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Two Earthquakes And Three Babies

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  • Two Earthquakes And Three Babies

    TWO EARTHQUAKES AND THREE BABIES
    By Seta Haig

    http://www.keghart.com/SHaig-Babies
    October 23, 2011

    Like any other morning, the first thing I do when I get up is to turn
    on the morning news and walk over to the stove to heat the water for
    my morning coffee.

    The big news early today is a 7.2 magnitude devastating earthquake in
    the region of Van, Eastern Turkey. The TV broadcasts the tragic news.

    The screen exhibits heartbreaking images of large residential areas
    with huge piles of debris from hundreds of collapsed, crumbled houses
    and apartment buildings.

    My first reaction is: "But that's our land! That land belongs to us
    Armenians, many of whom still live, scattered through almost every
    country in the world that constitute what we call the Diaspora!"

    But wherever and whoever the victims, human tragedy of people all
    over the world has a way of touching fellow human beings. As I watch
    the rescue and relief efforts deployed and the gradual rise of the
    casualty count, a wave of mixed emotions ripple through my memories.

    My thoughts fly back to the days of the Northridge Earthquake.

    I remember waking up that early Monday morning just after 04:31 Pacific
    Standard Time on January 17, 1994 in my home in Tarzana, California.

    Our house was rumbling, pieces from it were breaking apart and tumbling
    down, and everything loose was falling and littering the floor. In my
    first few moments of anguish and desperation, all I could do was yell:
    "My baby! O my baby!" In my shock and trauma I could not recall the
    name of my first-born daughter Arlene, barely five months old at that
    time. Soon afterward, as I was told later, I fainted altogether. My
    husband had to shake me back to consciousness. He then took our
    daughter in his arms, and the three of us somehow made it to the
    exit. During all this time there was not a sound from our baby girl
    Arlene. I could not expel my gut feeling that most probably she was
    injured, or...wait a minute...Oh my God, please don't make it worse!

    When we had already reached the main gateway and the deafening tremors
    had at last subsided, I resumed my frantic questions on Arlene's
    safety. My husband had to literally wake her up. Only at that moment
    did I finally understand what had really happened to Arlene: she had
    slept like an angel through the whole earthquake!

    Two days have passed since this latest earthquake hit the Van region
    in Turkey. Right now I am watching the astounding survival story of a
    two-week old Turk baby girl called Azra that was miraculously rescued
    from under the rubbles. I am almost in tears. My joy is compounded at
    learning that Azra's mother and grandmother have survived as well! And
    I feel a strange bond of fate with Azra's mother, since I know how
    it feels to fear the loss of a child in the blind chaos of a natural
    disaster that is an earthquake.

    And my thoughts make a painful flashback to another baby, the eldest
    brother of my father, who perished in another chaos of a - this one
    man-made - disaster (real name: Genocide) almost a century ago. My
    grandmother gave birth to him on the burning sands of the Syrian
    Desert during the "deportation" of Armenians from their homeland
    by the Ottoman Turkish authorities. Under the glassy stare of Turk
    gendarmes prodding and compelling her with their bayonets to move
    along, my grandmother was forced to abandon her baby the same day
    he was born. She sprinkled some sand on his quivering tiny body to
    "protect" it from the scorching sun, and moved on. I will not attempt
    here the impossible by trying to give expression to her inner tragedy
    then and there - and thereafter throughout her long life. My father
    confides his grief to me, however, that he cannot remember his mother
    ever laughing like any normal human being. With all the good will
    she harbored toward her fellowmen, she could not even smile to her
    last day.

    Despite our painful history and the inhuman crimes perpetrated by
    the Turkish Ottomans against Armenians, my bond of empathy with baby
    Azra's mother remains overwhelming. I only hope - and I am inclined
    to be almost sure - that the feelings are mutual by the mothers of
    all Turkish Azras toward thousands and thousands of Armenian babies
    like my late uncle of one day who had to close their eyes forever
    the same day they were born.

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