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KEEPING ARMENIA ALIVE IN THE CAPITAL OF SUDAN
TIME Magazine
http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0, 8599,1903175,00.html
June 9 2009
"If Armenians are to be great then they have to pray," says Father
Gabriel Sargsyan. "As long as there is one Armenian left, there will
be a church." Perhaps, but only a handful of the 50 or so Armenians
left in Khartoum have turned up for mass -- held in the evening,
because Sunday is a working day in the capital of predominantly Muslim
Sudan. After the service, the small group sits on the porch of the
St. Gregory Armenian Church, sipping sugary coffee and remembering
the days when the pews used to be full.
Despite the Khartoum government having 'Islamized' the north of the
country through the imposition of Shari'a law, there is no sense of
religious persecution here at St. Gregory's. Leaders of the Armenian
and the neighboring Ethiopian Orthodox churches say they feel safe
in Khartoum, and that the persecution of Catholics and Protestants
from southern Sudan is a product of the country's north-south power
struggle -- the small Orthodox Christian communities pose no threat
to the predominantly Muslim government. "We respect the law of the
land and stay out of trouble," says Eyasu Tadele, an official of
Khartoum's Ethiopian Orthodox Church. (See pictures of Darfur.)
The Ethiopian Church, in fact, fares somewhat better than its Armenian
neighbor, attracting a flood of worshippers every Sunday. That may
be a product of shifting patterns of immigration. Many Armenians
came to Sudan as refugees from the mass murder in Turkey that began
in 1915, while a second wave of immigrants arrived in the 1950s,
seeking opportunities in the newly independent country. St. Gregory's
opened its doors in 1957, and at its peak, the congregation was 2,000
strong. But many have since left in search of opportunity in Europe
and North America, while the Ethiopian expatriate community in Sudan
has steadily grown. "First they were coming because of the political
crisis and now because of economic reasons," says Tadele.
As much as he appreciates the company of his Christian neighbors,
Father Gabriel is concerned that several Armenians have married
Ethiopian Christians and Copts, producing children who are taught
Arabic or Amharic rather than Armenian. "When one person stops speaking
Armenian, our Diaspora is lost," he says. That's why he's working hard
to resuscitate the old church school to teach the Armenian language,
although with wealthier members of the community having emigrated, he
struggles to find the necessary funds. More families are contemplating
leaving for fear of a new season of instability as fallout from the
international arrest warrant accusing President Omar al-Bashir of war
crimes in Darfur. Only a few children remain at the school, but Father
Gabriel would be happy to teach even just one student. "Armenia lives
through our language," he says.
One Sudanese Armenian who claims he will never leave is Jeriar Homer
Charles Bozadjian, whose family history in Sudan dates back 100
years. Bozadjian runs a restaurant called Big Bite in Khartoum. "I
have never seen Armenia," he says. "Sudan is my home."
Despite the imposition of Shari'a law, "This is not like Saudi Arabia,"
says Wafaa Babikier, who studies Management at Ahfad University for
Women in Omdurman city. "Girls have the freedom to do everything." Not
everyone answers the call to prayer; women drive cars and attend
co-ed universities; and they outnumber men in many offices and
educational institutions. Others, like Alfred Taban, editor of the
Khartoum Monitor, demur, warning that behind the facade of tolerance
is a more hard-core Islamist outlook. "A foreigner would not notice,"
he says. Taban claims to have been whipped for drinking alcohol in
a traditional toast at the birth of a relative's son.
But Bozadjian aggressively defends his homeland's plurality. "Sudan is
a unique country," he says. "Muslims helped to build this church." But
others note that many Armenians left Sudan after their properties were
confiscated under the radical regime of President Jaafar Nimeiri during
the 1970s. Elizabeth Jinjinian, a 70-year-old businesswoman, recalls
how the land of the Armenian club was taken away when the community
began to shrink, "We used to have many balls, picnics and parties."
Often tempted to join her sons in London or New York, Jinjinian has
stayed on to run her small cosmetics business, which has survived
years of war and sanctions. "Exports and imports dried up," she
says. "We had to get goods into the country in suitcases."
Despite the resilience of many of the community's veterans, the efforts
of Father Gabriel to sustain his culture in this corner of the Armenian
Diaspora face mounting odds. Indeed, the priest himself is slated to
leave soon, because the community no longer has the funds to support
him. He hopes someone in the community will step forward to run his
school. "If you have a school, your nation is going on," he says.
The collective memory of the horrors of 1915 may be the most powerful
factor in sustaining the community's identity. On the dusty church
verandah, Jinjinian animatedly narrates the tale of her mother's
escape from Turkey after her grandparents were killed. "She was
at the dressmakers so she was saved." Her tale is well known to the
congregants, but everyone listens respectfully as a warm breeze ushers
in another hot summer.
TIME Magazine
http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0, 8599,1903175,00.html
June 9 2009
"If Armenians are to be great then they have to pray," says Father
Gabriel Sargsyan. "As long as there is one Armenian left, there will
be a church." Perhaps, but only a handful of the 50 or so Armenians
left in Khartoum have turned up for mass -- held in the evening,
because Sunday is a working day in the capital of predominantly Muslim
Sudan. After the service, the small group sits on the porch of the
St. Gregory Armenian Church, sipping sugary coffee and remembering
the days when the pews used to be full.
Despite the Khartoum government having 'Islamized' the north of the
country through the imposition of Shari'a law, there is no sense of
religious persecution here at St. Gregory's. Leaders of the Armenian
and the neighboring Ethiopian Orthodox churches say they feel safe
in Khartoum, and that the persecution of Catholics and Protestants
from southern Sudan is a product of the country's north-south power
struggle -- the small Orthodox Christian communities pose no threat
to the predominantly Muslim government. "We respect the law of the
land and stay out of trouble," says Eyasu Tadele, an official of
Khartoum's Ethiopian Orthodox Church. (See pictures of Darfur.)
The Ethiopian Church, in fact, fares somewhat better than its Armenian
neighbor, attracting a flood of worshippers every Sunday. That may
be a product of shifting patterns of immigration. Many Armenians
came to Sudan as refugees from the mass murder in Turkey that began
in 1915, while a second wave of immigrants arrived in the 1950s,
seeking opportunities in the newly independent country. St. Gregory's
opened its doors in 1957, and at its peak, the congregation was 2,000
strong. But many have since left in search of opportunity in Europe
and North America, while the Ethiopian expatriate community in Sudan
has steadily grown. "First they were coming because of the political
crisis and now because of economic reasons," says Tadele.
As much as he appreciates the company of his Christian neighbors,
Father Gabriel is concerned that several Armenians have married
Ethiopian Christians and Copts, producing children who are taught
Arabic or Amharic rather than Armenian. "When one person stops speaking
Armenian, our Diaspora is lost," he says. That's why he's working hard
to resuscitate the old church school to teach the Armenian language,
although with wealthier members of the community having emigrated, he
struggles to find the necessary funds. More families are contemplating
leaving for fear of a new season of instability as fallout from the
international arrest warrant accusing President Omar al-Bashir of war
crimes in Darfur. Only a few children remain at the school, but Father
Gabriel would be happy to teach even just one student. "Armenia lives
through our language," he says.
One Sudanese Armenian who claims he will never leave is Jeriar Homer
Charles Bozadjian, whose family history in Sudan dates back 100
years. Bozadjian runs a restaurant called Big Bite in Khartoum. "I
have never seen Armenia," he says. "Sudan is my home."
Despite the imposition of Shari'a law, "This is not like Saudi Arabia,"
says Wafaa Babikier, who studies Management at Ahfad University for
Women in Omdurman city. "Girls have the freedom to do everything." Not
everyone answers the call to prayer; women drive cars and attend
co-ed universities; and they outnumber men in many offices and
educational institutions. Others, like Alfred Taban, editor of the
Khartoum Monitor, demur, warning that behind the facade of tolerance
is a more hard-core Islamist outlook. "A foreigner would not notice,"
he says. Taban claims to have been whipped for drinking alcohol in
a traditional toast at the birth of a relative's son.
But Bozadjian aggressively defends his homeland's plurality. "Sudan is
a unique country," he says. "Muslims helped to build this church." But
others note that many Armenians left Sudan after their properties were
confiscated under the radical regime of President Jaafar Nimeiri during
the 1970s. Elizabeth Jinjinian, a 70-year-old businesswoman, recalls
how the land of the Armenian club was taken away when the community
began to shrink, "We used to have many balls, picnics and parties."
Often tempted to join her sons in London or New York, Jinjinian has
stayed on to run her small cosmetics business, which has survived
years of war and sanctions. "Exports and imports dried up," she
says. "We had to get goods into the country in suitcases."
Despite the resilience of many of the community's veterans, the efforts
of Father Gabriel to sustain his culture in this corner of the Armenian
Diaspora face mounting odds. Indeed, the priest himself is slated to
leave soon, because the community no longer has the funds to support
him. He hopes someone in the community will step forward to run his
school. "If you have a school, your nation is going on," he says.
The collective memory of the horrors of 1915 may be the most powerful
factor in sustaining the community's identity. On the dusty church
verandah, Jinjinian animatedly narrates the tale of her mother's
escape from Turkey after her grandparents were killed. "She was
at the dressmakers so she was saved." Her tale is well known to the
congregants, but everyone listens respectfully as a warm breeze ushers
in another hot summer.