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THE ARMENIANS OF MUSA DAGH
Osservatorio Balcani e Caucaso
Sept 14 2012
Italy
An Armenian, a Syrian and a Turk are playing cards in the only inn in
town. The three eldersliven up an empty room with ritual jokes, amidst
the vapor of coffee. Each of their lives is asynthesis of individual
and collective stories gone bad, forsaken like this place. The tenth
episode of the story "From the Caucasus to Beirut"
>From my journal. November 23rd.
The reflection of the orange light saturates the room, giving
the nightmares the stylized shapeof the shadows surrounding me. An
encrusted sink, sinuous in old-fashioned shapes; the siphonhanging on
the wall, damp with carelessness; a formica clothes stand, shiny from
wear. Themagnificence of an ancient Middle-Eastern capital implodes in
the torment of a sleepless hotel fortruckers and wheeler-dealers. Rise
soon, sun: put out this nauseating reflection of the light on thewalls,
kill solitude, finally tell me if your day will or will not see my
journey continue to Syria.
Antioch, a handful of kilometers North of the Turkish-Syrian border.
The Orontes river, a watertongue born from the perennial snows of
Mount Lebanon, cuts a luxurious city in half. Ancientbazaars for
centuries swarming with the same euphoric wish for small business;
restaurantsinvading the streets till late at night; Roman capitals
and columns integrated in the geometry ofan aesthetic Islam. The
Syrian civil war is only a half hour-drive away, but on the festive
riversidein Antioch, a city Ankara snatched away from Damascus only
70 years ago, no one seems to mind.Waiters take orders in Arabic,
renewing the perfect bilingualism of this young corner of Turkey.
Thursday morning. November is almost over, while the Syrian revolution
is already eight monthsold. The United Nations have announced yet
another ultimatum which (disregarded) will befollowed by yet other
sanctions. Just like every Friday, at the end of the most awaited
prayer ofthe week, Syrians will carry out a mass demonstration howling
with rage against the 40 year-old autocracy of the Assad dynasty. The
hundred thousand Armenians populating the Country, aminority amongst
minorities, children of the orphans of the genocide, will look out
their windowsin Aleppo and Damascus: they will witness the rush of
rage fill the streets, in the land that hasgenerously given them
shelter for a hundred years.
Everything is ready to cross the border. On the memory card in my
camera now I only have thepictures that any tourist with my visas on
their passport would have shot: Caucasian sunsets,snowy mountain tops,
children smiling, flocks pasturing. The other pictures, transferred on
a DVD,are already in Istanbul, along with the rest of the material:
notes, clippings, drawings, maps, lifestories. Again, I go over the
itinerary from Armenia to the Turkish-Syrian border ad nauseam: foreach
leg of the journey, I make up a subject: for each stop, an anecdote;
for each detail, a lie...so that, if asked, the month-long journey I
am leaving behind will appear to the Syrian customsofficers to only
be an insignificant whim of a solitary tourist on a trip out of season.
The Orontes invades the sea with its full spate force, flooding the
floor of the Mediterranean withmud. These shores, beat by the same
wind blowing on Beirut during rainy autumn afternoons,mark the last
leg of the journey before the most treacherous border. Amidst the
mountainscovered with a blanket of pine trees and closely chasing
the coast, a village of about ten souls hasbeen renewing its same
patient life every day for centuries. A handful of farmers and
shepherds'houses, gone unarmed through a violent history, is the
connection of a memory flow thatoriginates in the Armenian villages
of the Bekaa in Lebanon and lands in the suburbs of Yerevan, inArmenia.
It is Vakif, the last Armenian village of Turkey.
An aluminum sign swings squeaking on thin stands of steel. "Vakifli
koyu, Hosgeldiniz". Welcometo Vakif. The road winding along the slopes
of Musa Dagh, the Mountain of the Muses, stageto the most memorable
episode of the Armenian resistance against the Ottoman Troops,
iscontinuously beat by the wind. Along with five other villages in
the valley, Vakif is an importantpage in history for the battle that
on these very mountains saw a small group of Armenian civiliansoppose
the soldiers for forty days. The soldiers had come to deport them. The
civilians were finallysighted from the sea by a French ship: at the end
of their strength, the combatants fled bringingto safety only a red
cross sewn on a piece of white cloth that made them visible from the
sea.It was 1915. Today that flag is in the Bekaa valley, in Lebanon,
guarded in a glass shrine by thedescendants of the Musa Dagh heroes,
along with the pride of a gallant descent.
The slow walk climbing up to Vakif gives me time to compare the
ground with the maps of thebattle that I collected at the Musa Dagh
museum in the suburbs of Yerevan. Red arrows indicatethe directions
of the army attacks; black arrows in the opposite direction, even in
number, markthe withdrawals. In the end, eighteen Armenians died. The
eighteen martyrs of Musa Dagh.History has kept no trace of how many
casualties were among the regular troops. What is knownhistory, though,
is that the refugees found shelter in Port Said, Egypt. The adult men
enrolled in avoluntary battalion employed in the campaign to conquer
the Ottoman provinces of the MiddleEast. By 1917, the conquering of
Syria was complete, and the refugees of Musa Dagh were able toleave the
Egyptian tent city to return to the shades of these flourishing woods.
The grating around the Armenian Church in Vakif is locked. The
silence is broken only by the blowsof a salty wind. A gentleman,
torn between curiosity and indifference, is slowly coming closer.I
finish reading the inscription telling the rest of the story. In 1939,
during World War II, Franceobtained neutrality from Ankara giving up
this land to Turkey. The Armenians of Musa Dagh lefteverything again,
this time to move to Lebanon. All of them, except for some: a group
remained,giving continuity to a very ancient human presence, to which
this small church bears witness. Inthe meantime, the gentleman has
overcome his fear. Two huge black eyes look closely at me. Hishand
up to his mouth, a very eloquent gesture. "Coffee?"
An Armenian, a Syrian and a Turk are playing cards in the only inn
in town. The three eldersliven up an empty room with ritual jokes,
amidst the vapor of coffee. Each of their lives is asynthesis
of individual and collective stories gone bad, forsaken like this
place. The Armenian, adescendant of the survivors of Musa Dagh, was an
emigrant to Germany for forty years as a Turk,like millions of other
Turks. The Syrian was forced to become a Turkish citizen in 1939,
when thisland switched sides. The Turk is the son of merchants who,
prior to the fall of the Ottoman empire,lived in Greece, on the Aegean
Sea. He settled here because of re-population policies by whichthe
repatriated Turks were assigned Armenian houses left empty. How much
history around onetable? How much of neglected memory dies in these
old men? I come out of the inn and lookdown the valley. The border
is down there, splitting this clear view in two.
The Syrian customs officer touches his moustache while shaking his
head. Illuminated by a milkyneon, the passport lies open on his table.
It has been lying there for hours, now, among piles ofbullets that
two soldiers are patiently inserting in the chargers. "Sometimes,
faxes take the wholenight, to get here. If I were you, I would
give up". The waiting room is empty: up until a few weeksago, it
was crowded with people and goods. Today, silence rules. Finally,
a policeman brings apiece of paper from upstairs.
>From my journal. November 25th I write to keep busy, to avoid meeting
the sharp gaze of the young officer on duty. Tidy, clean-shaven,
very short hair. Uniform ironed.
He must be my same age, but he seems to belong toanother world. I know
the fax is a farce, I know he is the one who makes the decisions,
aroundhere. And I know that he will never let me pass. His is the
thin face of a power feeling threatenedand who now recognizes and
speaks with his fellow officers only.
"Italian? I'm sorry, you can't cross here". The clock marks 1 in the
morning. I walk backwards andretrace the stretch of sky towering over
the no man's land. Stars big as nuts carefully watch overmy path.
While announcing the end of my journey, the officer never took his
eyes off a Turkishsoap opera on the colorless monitor of his small
television.
http://www.balcanicaucaso.org/eng/Dossiers/From-the-Caucasus-to-Beirut/From-the-Caucasus-to-Beirut/The-Armenians-of-Musa-Dagh-122276
Osservatorio Balcani e Caucaso
Sept 14 2012
Italy
An Armenian, a Syrian and a Turk are playing cards in the only inn in
town. The three eldersliven up an empty room with ritual jokes, amidst
the vapor of coffee. Each of their lives is asynthesis of individual
and collective stories gone bad, forsaken like this place. The tenth
episode of the story "From the Caucasus to Beirut"
>From my journal. November 23rd.
The reflection of the orange light saturates the room, giving
the nightmares the stylized shapeof the shadows surrounding me. An
encrusted sink, sinuous in old-fashioned shapes; the siphonhanging on
the wall, damp with carelessness; a formica clothes stand, shiny from
wear. Themagnificence of an ancient Middle-Eastern capital implodes in
the torment of a sleepless hotel fortruckers and wheeler-dealers. Rise
soon, sun: put out this nauseating reflection of the light on thewalls,
kill solitude, finally tell me if your day will or will not see my
journey continue to Syria.
Antioch, a handful of kilometers North of the Turkish-Syrian border.
The Orontes river, a watertongue born from the perennial snows of
Mount Lebanon, cuts a luxurious city in half. Ancientbazaars for
centuries swarming with the same euphoric wish for small business;
restaurantsinvading the streets till late at night; Roman capitals
and columns integrated in the geometry ofan aesthetic Islam. The
Syrian civil war is only a half hour-drive away, but on the festive
riversidein Antioch, a city Ankara snatched away from Damascus only
70 years ago, no one seems to mind.Waiters take orders in Arabic,
renewing the perfect bilingualism of this young corner of Turkey.
Thursday morning. November is almost over, while the Syrian revolution
is already eight monthsold. The United Nations have announced yet
another ultimatum which (disregarded) will befollowed by yet other
sanctions. Just like every Friday, at the end of the most awaited
prayer ofthe week, Syrians will carry out a mass demonstration howling
with rage against the 40 year-old autocracy of the Assad dynasty. The
hundred thousand Armenians populating the Country, aminority amongst
minorities, children of the orphans of the genocide, will look out
their windowsin Aleppo and Damascus: they will witness the rush of
rage fill the streets, in the land that hasgenerously given them
shelter for a hundred years.
Everything is ready to cross the border. On the memory card in my
camera now I only have thepictures that any tourist with my visas on
their passport would have shot: Caucasian sunsets,snowy mountain tops,
children smiling, flocks pasturing. The other pictures, transferred on
a DVD,are already in Istanbul, along with the rest of the material:
notes, clippings, drawings, maps, lifestories. Again, I go over the
itinerary from Armenia to the Turkish-Syrian border ad nauseam: foreach
leg of the journey, I make up a subject: for each stop, an anecdote;
for each detail, a lie...so that, if asked, the month-long journey I
am leaving behind will appear to the Syrian customsofficers to only
be an insignificant whim of a solitary tourist on a trip out of season.
The Orontes invades the sea with its full spate force, flooding the
floor of the Mediterranean withmud. These shores, beat by the same
wind blowing on Beirut during rainy autumn afternoons,mark the last
leg of the journey before the most treacherous border. Amidst the
mountainscovered with a blanket of pine trees and closely chasing
the coast, a village of about ten souls hasbeen renewing its same
patient life every day for centuries. A handful of farmers and
shepherds'houses, gone unarmed through a violent history, is the
connection of a memory flow thatoriginates in the Armenian villages
of the Bekaa in Lebanon and lands in the suburbs of Yerevan, inArmenia.
It is Vakif, the last Armenian village of Turkey.
An aluminum sign swings squeaking on thin stands of steel. "Vakifli
koyu, Hosgeldiniz". Welcometo Vakif. The road winding along the slopes
of Musa Dagh, the Mountain of the Muses, stageto the most memorable
episode of the Armenian resistance against the Ottoman Troops,
iscontinuously beat by the wind. Along with five other villages in
the valley, Vakif is an importantpage in history for the battle that
on these very mountains saw a small group of Armenian civiliansoppose
the soldiers for forty days. The soldiers had come to deport them. The
civilians were finallysighted from the sea by a French ship: at the end
of their strength, the combatants fled bringingto safety only a red
cross sewn on a piece of white cloth that made them visible from the
sea.It was 1915. Today that flag is in the Bekaa valley, in Lebanon,
guarded in a glass shrine by thedescendants of the Musa Dagh heroes,
along with the pride of a gallant descent.
The slow walk climbing up to Vakif gives me time to compare the
ground with the maps of thebattle that I collected at the Musa Dagh
museum in the suburbs of Yerevan. Red arrows indicatethe directions
of the army attacks; black arrows in the opposite direction, even in
number, markthe withdrawals. In the end, eighteen Armenians died. The
eighteen martyrs of Musa Dagh.History has kept no trace of how many
casualties were among the regular troops. What is knownhistory, though,
is that the refugees found shelter in Port Said, Egypt. The adult men
enrolled in avoluntary battalion employed in the campaign to conquer
the Ottoman provinces of the MiddleEast. By 1917, the conquering of
Syria was complete, and the refugees of Musa Dagh were able toleave the
Egyptian tent city to return to the shades of these flourishing woods.
The grating around the Armenian Church in Vakif is locked. The
silence is broken only by the blowsof a salty wind. A gentleman,
torn between curiosity and indifference, is slowly coming closer.I
finish reading the inscription telling the rest of the story. In 1939,
during World War II, Franceobtained neutrality from Ankara giving up
this land to Turkey. The Armenians of Musa Dagh lefteverything again,
this time to move to Lebanon. All of them, except for some: a group
remained,giving continuity to a very ancient human presence, to which
this small church bears witness. Inthe meantime, the gentleman has
overcome his fear. Two huge black eyes look closely at me. Hishand
up to his mouth, a very eloquent gesture. "Coffee?"
An Armenian, a Syrian and a Turk are playing cards in the only inn
in town. The three eldersliven up an empty room with ritual jokes,
amidst the vapor of coffee. Each of their lives is asynthesis
of individual and collective stories gone bad, forsaken like this
place. The Armenian, adescendant of the survivors of Musa Dagh, was an
emigrant to Germany for forty years as a Turk,like millions of other
Turks. The Syrian was forced to become a Turkish citizen in 1939,
when thisland switched sides. The Turk is the son of merchants who,
prior to the fall of the Ottoman empire,lived in Greece, on the Aegean
Sea. He settled here because of re-population policies by whichthe
repatriated Turks were assigned Armenian houses left empty. How much
history around onetable? How much of neglected memory dies in these
old men? I come out of the inn and lookdown the valley. The border
is down there, splitting this clear view in two.
The Syrian customs officer touches his moustache while shaking his
head. Illuminated by a milkyneon, the passport lies open on his table.
It has been lying there for hours, now, among piles ofbullets that
two soldiers are patiently inserting in the chargers. "Sometimes,
faxes take the wholenight, to get here. If I were you, I would
give up". The waiting room is empty: up until a few weeksago, it
was crowded with people and goods. Today, silence rules. Finally,
a policeman brings apiece of paper from upstairs.
>From my journal. November 25th I write to keep busy, to avoid meeting
the sharp gaze of the young officer on duty. Tidy, clean-shaven,
very short hair. Uniform ironed.
He must be my same age, but he seems to belong toanother world. I know
the fax is a farce, I know he is the one who makes the decisions,
aroundhere. And I know that he will never let me pass. His is the
thin face of a power feeling threatenedand who now recognizes and
speaks with his fellow officers only.
"Italian? I'm sorry, you can't cross here". The clock marks 1 in the
morning. I walk backwards andretrace the stretch of sky towering over
the no man's land. Stars big as nuts carefully watch overmy path.
While announcing the end of my journey, the officer never took his
eyes off a Turkishsoap opera on the colorless monitor of his small
television.
http://www.balcanicaucaso.org/eng/Dossiers/From-the-Caucasus-to-Beirut/From-the-Caucasus-to-Beirut/The-Armenians-of-Musa-Dagh-122276