Tweet
Refugees At Jemaran School
Armenians and the Left
http://www.armeniansandtheleft.com/lebanon18. htm
Aug 24 2006
A Personal Essay by Armenian Volunteer at Refugee Center in Beirut
In mid July, the old Jemaran Armenian school complex in West Beirut
opened its doors to welcome over 90 families fleeing the fighting
in South Lebanon. The nearby Homenetmen Club was converted to a
medical clinic run by the Armenian Relief Society. Area activists took
turns helping the refugees cope with their new surroundings. Shaghig
Meguerditchian, an ARS activist and a high school French teacher by
profession, lives across the street from the Jemaran and volunteered
to help the refugees sheltered there on a regular basis. She sent us
this essay. It is entitled "Parev".
In a single day, a magic wand changed my neighborhood just as it
had four weeks before. I watched it from my balcony: There was no
one left in the school which only two days ago was packed with women
and children. More than 600 people had managed to lead a precarious
existence there, using foam mattresses as beds, cardboard boxes and
nylon bags as closets, and windowsills as clotheslines.
My "students" have gone back to their homes, or what remains of them.
They waved to me as they left, smiled and made promises. Mohammed,
Ali, Hussain, Hassan, Abbas, Khaled, Haoura, Zeinab, Zahra, Asra,
Amani, Betoul...I must admit that I miss them.
I enter the school through the large gate. To my right are two big
water barrels, and to my left, around a low table, are the directors
of this so-called "campground." A nod of the head and they say,
" Ejit al moualmeh ", or "the teacher is here." As I approach them,
the children run towards me from every which way to say "Parev, parev!"
(an Armenian greeting that I taught them).
- Have you brought us storybooks?
= Yes, four of them.
- Are we going to draw afterwards?
= Certainly!
- And then play?
= Well yes, of course!
We all settle in the courtyard, around a table and two benches. They
push each other, some sitting on the table and some on pieces of
cardboard, while others stay standing. It doesn't matter though,
since we are far from the war and the rumblings of war planes - the
only planes we've heard for a month - which have turned our beautiful
blue sky into something deafening and suffocating instead.
Max Velthuijs's strange bird captivates the children. They adore this
bird that flies out from the painting sold to a rich man by a poor
painter and searches for its rightful place in this vast world.
They want to touch the book and take turns telling the story
themselves, again and again!
= Why can't the bird find his family?
- Because he's imaginary.
= Why is he so sad in the forest?
- Because he wants to return home!
This says it all.
I ask them to draw an imaginary bird, strange and never before seen.
Little Mohammad shows me his drawing.
-Excellent! Now go, color it!
He comes back, and his strange bird is now full of color. At the
top of his drawing, he's written in black: "Samidoun" ("We will stay
strong.") I tell him: -Your bird is very nice. I like it a lot...but
what does it have to do with what you have written here?
He looks at me, surprised, and walks away without saying a word. Had
he not understood? Yes, he had. He returns and hands me his paper,
from which he has erased the legend completely, so that you can't see
a letter, not even the slightest hint of a letter! He had understood.
I had, too. The next day, when I ask them to draw using their own
imagination rather than an inspiration from a story, Lebanese and
Israeli flags appear on hilltops, as do fighters with machine guns
and a war plane dropping bombs, its tail proudly displaying the word
"Hezbollah." Apparently, I had lost: it's impossible to forget a war
when you're stuck right in the middle of it.
So, let's play this game honestly.
Today it's Tomie de Paola's Giant of Barletta. Life goes on as normal
in the beautiful city of Barletta, until, one day, an enemy army
invades and destroys everything along its path. "Israel!" exclaim
the children. I wanted to stay tough. "Not necessarily. Nothing shows
that; not all enemies are called 'Israel.' If you were in Israel now,
Lebanon would be your enemy. Besides, look at the soldiers wearing
the Roman uniform." They look at me without really believing me. Just
then, a fight breaks out between Ali and Omar. "He pushed me!" "He
took my place!" I interfere: "So you are enemies now?" They both fall
silent. I had made my point. I continue and finish the story.
I reach into my bag and take out images I had printed from the
internet.
"Look! They are protesting for us in Boston, for peace in Lebanon,
look!" I show them young people waving Lebanese flags and holding
signs, and I explain the slogans. Here is a girl addressing the crowd.
Their little heads come closer.
- For us? An jadd ? ("Really?") = Who are these people?
-They are Lebanese, Americans, Armenians, Jews.
= What? Jews? That's impossible, says Rayan.
- Why not?
= The Jews hate us. They are with Israel, affirms Rana.
An impatient voice interjects: - You don't understand! If they are
protesting for peace in Lebanon, then they are with Lebanon! Khalas
! ("End of story!") Ibrahim's flawless logic makes everyone
speechless. Thus, when reality refuses to move, one must play with
the words.
Now the courtyard is empty and quiet.
The children have returned to their homes. Will they grow up in
peace? They deserve it so much! As for me, I will surely never forget
them. I can still hear the joyful "parev" greeting me, and I still
smile at little Mohammed with his mischievous eyes who used to greet
me in his own special way: - Parev! Kilol khiar be elef ! ("One kilo
of cucumbers for a thousand Lebanese pounds!" Note: "parev" and "elef"
rhyme in Arabic.)
Shaghig Meguerditchian-Papazian Beirut, August 16, 2006 (Translated
from the original French by Alik and Nayiri)
Armenians and the Left
http://www.armeniansandtheleft.com/lebanon18. htm
Aug 24 2006
A Personal Essay by Armenian Volunteer at Refugee Center in Beirut
In mid July, the old Jemaran Armenian school complex in West Beirut
opened its doors to welcome over 90 families fleeing the fighting
in South Lebanon. The nearby Homenetmen Club was converted to a
medical clinic run by the Armenian Relief Society. Area activists took
turns helping the refugees cope with their new surroundings. Shaghig
Meguerditchian, an ARS activist and a high school French teacher by
profession, lives across the street from the Jemaran and volunteered
to help the refugees sheltered there on a regular basis. She sent us
this essay. It is entitled "Parev".
In a single day, a magic wand changed my neighborhood just as it
had four weeks before. I watched it from my balcony: There was no
one left in the school which only two days ago was packed with women
and children. More than 600 people had managed to lead a precarious
existence there, using foam mattresses as beds, cardboard boxes and
nylon bags as closets, and windowsills as clotheslines.
My "students" have gone back to their homes, or what remains of them.
They waved to me as they left, smiled and made promises. Mohammed,
Ali, Hussain, Hassan, Abbas, Khaled, Haoura, Zeinab, Zahra, Asra,
Amani, Betoul...I must admit that I miss them.
I enter the school through the large gate. To my right are two big
water barrels, and to my left, around a low table, are the directors
of this so-called "campground." A nod of the head and they say,
" Ejit al moualmeh ", or "the teacher is here." As I approach them,
the children run towards me from every which way to say "Parev, parev!"
(an Armenian greeting that I taught them).
- Have you brought us storybooks?
= Yes, four of them.
- Are we going to draw afterwards?
= Certainly!
- And then play?
= Well yes, of course!
We all settle in the courtyard, around a table and two benches. They
push each other, some sitting on the table and some on pieces of
cardboard, while others stay standing. It doesn't matter though,
since we are far from the war and the rumblings of war planes - the
only planes we've heard for a month - which have turned our beautiful
blue sky into something deafening and suffocating instead.
Max Velthuijs's strange bird captivates the children. They adore this
bird that flies out from the painting sold to a rich man by a poor
painter and searches for its rightful place in this vast world.
They want to touch the book and take turns telling the story
themselves, again and again!
= Why can't the bird find his family?
- Because he's imaginary.
= Why is he so sad in the forest?
- Because he wants to return home!
This says it all.
I ask them to draw an imaginary bird, strange and never before seen.
Little Mohammad shows me his drawing.
-Excellent! Now go, color it!
He comes back, and his strange bird is now full of color. At the
top of his drawing, he's written in black: "Samidoun" ("We will stay
strong.") I tell him: -Your bird is very nice. I like it a lot...but
what does it have to do with what you have written here?
He looks at me, surprised, and walks away without saying a word. Had
he not understood? Yes, he had. He returns and hands me his paper,
from which he has erased the legend completely, so that you can't see
a letter, not even the slightest hint of a letter! He had understood.
I had, too. The next day, when I ask them to draw using their own
imagination rather than an inspiration from a story, Lebanese and
Israeli flags appear on hilltops, as do fighters with machine guns
and a war plane dropping bombs, its tail proudly displaying the word
"Hezbollah." Apparently, I had lost: it's impossible to forget a war
when you're stuck right in the middle of it.
So, let's play this game honestly.
Today it's Tomie de Paola's Giant of Barletta. Life goes on as normal
in the beautiful city of Barletta, until, one day, an enemy army
invades and destroys everything along its path. "Israel!" exclaim
the children. I wanted to stay tough. "Not necessarily. Nothing shows
that; not all enemies are called 'Israel.' If you were in Israel now,
Lebanon would be your enemy. Besides, look at the soldiers wearing
the Roman uniform." They look at me without really believing me. Just
then, a fight breaks out between Ali and Omar. "He pushed me!" "He
took my place!" I interfere: "So you are enemies now?" They both fall
silent. I had made my point. I continue and finish the story.
I reach into my bag and take out images I had printed from the
internet.
"Look! They are protesting for us in Boston, for peace in Lebanon,
look!" I show them young people waving Lebanese flags and holding
signs, and I explain the slogans. Here is a girl addressing the crowd.
Their little heads come closer.
- For us? An jadd ? ("Really?") = Who are these people?
-They are Lebanese, Americans, Armenians, Jews.
= What? Jews? That's impossible, says Rayan.
- Why not?
= The Jews hate us. They are with Israel, affirms Rana.
An impatient voice interjects: - You don't understand! If they are
protesting for peace in Lebanon, then they are with Lebanon! Khalas
! ("End of story!") Ibrahim's flawless logic makes everyone
speechless. Thus, when reality refuses to move, one must play with
the words.
Now the courtyard is empty and quiet.
The children have returned to their homes. Will they grow up in
peace? They deserve it so much! As for me, I will surely never forget
them. I can still hear the joyful "parev" greeting me, and I still
smile at little Mohammed with his mischievous eyes who used to greet
me in his own special way: - Parev! Kilol khiar be elef ! ("One kilo
of cucumbers for a thousand Lebanese pounds!" Note: "parev" and "elef"
rhyme in Arabic.)
Shaghig Meguerditchian-Papazian Beirut, August 16, 2006 (Translated
from the original French by Alik and Nayiri)