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WELCOME AMONG THE LEBANON ARMENIANS
Osservatorio Balcani e Caucaso
http://www.balcanicaucaso.org/eng/Dossiers/From-the-Caucasus-to-Beirut/From-the-Caucasus-to-Beirut/Welcome-among-the-Lebanon-Armenians-119048
July 10 2012
Italy
In the Bekaa valley, in Lebanon, in the company of Hrayer, a boy
from the local Armenian community. Among fruit trees, vegetables and
a tragic past. The first episode of the report "From the Caucasus
to Beirut"
Hrayer slits the darkness step by step, trusting sporadic clues on
the ground. Sudden rays of light cross the snowy cap of Mount Lebanon,
calling the new day. "We're there, better not to get too close to the
border". The big boy sinks into the gravel, settling down for a break.
The hand reaching towards South points at a pass, already cleared up
of the aurora about to conquer this side of the sky. "If you keep
going along the ridge, and pass that saddle, you're in Syria". The
word leaves behind a trail of silence.
Under the pan, straw is burning like gasoline, with no smoke. The
water is already boiling. "A few months ago, I would have gone with
you up to that point and over, but now the border is a minefield".
While Hrayer pours the tea, a crackling of stones and hoofs anticipates
two horse riders, coming down the side of the mountain.
Hrayer offers them a cup, but they just raise their arms without
stopping, rolling down towards the valley. "Smugglers?". It is the
first word I have uttered since waking up. Hrayer blows on the steam,
while his head nods.
Down the valley, a morning SUV's window spreads the triumphant
atmospheres of Aram Khachaturian, the Armenian composer who enchanted
Stalin, lifting the space between us and Anjar, the village from which
we left in the middle of the night. Hrayer smiles, while daybreak
bursts into a flood of light that gives the Bekaa valley back the
colours of its plantations. We finally savour our sweet tea. "Welcome
among the Lebanon Armenians".
>From my diary, October 5thI have lived in Beirut for almost a year
now. Time is running out. Again, Rafi tells me that my interest in the
Armenian diaspora will lead me nowhere. "Of us Lebanese Armenians what
you will soon hear is what has always been said about all Armenians
throughout history: they came, they built schools and churches -
then they left". To justify the decay of the present, Rafi sinks his
fingers in history's wounds: "Look at Ani. The millennial capital of an
immeasurable Armenian empire is now forgotten, in a corner on Turkish
soil, left to wind and rocks. We Middle-Eastern Armenians are sinking
just like Ani". Rafi's shoe factory has not produced at full stretch
for too long; hanging from the wall are bent pictures from the early
'70s, when the Lebanese civil war was a nightmare that could still be
put off. Amongst his employees, two Shiite workers, a Sunnite turner,
a Kurdish shoemaker, two Syrian hand labourers and an old Maronite
sewer: not even an Armenian, even though production is in the heart
of Burj Hammoud, the part of Beirut that for a century has been the
home of the largest Armenian community in the Middle-East. In trying
to dishearten me, Rafi increases my curiosity for this world that
has begun its journey towards disappearance.
Stripped from the pruning, the rows of almond and apple trees put
up no resistance to the unceasing wind in the valley, while in the
ditches squaring the 80.000 acres of Anjar run four fingers of clear
water. "They were designed by the engineers of the French army in
the early '40s, when we were assigned this land".
Strolling down the plots surrounding Anjar, Hrayer goes over the
history of his people as if reading on each clod the memoires of
generations of Armenians that worked this land before him. "Oranges
and pomegranates grow better at the foot of the mount we climbed this
morning, as it is less windy and the sun is warmer. This part is good
for vegetables, vegetables always need a lot of water". Crouching
over the edge of a cement compound, Hrayer drinks from his full hands.
Hrayer, my Armenian guide, in the Bekaa valley About a century ago,
while Anatolia was witnessing the Armenian genocide, in the Gulf of
Alexandretta the seven Armenian villages of Musa Dagh put up an armed
resistance that held its own against the Ottoman troops for a few
weeks. Saved by a transiting French fleet, the survivors were able
to return to their homes after four years, when in 1919 mandatory
France expanded its Syrian dominions up to the Orontes river. At the
break of World War II, though, Paris exchanged that region with the
promise of Istanbul's neutrality in the imminent conflict, and Musa
Dagh returned under Turkish sovereignty. The compensation offered
to the Armenians was a pocket-handkerchief plot in the Bekaa valley,
in French mandatory Lebanon, where refugees arrived, after two months
travelling, the evening of September 12th 1939, and founded Anjar.
"Tomorrow morning we are going to look for Angel, Anjar's oldest
woman". Hrayer is toasting kefte, skewers of spicy minced meat, on the
embers taken from the heart of the bonfire, while only silence comes
from the darkness Bekaa has sunk into. "She can tell you about the
childhood in Musa Dagh, the escape, the harsh early years in Lebanon".
At the height of over 1.000 meters, in the valley, the cold of the
first two winters killed 800, one every seven, out of the 5.500
refugees arrived in 1939. "Of everything you see here", Hrayer
smiles, almost as if his eyes could penetrate the darkness, "there
was nothing. The refugees scraped roots for food, and lived in tents
made of rags. The Musa Dagh combatants' resistance against the Ottoman
soldiers, in 1919, was not the harshest battle for my ancestors.
Bekaa's winter was a far more lethal enemy".
-The reportage -- -By moving to Lebanon, the destiny of the Musa Dagh
refugees collided with that of the hundreds of thousands of Armenians
that 20 years earlier had found refuge in the Arab Middle-East.
Aleppo, Baghdad, Damascus, Amman: the list of the cities where the
Armenian survivors of the genocide settled comprises the names of all
Levantine capitals. Places where cosmopolitanism, language blending,
a multi-religion-based society and the co-existence of various economic
and social models gave the exiles wide room for integration. However,
scattered across the four corners of Mesopotamia, the new-born diaspora
constantly felt the calling of a place that was quickly becoming a
synonymous with opportunity, work, development, citizenship, freedom:
the place where the most articulate, hard-working, intrigued and
largest Armenian community in the Middle-East would take shape. The
place that would become mind, interpreter, spokespeople and armed
wing of the whole Armenian diaspora in the world: Beirut.
In the silence of Bekaa, I jump at my mobile ringing. "It's Rafi. Your
man has accepted to meet you here at the factory tomorrow morning. He
has a flight to Moscow in the early afternoon, I told him you would be
here". The lights of the truck taking me back to Beirut turn on the
yellow on the flags of Hezbollah, the Shiite militia controlling the
valley. The gruff beard and the turban of the leader Hassan Nasrallah,
number one most wanted by Israel and United States, are at every
intersection, every flyover, every lamppost, while down in the valley
Beirut's heart is already pounding with orange light. I only bid a
brief farewell to Hrayer, apparently: the tracks I am following draw a
trail that will soon cross his again. Meanwhile, my mind plunges into
a nebula of faces, places and suggestions gathered during the months
spent close to the Armenian diaspora in preparation for tomorrow
morning's meeting. I will finally put a face to the man I had been
awaiting for months, Sarop the warrior has accepted an interview.
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress
Osservatorio Balcani e Caucaso
http://www.balcanicaucaso.org/eng/Dossiers/From-the-Caucasus-to-Beirut/From-the-Caucasus-to-Beirut/Welcome-among-the-Lebanon-Armenians-119048
July 10 2012
Italy
In the Bekaa valley, in Lebanon, in the company of Hrayer, a boy
from the local Armenian community. Among fruit trees, vegetables and
a tragic past. The first episode of the report "From the Caucasus
to Beirut"
Hrayer slits the darkness step by step, trusting sporadic clues on
the ground. Sudden rays of light cross the snowy cap of Mount Lebanon,
calling the new day. "We're there, better not to get too close to the
border". The big boy sinks into the gravel, settling down for a break.
The hand reaching towards South points at a pass, already cleared up
of the aurora about to conquer this side of the sky. "If you keep
going along the ridge, and pass that saddle, you're in Syria". The
word leaves behind a trail of silence.
Under the pan, straw is burning like gasoline, with no smoke. The
water is already boiling. "A few months ago, I would have gone with
you up to that point and over, but now the border is a minefield".
While Hrayer pours the tea, a crackling of stones and hoofs anticipates
two horse riders, coming down the side of the mountain.
Hrayer offers them a cup, but they just raise their arms without
stopping, rolling down towards the valley. "Smugglers?". It is the
first word I have uttered since waking up. Hrayer blows on the steam,
while his head nods.
Down the valley, a morning SUV's window spreads the triumphant
atmospheres of Aram Khachaturian, the Armenian composer who enchanted
Stalin, lifting the space between us and Anjar, the village from which
we left in the middle of the night. Hrayer smiles, while daybreak
bursts into a flood of light that gives the Bekaa valley back the
colours of its plantations. We finally savour our sweet tea. "Welcome
among the Lebanon Armenians".
>From my diary, October 5thI have lived in Beirut for almost a year
now. Time is running out. Again, Rafi tells me that my interest in the
Armenian diaspora will lead me nowhere. "Of us Lebanese Armenians what
you will soon hear is what has always been said about all Armenians
throughout history: they came, they built schools and churches -
then they left". To justify the decay of the present, Rafi sinks his
fingers in history's wounds: "Look at Ani. The millennial capital of an
immeasurable Armenian empire is now forgotten, in a corner on Turkish
soil, left to wind and rocks. We Middle-Eastern Armenians are sinking
just like Ani". Rafi's shoe factory has not produced at full stretch
for too long; hanging from the wall are bent pictures from the early
'70s, when the Lebanese civil war was a nightmare that could still be
put off. Amongst his employees, two Shiite workers, a Sunnite turner,
a Kurdish shoemaker, two Syrian hand labourers and an old Maronite
sewer: not even an Armenian, even though production is in the heart
of Burj Hammoud, the part of Beirut that for a century has been the
home of the largest Armenian community in the Middle-East. In trying
to dishearten me, Rafi increases my curiosity for this world that
has begun its journey towards disappearance.
Stripped from the pruning, the rows of almond and apple trees put
up no resistance to the unceasing wind in the valley, while in the
ditches squaring the 80.000 acres of Anjar run four fingers of clear
water. "They were designed by the engineers of the French army in
the early '40s, when we were assigned this land".
Strolling down the plots surrounding Anjar, Hrayer goes over the
history of his people as if reading on each clod the memoires of
generations of Armenians that worked this land before him. "Oranges
and pomegranates grow better at the foot of the mount we climbed this
morning, as it is less windy and the sun is warmer. This part is good
for vegetables, vegetables always need a lot of water". Crouching
over the edge of a cement compound, Hrayer drinks from his full hands.
Hrayer, my Armenian guide, in the Bekaa valley About a century ago,
while Anatolia was witnessing the Armenian genocide, in the Gulf of
Alexandretta the seven Armenian villages of Musa Dagh put up an armed
resistance that held its own against the Ottoman troops for a few
weeks. Saved by a transiting French fleet, the survivors were able
to return to their homes after four years, when in 1919 mandatory
France expanded its Syrian dominions up to the Orontes river. At the
break of World War II, though, Paris exchanged that region with the
promise of Istanbul's neutrality in the imminent conflict, and Musa
Dagh returned under Turkish sovereignty. The compensation offered
to the Armenians was a pocket-handkerchief plot in the Bekaa valley,
in French mandatory Lebanon, where refugees arrived, after two months
travelling, the evening of September 12th 1939, and founded Anjar.
"Tomorrow morning we are going to look for Angel, Anjar's oldest
woman". Hrayer is toasting kefte, skewers of spicy minced meat, on the
embers taken from the heart of the bonfire, while only silence comes
from the darkness Bekaa has sunk into. "She can tell you about the
childhood in Musa Dagh, the escape, the harsh early years in Lebanon".
At the height of over 1.000 meters, in the valley, the cold of the
first two winters killed 800, one every seven, out of the 5.500
refugees arrived in 1939. "Of everything you see here", Hrayer
smiles, almost as if his eyes could penetrate the darkness, "there
was nothing. The refugees scraped roots for food, and lived in tents
made of rags. The Musa Dagh combatants' resistance against the Ottoman
soldiers, in 1919, was not the harshest battle for my ancestors.
Bekaa's winter was a far more lethal enemy".
-The reportage -- -By moving to Lebanon, the destiny of the Musa Dagh
refugees collided with that of the hundreds of thousands of Armenians
that 20 years earlier had found refuge in the Arab Middle-East.
Aleppo, Baghdad, Damascus, Amman: the list of the cities where the
Armenian survivors of the genocide settled comprises the names of all
Levantine capitals. Places where cosmopolitanism, language blending,
a multi-religion-based society and the co-existence of various economic
and social models gave the exiles wide room for integration. However,
scattered across the four corners of Mesopotamia, the new-born diaspora
constantly felt the calling of a place that was quickly becoming a
synonymous with opportunity, work, development, citizenship, freedom:
the place where the most articulate, hard-working, intrigued and
largest Armenian community in the Middle-East would take shape. The
place that would become mind, interpreter, spokespeople and armed
wing of the whole Armenian diaspora in the world: Beirut.
In the silence of Bekaa, I jump at my mobile ringing. "It's Rafi. Your
man has accepted to meet you here at the factory tomorrow morning. He
has a flight to Moscow in the early afternoon, I told him you would be
here". The lights of the truck taking me back to Beirut turn on the
yellow on the flags of Hezbollah, the Shiite militia controlling the
valley. The gruff beard and the turban of the leader Hassan Nasrallah,
number one most wanted by Israel and United States, are at every
intersection, every flyover, every lamppost, while down in the valley
Beirut's heart is already pounding with orange light. I only bid a
brief farewell to Hrayer, apparently: the tracks I am following draw a
trail that will soon cross his again. Meanwhile, my mind plunges into
a nebula of faces, places and suggestions gathered during the months
spent close to the Armenian diaspora in preparation for tomorrow
morning's meeting. I will finally put a face to the man I had been
awaiting for months, Sarop the warrior has accepted an interview.
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress