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DZAROUGIAN: 'ETHEREAL ALEPPO'
Posted by Jennifer Manoukian on December 11, 2012 in Books & Art, Opinion
Translated by Jennifer Manoukian
The following passages are taken from Antranig Dzarougian's 1980
memoir, Ethereal Aleppo (ÔµO~@Õ¡Õ¦Õ¡ÕµÕ"Õ¶ Õ~@Õ¡Õ¬Õ§ÕºÕ¨). One
of the foremost writers and editors in the Armenian Diaspora,
Dzarougian lived and worked in the Armenian communities of Syria and
Lebanon. Born in 1913 in the Ottoman town of Gurin (modern Gurun),
Dzarougian was rescued during the massacres and brought to Aleppo,
where he was raised in an Armenian orphanage. He is best known for
a memoir about that period in his life, People without a Childhood
(Õ~DÕ¡Õ¶Õ¯Õ¸O~BÕ©Õ"O~BÕ¶ Õ¹Õ¸O~BÕ¶Õ¥O~AÕ¸Õ² Õ´Õ¡O~@Õ¤Õ"Õ¯), as well as
for his long poem, Letter to Yerevan (Ô¹Õ¸O~BÕ²Õ© Õ¡Õ¼ ÔµO~@Õ¥O~BÕ¡Õ¶),
and for the various pieces of prose and poetry published in Nayiri,
the Aleppo-based, and later Beirut-based, literary journal that he
founded and edited.
The way to the cinemas in Aleppo. (Photo by Nigol Bezjian)
When Dzarougian passed away in 1989, Aleppo still bore a resemblance to
the city that he had known as a young man, the city that he describes
with such pride in Ethereal Aleppo. Through the following selections,
we are transported to the mid-20th century when Aleppo was a thriving
center of Armenian life, a haven for Armenians as they slowly rebuilt
their community. In this memoir, Dzarougian shows us how, in many ways,
Armenians adopted the city of Aleppo as their own.
The Armenian community of Aleppo in the 1940's and 1950's was
culturally vibrant, and the city continued to serve as a stronghold
for diasporan Armenian identity into the 21st century, with its
various cultural organizations and schools that have instilled
in young Armenians a sense of responsibility in maintaining their
language and culture. Today many Aleppo-Armenians teach in Armenian
schools throughout the diaspora, imparting enthusiasm for Armenian
culture to their students wherever they go. It was in fact thanks to
the dedication of an Aleppo-born Armenian teacher that I developed
a love for the Armenian language and learned the skills needed to
translate texts like the following.
Aleppo has molded community leaders and educators who have enriched
Armenian communities across the diaspora for three generations,
but its future is now in great peril. The magnitude of this loss has
the potential to devastate not only the Armenians of Aleppo, but the
entire Armenian Diaspora. It is essential that diasporan communities
extend a hand to Aleppo and lend their support to protect one of the
last bastions of diasporan Armenian culture left today.
***
Nights in Aleppo.
During the summer, my mother would take our mattresses out of our
rooms, so that we could sleep out in the open air. On those deep dark
nights in the city of Aleppo, we saw the sky's brightest stars and
the world's fullest, most radiant moon. From the infinite silence of
the night emerged a wandering display of shooting stars, a confusion
of lights that left a trail of silvery feathers in its path.
Nights in Aleppo.
In Aleppo, there were still no buses to shake the ground and the old
walls; cars were a rare sight and served only to transport people
out of the city. It was the horse-drawn carriages that would circle
around the streets; we would hear the rhythmic stamping of hooves on
the black cobblestone, but this sharp tune would grow softer before
it reached our sprawling third floor roof, and as the night drew
on, it too would disappear. We had to listen very closely to hear
the distant sound of the night patrol whistling from one street to
another, or the dull clanking of caravans coming and going on the
outskirts of the city at daybreak. These sounds seeped into my dreams,
lulling me into the sweet slumber of the morning hours.
For me the sky became a diary, even an illustrated book of memories,
where the day's events and people, and the things they did and said,
would parade past me once again. It was to such an extent that I had
to wait until nighttime--lying on my back with my head on a pillow
and my eyes fixed on the stars--for the events of the day to become
simpler and clearer in that calm, quiet environment, even though I
had seen or participated in those events during the day. My daily
routine replayed over again at night, like a film reel rotating for
the second time; people and events appeared sharper, and I saw details,
subtleties and hues that had eluded me during the first showing.
And when I reminisce about the past, about my dreams and days in
Aleppo, people and events come to me not in their proper places and
moments, but in the vast night's sky on the roof of the Marsilia
Hotel. The boiling, crazy, foolish adolescent episodes of my youth
in the streets, homes and gardens of Aleppo calmed over the years,
but the sky saved copies of them, surrendering them night after night
to create a pristine album...
***
It is written that first loves do not come of anything and, even if
they do, rarely do they end well. Being that they are the first,
they stay pure and ethereal, like a lingering sunset in a haze of
sweet sorrow...
The star-studded sky of Aleppo--a close confidant--reminds me, one by
one, of my first loves, crises and inner feelings. I reminisce about
those days; in reality, about those nights. And as I write these
lines, my eyes instinctively look up in hopes of finding the sky,
but there is only a white ceiling above me...
>>From very early on, my distinct comprehension of life, which matured
over the years and took root in me, was born out of the sky and the
stars above the Marsilia Hotel.
On that rooftop, it was not dawn that announced the morning, but the
call heard from below: haleeb!
It was the milkman.
They never mixed water into the milk, and in my days, Aleppo as pure
as that milk.1
***
Easters in Aleppo...
There are thousands of Armenians who have left Syria and Lebanon for
all corners of the world; from Armenia to Canada, from Argentina to
Australia. And among them is a generation in their forties and older
for whom Easters in Aleppo have remained an indelible memory. For a
whole twenty years, the city of Aleppo was the heart of the Diaspora,
and during the three days of Easter that heart beat with national
pride. Two or three thousand Armenian boys and girls, coming from
all over the region to a sports field, transformed the city into
a garden full of flowers that perfumed the air with freshness and
Armenian identity. These days recalled the feasts of Navasart2 that
we had read about in books, and after the games and competitions,
the children paraded down the city's main boulevard like a torrent,
accompanied by the roaring, rhythmic sounds of the brass instruments
in the marching band.
Easters in Aleppo would remain the greatest source of joy for every
Armenian who experienced them, wherever in the world they happen to
live now.
On that field, I have seen Hagop Oshagan,3 who was given a standing
ovation by twenty thousand Armenians. As he was being invited to the
microphone, he squeezed my arm with such emotion that it stayed blue
for days.
I have seen Shavarsh Missakian,4 who momentarily forgetting modern
Armenian, muttered, "Oh, take me to the days of Navasart,"5 in
classical Armenian, as if he were praying.
I have seen Dro,6 his eyes accustomed to seeing parades of soldiers,
put his large, bear-like hand on my shoulder and say, "I want to fly
among these children and hug them close."
Easters in Aleppo...
Notes
1 In the original sentence, Dzarougian plays with the words haleeb,
the Arabic word for milk, and Haleb, the Arabic and Armenian word
for Aleppo.
2 Navasart was a pre-Christian festival and athletic competition that
marked the beginning of the new year each August.
3 Hagop Oshagan (1883-1948) was one of the most prominent literary
critics and one of the most prolific writers in the history of
Armenian literature.
4 Shavarsh Missakian (1884-1957) was an editor and journalist best
known for founding the French-Armenian newspaper Haratch in 1925.
5 This is a verse from a poem from the pre-Christian era entitled,
"The Dying Words of King Ardashes."
6 Dro (1884-1956) was the nickname of Drastamat Kanayan, an Armenian
general, revolutionary, and politician.
http://www.armenianweekly.com/2012/12/11/dzarougian-ethereal-aleppo/
From: Baghdasarian
Posted by Jennifer Manoukian on December 11, 2012 in Books & Art, Opinion
Translated by Jennifer Manoukian
The following passages are taken from Antranig Dzarougian's 1980
memoir, Ethereal Aleppo (ÔµO~@Õ¡Õ¦Õ¡ÕµÕ"Õ¶ Õ~@Õ¡Õ¬Õ§ÕºÕ¨). One
of the foremost writers and editors in the Armenian Diaspora,
Dzarougian lived and worked in the Armenian communities of Syria and
Lebanon. Born in 1913 in the Ottoman town of Gurin (modern Gurun),
Dzarougian was rescued during the massacres and brought to Aleppo,
where he was raised in an Armenian orphanage. He is best known for
a memoir about that period in his life, People without a Childhood
(Õ~DÕ¡Õ¶Õ¯Õ¸O~BÕ©Õ"O~BÕ¶ Õ¹Õ¸O~BÕ¶Õ¥O~AÕ¸Õ² Õ´Õ¡O~@Õ¤Õ"Õ¯), as well as
for his long poem, Letter to Yerevan (Ô¹Õ¸O~BÕ²Õ© Õ¡Õ¼ ÔµO~@Õ¥O~BÕ¡Õ¶),
and for the various pieces of prose and poetry published in Nayiri,
the Aleppo-based, and later Beirut-based, literary journal that he
founded and edited.
The way to the cinemas in Aleppo. (Photo by Nigol Bezjian)
When Dzarougian passed away in 1989, Aleppo still bore a resemblance to
the city that he had known as a young man, the city that he describes
with such pride in Ethereal Aleppo. Through the following selections,
we are transported to the mid-20th century when Aleppo was a thriving
center of Armenian life, a haven for Armenians as they slowly rebuilt
their community. In this memoir, Dzarougian shows us how, in many ways,
Armenians adopted the city of Aleppo as their own.
The Armenian community of Aleppo in the 1940's and 1950's was
culturally vibrant, and the city continued to serve as a stronghold
for diasporan Armenian identity into the 21st century, with its
various cultural organizations and schools that have instilled
in young Armenians a sense of responsibility in maintaining their
language and culture. Today many Aleppo-Armenians teach in Armenian
schools throughout the diaspora, imparting enthusiasm for Armenian
culture to their students wherever they go. It was in fact thanks to
the dedication of an Aleppo-born Armenian teacher that I developed
a love for the Armenian language and learned the skills needed to
translate texts like the following.
Aleppo has molded community leaders and educators who have enriched
Armenian communities across the diaspora for three generations,
but its future is now in great peril. The magnitude of this loss has
the potential to devastate not only the Armenians of Aleppo, but the
entire Armenian Diaspora. It is essential that diasporan communities
extend a hand to Aleppo and lend their support to protect one of the
last bastions of diasporan Armenian culture left today.
***
Nights in Aleppo.
During the summer, my mother would take our mattresses out of our
rooms, so that we could sleep out in the open air. On those deep dark
nights in the city of Aleppo, we saw the sky's brightest stars and
the world's fullest, most radiant moon. From the infinite silence of
the night emerged a wandering display of shooting stars, a confusion
of lights that left a trail of silvery feathers in its path.
Nights in Aleppo.
In Aleppo, there were still no buses to shake the ground and the old
walls; cars were a rare sight and served only to transport people
out of the city. It was the horse-drawn carriages that would circle
around the streets; we would hear the rhythmic stamping of hooves on
the black cobblestone, but this sharp tune would grow softer before
it reached our sprawling third floor roof, and as the night drew
on, it too would disappear. We had to listen very closely to hear
the distant sound of the night patrol whistling from one street to
another, or the dull clanking of caravans coming and going on the
outskirts of the city at daybreak. These sounds seeped into my dreams,
lulling me into the sweet slumber of the morning hours.
For me the sky became a diary, even an illustrated book of memories,
where the day's events and people, and the things they did and said,
would parade past me once again. It was to such an extent that I had
to wait until nighttime--lying on my back with my head on a pillow
and my eyes fixed on the stars--for the events of the day to become
simpler and clearer in that calm, quiet environment, even though I
had seen or participated in those events during the day. My daily
routine replayed over again at night, like a film reel rotating for
the second time; people and events appeared sharper, and I saw details,
subtleties and hues that had eluded me during the first showing.
And when I reminisce about the past, about my dreams and days in
Aleppo, people and events come to me not in their proper places and
moments, but in the vast night's sky on the roof of the Marsilia
Hotel. The boiling, crazy, foolish adolescent episodes of my youth
in the streets, homes and gardens of Aleppo calmed over the years,
but the sky saved copies of them, surrendering them night after night
to create a pristine album...
***
It is written that first loves do not come of anything and, even if
they do, rarely do they end well. Being that they are the first,
they stay pure and ethereal, like a lingering sunset in a haze of
sweet sorrow...
The star-studded sky of Aleppo--a close confidant--reminds me, one by
one, of my first loves, crises and inner feelings. I reminisce about
those days; in reality, about those nights. And as I write these
lines, my eyes instinctively look up in hopes of finding the sky,
but there is only a white ceiling above me...
>>From very early on, my distinct comprehension of life, which matured
over the years and took root in me, was born out of the sky and the
stars above the Marsilia Hotel.
On that rooftop, it was not dawn that announced the morning, but the
call heard from below: haleeb!
It was the milkman.
They never mixed water into the milk, and in my days, Aleppo as pure
as that milk.1
***
Easters in Aleppo...
There are thousands of Armenians who have left Syria and Lebanon for
all corners of the world; from Armenia to Canada, from Argentina to
Australia. And among them is a generation in their forties and older
for whom Easters in Aleppo have remained an indelible memory. For a
whole twenty years, the city of Aleppo was the heart of the Diaspora,
and during the three days of Easter that heart beat with national
pride. Two or three thousand Armenian boys and girls, coming from
all over the region to a sports field, transformed the city into
a garden full of flowers that perfumed the air with freshness and
Armenian identity. These days recalled the feasts of Navasart2 that
we had read about in books, and after the games and competitions,
the children paraded down the city's main boulevard like a torrent,
accompanied by the roaring, rhythmic sounds of the brass instruments
in the marching band.
Easters in Aleppo would remain the greatest source of joy for every
Armenian who experienced them, wherever in the world they happen to
live now.
On that field, I have seen Hagop Oshagan,3 who was given a standing
ovation by twenty thousand Armenians. As he was being invited to the
microphone, he squeezed my arm with such emotion that it stayed blue
for days.
I have seen Shavarsh Missakian,4 who momentarily forgetting modern
Armenian, muttered, "Oh, take me to the days of Navasart,"5 in
classical Armenian, as if he were praying.
I have seen Dro,6 his eyes accustomed to seeing parades of soldiers,
put his large, bear-like hand on my shoulder and say, "I want to fly
among these children and hug them close."
Easters in Aleppo...
Notes
1 In the original sentence, Dzarougian plays with the words haleeb,
the Arabic word for milk, and Haleb, the Arabic and Armenian word
for Aleppo.
2 Navasart was a pre-Christian festival and athletic competition that
marked the beginning of the new year each August.
3 Hagop Oshagan (1883-1948) was one of the most prominent literary
critics and one of the most prolific writers in the history of
Armenian literature.
4 Shavarsh Missakian (1884-1957) was an editor and journalist best
known for founding the French-Armenian newspaper Haratch in 1925.
5 This is a verse from a poem from the pre-Christian era entitled,
"The Dying Words of King Ardashes."
6 Dro (1884-1956) was the nickname of Drastamat Kanayan, an Armenian
general, revolutionary, and politician.
http://www.armenianweekly.com/2012/12/11/dzarougian-ethereal-aleppo/
From: Baghdasarian