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SAINT LAZARUS, THE PERSECUTED
Osservatorio Balcani e Caucaso
Oct 23 2012
Italy
Paolo Martino
'Everybody talks about Syria, but nobody does anything. Instead of
stopping the whips, people count while we are being flogged. How is
that possible?' Ibrahim is twenty years-old, lives in Damascus and
longs for a different Syria. The last episode of "From the Caucasus
to Beirut", a journey on the discovery of the Middle-Eastern Armenian
diaspora
>From my journal. December 11 Ibrahim keeps the window down, sowing his
young ideas in the still noon air. His words are sharp like stone. In
those words, the awakening of a generation is fulfilled. The Arab
Spring is first and foremost a process of verbal re-appropriation,
the conquering of a new, fulfilled expressive dimension. Even if the
regime survives itself, even if Assad and his courtiers remain on
the throne, unknown heroes like Ibrahim will still have picked the
most beautiful flower of their Spring: the strength to speak.
Al Tall, a twenty-minute drive from centre-city Damascus. The store
shutters rolled up are filled with merchandise, children run to their
Mothers on their way out of school. As in Damascus, life flows by
always the same; as in the capital, everything seems to be in its
place. The same stubborn normalcy repeated and awaiting the looming
change. All of a sudden, Ibrahim stops in front of the post office:
'We wrote those last Friday during the demonstration'. The eyes are
lifted up to the third floor, where slogans of protest against the
regime cover the plaster. 'It's not easy to erase them up there'. As a
cascade of verses, the writings come down to the ground floor. Passers
by discretely read them pretending to do something else.
'Welcome, our home is your home'. Mahmud and Khalil, Ibrahim's Father
and Brother, are sitting with their legs crossed around the mezze,
a dish of pasta with chickpeas, yoghurt and olive oil. Reporters have
never visited them, banned by the regime till popular demonstrations
took to the streets. 'Our silence days are over'. Old Mahmud pours
mint and limonella tea. 'Why hide if the regime punishes everyone
indiscriminately?'
Ibrahim is twenty, but his gaze makes him look twice as older. In the
Umayyad Mosque, throbbing heart of old Damascus, he stood apart along
with a group of fellow university students, on March 18th, waiting for
the great Friday prayer to end. While the faithful were slowly coming
out of the prayer room, the boys started singing choruses of protest,
echoing the rebellion started four months earlier in Tunisia. 'The
Umayyad Mosque represents this Country's immense history, humbled
for the past forty years by Assad's dictatorship. That's why we met
there'. The secret service knew everything. 'They were waiting for us
at the gate, no uniforms, armed with canes. I don't know how long they
detained us, the light is always the same, when you're underground'.
The whole family was arrested about a month later. Ibrahim nods as his
Father goes over the endless night when the special forces broke in
their house. 'They blindfolded us with our own shirts, handcuffed us
and threw us in the middle of the street'. On the van, tens of other
prisoners. 'They insulted our wives and sisters. If anybody responded,
they would end up in the torturers' hands once we got to the prison'.
That night, Al Tall saw over 1.500 people get arrested. The three
were released after four endless days. 'Many others have disappeared,
just vanished'. Mahmud takes leave. 'Everybody talks about Syria,
but nobody does anything. Instead of stopping the whips, people count
while we are being flogged. How is that possible?'
The road to the Saydnaya Monastery winds up through the soft slopes
of Qalamum. The vegetation keeps getting sparser and sparser, leaving
room for a timeless view, a photograph of a century when the stately
foundations of the church were laid down on the rock by the monks.
With worried eyes, Ibrahim looks down below at the sky over Damascus.
'It all depends on the sky. Only a UN no fly zone could stop the
massacres carried out by the helicopters during the demonstrations'. A
dense yellowish cloud is starting to gather over the capital. 'The
revolution is going to win anyway, but for me time is of the essence.
In a few months, I'm going to be called up for the draft. If the
regime doesn't fall before that, I'll have to run away'. Thousands
of young Syrians are in his same situation. 'I will never point a
gun at my people'.
Christian and Muslim families stroll among the kiosks and chapels of
the Monastery of Our Lady, where Ibrahim speaks without the fear of
being heard. 'A Sunnite like me knows that his career is bound to be
mediocre'. The thread of reasoning weaves desires and expectations
for a society based on equality, equal rights, meritocracy. 'I can
see that minorities fear change'. The outlines of a crucifix look
like a seal over the sunset. 'But Christians, Jews, Alawites, Kurds,
Armenians, Druze and Sunnites lived in peace in this region long before
the Assad dictatorship set in. This - he concludes - is also their
revolution. When it's over, differences will mean nothing any more'.
>From my journal. December 12 My last night in Damascus is vibrating
with thoughts. 'When you come back to visit us - Ibrahim promises
before falling asleep - Syria will be a different Country'. In the
darkness of the room, the revolution seems to fill every space,
until it takes your breath away. Without the support of minorities,
the protest is sliding over to become a civil war. It is going to be
Lebanon again, Iraq again. Courage and tyranny will learn to quickly
swap clothes, and once again history will offer its children but one
alternative: continue to survive.
There is no more room to take notes, I did not have the courage to
carry my journal with me and the tourist guide only has 3-4 blank
pages. I am leaving Damascus tomorrow. I will be home for Christmas
after one year travelling. Good night, Ibrahim.
Epilogue The steamboat approaches the isle of San Lazzaro degli Armeni,
riding the waves of the Lagoon while, on the opposite side, the outline
of Venice is becoming more and more blurred. The small isle hosts
the most manifest traces of the Armenian presence in Italy. On the
quay, the custodian welcomes a small group of visitors in the early
afternoon. "Welcome". Kevork is an Armenian from Lebanon and has the
simple features of the many Armenians met between the Caucasus and
Beirut. 'I have been in Italy for 30 years, now. I rarely go back to
Lebanon and only for a few days'. A sad smile crosses his face.
'Beirut will never be the same, after the civil war. It's impossible
to re-educate the people who have lead us for 25 years unrestrained'.
The low sun reflects on the still waters of the Lagoon while, in the
silence surrounding the isle, even thoughts seem to make noise.
Sitting on the pier, alone, I take out the last cigarette from the
packet I bought at the airport in Yerevan. The torch that Tamar holds
in her hand is still burning, renewing the desperate call for a man
that will never come. The legendary woman portrayed on the packet gives
the name to the Isle of Aktamar, on Van's lake, Armenian sanctuary of
silence. Just like San Lazzaro. Tamar has been looking for her man for
too long. Her lover drowned in the abyss too long ago while swimming to
her. The packet floats on the dense surface of the Lagoon, until Tamar
finally sinks to her destiny. And the legend is ready to be told again.
http://www.balcanicaucaso.org/eng/Dossiers/From-the-Caucasus-to-Beirut/From-the-Caucasus-to-Beirut/Saint-Lazarus-the-persecuted-124565
From: A. Papazian
Osservatorio Balcani e Caucaso
Oct 23 2012
Italy
Paolo Martino
'Everybody talks about Syria, but nobody does anything. Instead of
stopping the whips, people count while we are being flogged. How is
that possible?' Ibrahim is twenty years-old, lives in Damascus and
longs for a different Syria. The last episode of "From the Caucasus
to Beirut", a journey on the discovery of the Middle-Eastern Armenian
diaspora
>From my journal. December 11 Ibrahim keeps the window down, sowing his
young ideas in the still noon air. His words are sharp like stone. In
those words, the awakening of a generation is fulfilled. The Arab
Spring is first and foremost a process of verbal re-appropriation,
the conquering of a new, fulfilled expressive dimension. Even if the
regime survives itself, even if Assad and his courtiers remain on
the throne, unknown heroes like Ibrahim will still have picked the
most beautiful flower of their Spring: the strength to speak.
Al Tall, a twenty-minute drive from centre-city Damascus. The store
shutters rolled up are filled with merchandise, children run to their
Mothers on their way out of school. As in Damascus, life flows by
always the same; as in the capital, everything seems to be in its
place. The same stubborn normalcy repeated and awaiting the looming
change. All of a sudden, Ibrahim stops in front of the post office:
'We wrote those last Friday during the demonstration'. The eyes are
lifted up to the third floor, where slogans of protest against the
regime cover the plaster. 'It's not easy to erase them up there'. As a
cascade of verses, the writings come down to the ground floor. Passers
by discretely read them pretending to do something else.
'Welcome, our home is your home'. Mahmud and Khalil, Ibrahim's Father
and Brother, are sitting with their legs crossed around the mezze,
a dish of pasta with chickpeas, yoghurt and olive oil. Reporters have
never visited them, banned by the regime till popular demonstrations
took to the streets. 'Our silence days are over'. Old Mahmud pours
mint and limonella tea. 'Why hide if the regime punishes everyone
indiscriminately?'
Ibrahim is twenty, but his gaze makes him look twice as older. In the
Umayyad Mosque, throbbing heart of old Damascus, he stood apart along
with a group of fellow university students, on March 18th, waiting for
the great Friday prayer to end. While the faithful were slowly coming
out of the prayer room, the boys started singing choruses of protest,
echoing the rebellion started four months earlier in Tunisia. 'The
Umayyad Mosque represents this Country's immense history, humbled
for the past forty years by Assad's dictatorship. That's why we met
there'. The secret service knew everything. 'They were waiting for us
at the gate, no uniforms, armed with canes. I don't know how long they
detained us, the light is always the same, when you're underground'.
The whole family was arrested about a month later. Ibrahim nods as his
Father goes over the endless night when the special forces broke in
their house. 'They blindfolded us with our own shirts, handcuffed us
and threw us in the middle of the street'. On the van, tens of other
prisoners. 'They insulted our wives and sisters. If anybody responded,
they would end up in the torturers' hands once we got to the prison'.
That night, Al Tall saw over 1.500 people get arrested. The three
were released after four endless days. 'Many others have disappeared,
just vanished'. Mahmud takes leave. 'Everybody talks about Syria,
but nobody does anything. Instead of stopping the whips, people count
while we are being flogged. How is that possible?'
The road to the Saydnaya Monastery winds up through the soft slopes
of Qalamum. The vegetation keeps getting sparser and sparser, leaving
room for a timeless view, a photograph of a century when the stately
foundations of the church were laid down on the rock by the monks.
With worried eyes, Ibrahim looks down below at the sky over Damascus.
'It all depends on the sky. Only a UN no fly zone could stop the
massacres carried out by the helicopters during the demonstrations'. A
dense yellowish cloud is starting to gather over the capital. 'The
revolution is going to win anyway, but for me time is of the essence.
In a few months, I'm going to be called up for the draft. If the
regime doesn't fall before that, I'll have to run away'. Thousands
of young Syrians are in his same situation. 'I will never point a
gun at my people'.
Christian and Muslim families stroll among the kiosks and chapels of
the Monastery of Our Lady, where Ibrahim speaks without the fear of
being heard. 'A Sunnite like me knows that his career is bound to be
mediocre'. The thread of reasoning weaves desires and expectations
for a society based on equality, equal rights, meritocracy. 'I can
see that minorities fear change'. The outlines of a crucifix look
like a seal over the sunset. 'But Christians, Jews, Alawites, Kurds,
Armenians, Druze and Sunnites lived in peace in this region long before
the Assad dictatorship set in. This - he concludes - is also their
revolution. When it's over, differences will mean nothing any more'.
>From my journal. December 12 My last night in Damascus is vibrating
with thoughts. 'When you come back to visit us - Ibrahim promises
before falling asleep - Syria will be a different Country'. In the
darkness of the room, the revolution seems to fill every space,
until it takes your breath away. Without the support of minorities,
the protest is sliding over to become a civil war. It is going to be
Lebanon again, Iraq again. Courage and tyranny will learn to quickly
swap clothes, and once again history will offer its children but one
alternative: continue to survive.
There is no more room to take notes, I did not have the courage to
carry my journal with me and the tourist guide only has 3-4 blank
pages. I am leaving Damascus tomorrow. I will be home for Christmas
after one year travelling. Good night, Ibrahim.
Epilogue The steamboat approaches the isle of San Lazzaro degli Armeni,
riding the waves of the Lagoon while, on the opposite side, the outline
of Venice is becoming more and more blurred. The small isle hosts
the most manifest traces of the Armenian presence in Italy. On the
quay, the custodian welcomes a small group of visitors in the early
afternoon. "Welcome". Kevork is an Armenian from Lebanon and has the
simple features of the many Armenians met between the Caucasus and
Beirut. 'I have been in Italy for 30 years, now. I rarely go back to
Lebanon and only for a few days'. A sad smile crosses his face.
'Beirut will never be the same, after the civil war. It's impossible
to re-educate the people who have lead us for 25 years unrestrained'.
The low sun reflects on the still waters of the Lagoon while, in the
silence surrounding the isle, even thoughts seem to make noise.
Sitting on the pier, alone, I take out the last cigarette from the
packet I bought at the airport in Yerevan. The torch that Tamar holds
in her hand is still burning, renewing the desperate call for a man
that will never come. The legendary woman portrayed on the packet gives
the name to the Isle of Aktamar, on Van's lake, Armenian sanctuary of
silence. Just like San Lazzaro. Tamar has been looking for her man for
too long. Her lover drowned in the abyss too long ago while swimming to
her. The packet floats on the dense surface of the Lagoon, until Tamar
finally sinks to her destiny. And the legend is ready to be told again.
http://www.balcanicaucaso.org/eng/Dossiers/From-the-Caucasus-to-Beirut/From-the-Caucasus-to-Beirut/Saint-Lazarus-the-persecuted-124565
From: A. Papazian