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KESSAB AND ARAMO
by Tamar Kevonian
Armenian Reporter
Oct 22, 2008
Armenia
My father, Nazareth, and I continue our trek through the lands of
the medieval Armenian kingdom of Cilicia. We cross the boundary into
Syria on our way to Kessab, an Armenian village just beyond the border.
Crossing the Turkish checkpoint was a breeze, but now we're waiting to
complete the paperwork on the Syrian side. We enter the worn-down but
well-lit office and wait by the bank of unstaffed computers. Finally
the guard outside informs us that the customs officer has been having
his dinner - and, apparently, a very long after-dinner coffee. There is
no one else available to stamp our passports and so we wait some more.
Kessab, along with the surrounding villages east and south of here,
made up the eastern end of the Cilician kingdom. This entire region has
been Syrian territory since the French ended their occupation of Syria
and Lebanon in 1946 and redrew some of the borders of the Middle East.
My father and I are in Kessab for the opening of the ethnographic
museum, a project sponsored by the Land and Culture Organization
(LCO). With the help of many volunteers from the village and countries
across the diaspora, the LCO restored five Armenian homes to their
former splendor. Collectively, these houses have now become the
ethnographic museum complex, a unique repository of artifacts and
relics of the daily life of the village. Tomorrow is the ribbon-cutting
ceremony and Dad, as a longtime board member, wanted to be present
for the momentous occasion. I, on the other hand, had no loftier
notion than to see the village that has been elevated to mythical
status by the large community of Kessabtsis (natives of Kessab) in Los
Angeles. Whenever I come across a Kessabtsi, I can't help but visualize
poor peasants dancing their way through bucolic fruit orchards.
An hour later the customs agent finally returns to his post, and,
following some extensive paper-shuffling, we are on our way. The short,
two-kilometer drive in Hagop's car is like a roller-coaster ride as
the headlights slice through the darkness of the winding road. I am
looking forward to checking into the hotel and washing off the dust
of the day. A desire for an ice-cold beer and a hot meal is a close
second, followed by that for laundry. The luxury of clean clothes
had begun to elude me as, day after day, as we continued to scale
mountains and explore fortresses scattered along the coast of Cilicia.
We spend a weekend of celebrations in Kessab, as the community has
clustered various events into two days to take advantage of Bishop
Shahan Sarkissian's visit. The highlight of Saturday night (Sept. 6)
is the Armenia vs. Turkey World Cup qualifying game. The political
implications of the game have been discussed endlessly in the media
and now the day has arrived. After breakfast, our hotel rearranges the
tables and chairs in the lobby and sets up a large-screen television
in preparation. The crowd is thick with friends and family who want
to be part of this momentous event. Ironically, we watch the game
via a satellite feed from Turkey. The excitement is palpable as each
attempt at a goal brings a large howl from the crowd. Finally it's
apparent that Armenia is losing and people begin to wander away in
disappointment.
I'm tired. I decide to lay low for a few days and explore the
surrounding areas. Kessab is a tight and compact village set among a
few small hills. Everything is within walking distance, although no
one seems to do any walking. The area has become quite affluent in the
last few years, and cars are clearly status symbols. Just beyond the
hill where our hotel is located is a road that leads to Karadouran, a
tiny Armenian village nestled in the steep valley leading to the coast.
The curving road winds through the mountains. On either side are
small, stone houses and fruit orchards. It's apple season and
the big green fruits are hanging heavy from the branches. We pass
several trucks filled with crates heading to points far and wide to
distribute the bounty. The road ends at a small harbor with a sandy
beach of crystal-blue waters. About a 100 yards to my left is a dirt
path, no wider than a hiking trail, which begins at the top of the
mountain and ends at the beach. This is the Turkish border. Woe to
those who wander over the trail or float across the invisible line
while swimming. A telephone call comes from the Turkish garrison at
the top of the mountain to the Syrian garrison on the beach and a
severe warning is issued to the trespasser.
I'm amazed at the casual presence of this thin line that separates
Kessab from the fate of its sister village, Vakafli, 20 kilometers
across the border. Kessab barely escaped being on the Turkish side
of the border through the tireless efforts of Cardinal Aghajanian
(prelate of the Armenian Catholic Church from 1937 to 1962), who
persuaded the French to draw the Syrian-Turkish border on the northern
end of the village.
The next day I journey south to Aramo, another historically Armenian
village that will soon no longer have any Armenians. We drive
right up to the stone walls of the humble village church, built in
1310. Weekly mass is still held here by the priest of Latakia, a port
city 30 minutes to the south. Across the road, which has the width of
a sidewalk, is an old man sitting behind the wall of his courtyard,
still dressed in his pajamas. We greet him in Armenian and ask to see
the church. Sahag is the keeper of the keys and today he's having
back problems. He is one of only four Armenians, all in their 80s,
who still reside in the village.
Aramo used to be a completely Armenian village during the first
half of the 20th century, but in 1947 a large wave of residents
repatriated to Armenia and thus began the decline of the village to
its current state. Sahag's wife, tiny and bent, with a wrinkled and
kind face, steps into the courtyard with a tray of coffee. Stepan,
Sahag's first cousin, wanders over from his house next door and
joins our little group. These three octogenarians form the core of
the current community.
We take our leave of Sahag and his entourage and head toward the
hills above Aramo, to Saint Kevork Church, located inside a small
cave. There are signs of recent activity leading to the entrance of
the church. Inside, the floor is covered with woven mats, there is
incense ready to burn, the walls are whitewashed, and Arabic graffiti
touts the greatness of God. The Alawi Arabs use this church on a
regular basis. Although they are Muslim in origin, they have added many
Christian components to their religion after long years of contact with
the Byzantines and Crusaders, and are no longer accepted by mainstream
Islam. One crossover element is their belief in Saint Kevork. Every few
years LCO volunteers are dispatched to this remote location to cover
the graffiti and reclaim the Armenian Christian elements of the church,
but to no avail. The graffiti is always reapplied. Without regular
attendance and maintenance by Armenians, the local Arabs have de facto
taken over this humble place of worship. It's an example of the ongoing
Armenian retrenchment taking place in the towns and villages across our
historic lands as the world moves forward and we move along with it.
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress
by Tamar Kevonian
Armenian Reporter
Oct 22, 2008
Armenia
My father, Nazareth, and I continue our trek through the lands of
the medieval Armenian kingdom of Cilicia. We cross the boundary into
Syria on our way to Kessab, an Armenian village just beyond the border.
Crossing the Turkish checkpoint was a breeze, but now we're waiting to
complete the paperwork on the Syrian side. We enter the worn-down but
well-lit office and wait by the bank of unstaffed computers. Finally
the guard outside informs us that the customs officer has been having
his dinner - and, apparently, a very long after-dinner coffee. There is
no one else available to stamp our passports and so we wait some more.
Kessab, along with the surrounding villages east and south of here,
made up the eastern end of the Cilician kingdom. This entire region has
been Syrian territory since the French ended their occupation of Syria
and Lebanon in 1946 and redrew some of the borders of the Middle East.
My father and I are in Kessab for the opening of the ethnographic
museum, a project sponsored by the Land and Culture Organization
(LCO). With the help of many volunteers from the village and countries
across the diaspora, the LCO restored five Armenian homes to their
former splendor. Collectively, these houses have now become the
ethnographic museum complex, a unique repository of artifacts and
relics of the daily life of the village. Tomorrow is the ribbon-cutting
ceremony and Dad, as a longtime board member, wanted to be present
for the momentous occasion. I, on the other hand, had no loftier
notion than to see the village that has been elevated to mythical
status by the large community of Kessabtsis (natives of Kessab) in Los
Angeles. Whenever I come across a Kessabtsi, I can't help but visualize
poor peasants dancing their way through bucolic fruit orchards.
An hour later the customs agent finally returns to his post, and,
following some extensive paper-shuffling, we are on our way. The short,
two-kilometer drive in Hagop's car is like a roller-coaster ride as
the headlights slice through the darkness of the winding road. I am
looking forward to checking into the hotel and washing off the dust
of the day. A desire for an ice-cold beer and a hot meal is a close
second, followed by that for laundry. The luxury of clean clothes
had begun to elude me as, day after day, as we continued to scale
mountains and explore fortresses scattered along the coast of Cilicia.
We spend a weekend of celebrations in Kessab, as the community has
clustered various events into two days to take advantage of Bishop
Shahan Sarkissian's visit. The highlight of Saturday night (Sept. 6)
is the Armenia vs. Turkey World Cup qualifying game. The political
implications of the game have been discussed endlessly in the media
and now the day has arrived. After breakfast, our hotel rearranges the
tables and chairs in the lobby and sets up a large-screen television
in preparation. The crowd is thick with friends and family who want
to be part of this momentous event. Ironically, we watch the game
via a satellite feed from Turkey. The excitement is palpable as each
attempt at a goal brings a large howl from the crowd. Finally it's
apparent that Armenia is losing and people begin to wander away in
disappointment.
I'm tired. I decide to lay low for a few days and explore the
surrounding areas. Kessab is a tight and compact village set among a
few small hills. Everything is within walking distance, although no
one seems to do any walking. The area has become quite affluent in the
last few years, and cars are clearly status symbols. Just beyond the
hill where our hotel is located is a road that leads to Karadouran, a
tiny Armenian village nestled in the steep valley leading to the coast.
The curving road winds through the mountains. On either side are
small, stone houses and fruit orchards. It's apple season and
the big green fruits are hanging heavy from the branches. We pass
several trucks filled with crates heading to points far and wide to
distribute the bounty. The road ends at a small harbor with a sandy
beach of crystal-blue waters. About a 100 yards to my left is a dirt
path, no wider than a hiking trail, which begins at the top of the
mountain and ends at the beach. This is the Turkish border. Woe to
those who wander over the trail or float across the invisible line
while swimming. A telephone call comes from the Turkish garrison at
the top of the mountain to the Syrian garrison on the beach and a
severe warning is issued to the trespasser.
I'm amazed at the casual presence of this thin line that separates
Kessab from the fate of its sister village, Vakafli, 20 kilometers
across the border. Kessab barely escaped being on the Turkish side
of the border through the tireless efforts of Cardinal Aghajanian
(prelate of the Armenian Catholic Church from 1937 to 1962), who
persuaded the French to draw the Syrian-Turkish border on the northern
end of the village.
The next day I journey south to Aramo, another historically Armenian
village that will soon no longer have any Armenians. We drive
right up to the stone walls of the humble village church, built in
1310. Weekly mass is still held here by the priest of Latakia, a port
city 30 minutes to the south. Across the road, which has the width of
a sidewalk, is an old man sitting behind the wall of his courtyard,
still dressed in his pajamas. We greet him in Armenian and ask to see
the church. Sahag is the keeper of the keys and today he's having
back problems. He is one of only four Armenians, all in their 80s,
who still reside in the village.
Aramo used to be a completely Armenian village during the first
half of the 20th century, but in 1947 a large wave of residents
repatriated to Armenia and thus began the decline of the village to
its current state. Sahag's wife, tiny and bent, with a wrinkled and
kind face, steps into the courtyard with a tray of coffee. Stepan,
Sahag's first cousin, wanders over from his house next door and
joins our little group. These three octogenarians form the core of
the current community.
We take our leave of Sahag and his entourage and head toward the
hills above Aramo, to Saint Kevork Church, located inside a small
cave. There are signs of recent activity leading to the entrance of
the church. Inside, the floor is covered with woven mats, there is
incense ready to burn, the walls are whitewashed, and Arabic graffiti
touts the greatness of God. The Alawi Arabs use this church on a
regular basis. Although they are Muslim in origin, they have added many
Christian components to their religion after long years of contact with
the Byzantines and Crusaders, and are no longer accepted by mainstream
Islam. One crossover element is their belief in Saint Kevork. Every few
years LCO volunteers are dispatched to this remote location to cover
the graffiti and reclaim the Armenian Christian elements of the church,
but to no avail. The graffiti is always reapplied. Without regular
attendance and maintenance by Armenians, the local Arabs have de facto
taken over this humble place of worship. It's an example of the ongoing
Armenian retrenchment taking place in the towns and villages across our
historic lands as the world moves forward and we move along with it.
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress