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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.
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.