinople.

Note that this date and event is important as it is considered the start of the Armenian Genocide that is now recognized across the globe.

A few months ago, I found a book that has a few of Rupen’s fables translated to english. — this one was so powerful — written while he exiled in Bulgaria just after Diyarbakır was plundered in the first wave of violence in 1895.

The KAMPRR

(An Armenian Shepherd Dog)

Kamprr is grand and majestic. He is nourished and grown strong by the invigorating breeze of the fields.

He walks with victorious and calm grandeur when the city-dwelling horde of timid, skimpy, and blabbering dogs attempts to chase him. His curly hair covering his sides is a sign of the nobility of his breed. Yet, the hair on his back has thinned, pointing to his struggle with age and his sterility.

His strong chest bulges forward, giving him an extraordinary overall beauty; it separates him from the rest of the dogs that breed and grow in muddy and trashy sites — those are the pathetic ones that are running after him and barking at him.

Why do they bark? It is vulgar passion, which arises from the grime of the streets; an impulse to counteract the insult of inferiority, in order to establish relative respect. As a result, the dogs roam in the streets yelping. They come, one and all: those Iiving in front of butcher shops and bakeries with their useless offspring. Others inform their comrades at the slaughterhouses to come to their aid. The elderly brag in husky barks. The age and his sue rest burges forward, giving him an extraordinary overall beauty; it separates him from the rest of the dogs that breed and grow in muddy and trashy sites — those are the pathetic ones that are running after him and barking at him.

Why do they bark?

It is vulgar passion, which arises from the grime of the streets; an impulse to counteract the insult of inferiority, in order to establish relative respect. As a result, the dogs roam in the streets yelping. They come, one and all: those lying-in front of butcher shops and bakeries with their useless offspring.

Others inform their comrades at the slaughterhouses to come to their aid. The elderly brag in husky barks. The younger ones threaten in ridiculous tones; and the little ones, driven by the attitude of their elders’ audacity, curse in reprisal with their immature voices and run after Kamprr, who, with splendid confidence, continues his path.

The multi-voice, multi-language clamor spreads like a storm, but it does not shake the confidence and bravery of Kamprr, who happens to have caused all this fury, disturbance, and unrest. He walks; only once in a while does he turn his head and look sternly at the most fiery ones, who have dared to come too close to him and whose breathing he feels on his curly tail. He doesn’t growl at the detestable, filthy, and brazen-faced wave of attacks, nor does he address the creatures.

This incompetent persecution of the pompous, filthy mob is pathetic. On the other side, a display of dignity from Kamprr, who, unfortunately is limping now because of an injury to one of his front legs, which effaces the wholeness of his looks. But that injury, rather than affecting his grace and self-esteem, gives him more grandeur; it enhances his power and self-reliance.

What had caused this anomaly to leave the mountains and come down to the plains and from there to the city? What kind of luck has brought him to this foreign land, where he joins his hungry brothers roaming around in the rain and sleeping in muddy waters?

Here, his own offspring, not used to this type of lifestyle, wouldn’t be able to survive; they would be begging to get a piece of bread. What is this sad reality of animals” submission to survival, which is so much like humans’ instinct for indispensable things?

If he can’t tell his story, his limp is a vibrant attestation to it.

It is apparent that this nomad is a member of the community. The Kamprr was born to brave parents; he spent his youth in the hazards of the mountains; he had committed himself to hating wolves and protecting herds. He had witnessed his mother’s revenge against the damned wolves; her passionate and heroic bloody struggle; he had seen how far the protection of the herd can go. Everything should be sacrificed to secure the trust of the shepherd. If required, one should die in front of the shepherd and the flock as a sign of devotion.

That’s how the dawn of his life had begun.

After that, one miracle followed another. How proud was the mother, when one night she came home from a glorious fight her face covered with blood. Her young son, the Kamprr, like the cub of a lion, had displayed his unbeatable strength. That night, the mother rested her head on her paws and slept comfortably, because her cub’s hoarse barking was rumbling in the valleys and gorges and that kept every single wolf trembling in his den.

Years passed and the same lifestyle continued with the same zeal and unrest, without any weakness or hesitance. But merciless time with its satanic aging process crept up the mountain and found him. His hair started shedding; the rich curls started losing their curves; the hair on the back started thinning, leaving the skin exposed; and in his last fight, one of his front legs was injured irreparably. He felt something was crumbling inside of him. His limp was an obstacle now for his zeal and it would hinder the use of his strong chest.

Furthermore, the admiration that he used to get from his master had now changed to pity; the environment was also losing its charm because of his hopelessness. His inner pride and stamina couldn’t accept all these changes. He didn’t want to submit to humiliation; he wanted to cast off this condemnation.

And so weary and tired, he started limping down the slope of the mountain to the plains, ending up in the city. Here, in the streets, where unworthy dogs of all breed and color run after him, barking at him and challenging his courage and power. This world where dogs live is pitiful; there is so much commotion for a piece of bone. Is a bit of bone in these filthy corsets that precious, that dogs display the with cats to grab, a piece, and some of them dare to display their grinding teeth?

Stupid animals! Rise above your skimpy environment. Rise above your pathetic shallowness; try to understand the magnanimous feelings of Kamprr. Fill your hearts with his nobility. Then and only then will you see the bottom of your pathetic lives.

Who are you persecuting?

What is the cause of the frenzy of your barking? is it that difficult to see his magnificent posture, his beautiful posture, and his imposing wholeness?

Kamprr walks calmly, without hurry, courageous, and in self-confidence ignoring of pack of dogs and leaving behind the deafening screams of those pompous dogs with their threatening barks.

The judgment of the mob is the philosophy of the street which declares its greatness; it consists of hungry dogs, deprived offspring, and a canvas of blind puppies.

Walk!

Hold your head high, oh, Kamprr.

Walk through these mediocrities!

Leave this ludicrous arrogance behind you; arrogance that doesn’t feel ashamed to bark at magnanimity, that screeches against dignity.

Arrogance that wants to expel you from these sites, so that it can dare wiggle its tail for a piece of bone.

Walk along this road to the end!

You have come to the wrong place. Go back to the vastness of the plains, to the seditious mountains. It is better to die hungry than to extend your legs begging for a piece of bread.

It is better to be wounded and die in an uneven bloody fight with a voracious wolf than squat on a corner in these streets and die slowly, ending the part of life that was blessedly granted to you.

~Zartarian 1896

Translated and published by Herand M Marakarian- Martyerd Amenian Writers — An anthology.

.