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DID GOMIDAS 'GO MAD'? WRITING A BOOK ON VARTABED'S TRAUMA
[ Part 2.2: "Attached Text" ]
Posted on July 24, 2013 by Meline
Karakashian in Featured, Headline, Opinion
The idea for this article came about when two individuals, one in
Armenia, the other in the United States, asked what had led me to write
a book on Komitas (Gomidas, in Western Armenian) and his psychological
state. Below, I share my story with readers of the Armenian Weekly.
1x1.trans Did Gomidas Go Mad? Writing a Book on Vartabed's Trauma
Komitas (1909 photo)
In 1994, an article appeared in the Armenian Reporter titled, "Story
of Gomidas' illness emerges in psychiatrist's study." The topic
intrigued me, and so I kept a clipping. Until then, I knew Komitas
as the great Armenian composer whose music I had heard and whose
songs I had sung in choruses. I also knew Komitas as my husband's
grandmother's-Marig's-cousin, who was breastfed by Marig's mother
after his mother passed away in 1870. Many years later, in 2001, I
read a book on a similar topic; Dr. Rita S. Kuyumjian inArcheology of
Madness posited that Komitas as a young boy was a wandering lad. My
husband's cousin, Zareh Tashjian, remembered his mother's-Marig's
daughter's-statement that Komitas was not homeless (Tashjian,
1995/2005), that he had a loving family.
I thought there must have been a reason for Komitas to wander, even
when he had an extended family that loved him. The contradiction
between Dr. Kuyumjian's statement and Tashjian's intrigued me even
more. Later in 2001, I heard a presentation with piano music by Dr.
Richard Kogan, a psychiatrist in New York, on Shumann's mental state
and creativity.
I then decided to do my own research and determine whether Komitas had
"gone mad" or not. Since the archives and references on Komitas are
found in Armenia, Europe, and the United States, the research became
both time-consuming and tedious. In addition, reading the details
about the tragic events of 1915-called the Great Crime, and later, the
Armenian Genocide-was very emotional for me, as a child of survivors
of the genocide and of the Great Fire of Smyrna, and I often had to
take breaks during my research. As a result, the study took years.
I first wrote the book in Western Armenian (published by the
Catholicosate Press in Antelias, through the Richard and Tina Carolan
Fund, and edited by Rev. K. Chiftjian, issue no. 11) in December
2011. While I continued my research, I had the book translated into
Eastern Armenian, and translated it into English myself. Both of
these versions are now ready for publication and will hopefully be
available to the reader soon, if I can secure funding.
What I discovered during the research process was as interesting as
the book itself-it indicated a shared psychology among Armenians
that has not yet been addressed nor studied in reference to the
genocide. Komitas, the genius, was not only an icon for the Armenian
people, but a symbol of the genocide. I discovered that the symbolism
of Komitas's plight was carved out in the creative literature of the
Soviet Armenian republic. In time, the information spread as truth:
He had gone mad after witnessing the horrors of the Great Crime.
In the Armenian Diaspora, too, this symbolism also took shape, but for
a different reason: Armenians were unable to verbally express their
deep-seated emotions. They did not have the words to tell about their
sadness and the losses they endured-the violent loss of loved ones,
the loss of family assets and belongings, the forced deportations,
the deaths of loved ones, and the elimination of a centuries-old
culture, traditions, schools, and churches. It was easy for some to
express anger, though not so easy for others, who swallowed their
pride and pain.
1x1.trans Did Gomidas Go Mad? Writing a Book on Vartabed's Trauma
Komitas to sister Marig
During my research for the Eastern Armenian version, titled The
Genocide Trauma and Armenian Identity, I found only one writer
who had expressed the Armenian psyche so poignantly. Arlene Oski
Avakian's Lion Woman's Legacy (the title refers to her grandmother)
writes that as a young child she noticed the difference in her family's
and her American neighbors' ability to express feelings.
In her family, feelings were expressed by offering food; they were
not verbalized. Even the men in her family kept their self-control
at all times, and suppressed feelings of anger. In a later article,
she writes about family narratives in reference to the genocide, and
states that what was not talked about was more important than what was.
It is interesting that this phenomenon has already been studied and
demonstrated by Yael Danieli, Ph.D., a psychologist. Danieli terms
it a "conspiracy of silence," when not only the victim survivors but
also their caretakers refrain from talking about tragic experiences.
The idea fascinated me.
In my own family, I had only heard my grandmother refer to the Great
Crime (or "sefer berlik") in her conversations with visiting compatriot
women friends when I was very young. As middle-aged women, they all
wore black; I did not realize then that they had lost their husbands
and children in 1915. I never heard any conversation about the genocide
in my family when I was growing up. My other grandmother always said,
"Let us not talk about the past, but look at the future." I never
imagined that talking about their losses could be so difficult for
them. I finally understood when, years later, an American asked me
why the word "genocide" was so important for me.
I came to understand my grandmothers when I answered, "It is not the
word genocide per se-which is a legal term, essential for recognition
of genocidal actions and reparations-but finding a word that describes
the enormity of what the Armenian people endured. What my father
described in his memoir (My Legacy, 2004) was so difficult, while
one word-genocide-collapses all of the atrocities in itself.
I, too, did not have the language to express the disturbing memories
that had been transmitted to me through my grandmothers and father.
One must think it silly that I went all the way to Gurun, Turkey-my
father's birthplace-to find the descendants of the neighbor to whom
my grandmother had entrusted her dear cow! Yet these are emotions
that we, Armenians, must cope with during our lifetime. (The Turks in
Gurun, meanwhile, wondered what unearthed gold must have been left
behind.) In a separate article, I will write about the concept of
the conspiracy of silence. For now, let us focus on Komitas.
I observed that in the diaspora, a public opinion had taken shape
that used Komitas's persona as a symbol of the genocide, much like
in Armenia. Throughout my research for the book, I wondered whether
Komitas had truly gone mad, what he had witnessed, and whether there
was a different explanation of the events we had come to know. In my
book, I've attempted to unearth and present the events, and allow
the reader to come to his own conclusions. I am hoping that in the
next volume, I will more specifically write about my psychological
analysis. For the sake of this article, what follows is a summary.
Komitas was born as Soghomon Soghomonian in 1869 in a Turkish-speaking
town, Kutahya, to a young couple that composed and sang folk music
in Turkish. He lost his mother during the first year of his life,
was nursed by his uncle's wife, and was cared for by his grandmother
and aunt. In 1873-75, Turkey faced a devastating famine. His family
had been wealthy, but became poor. His father, a shoemaker, grieved
the loss of his beloved wife. When Soghomon completed the four-year
primary Armenian school in town, his father sent him to Broussa to
continue his schooling; however, when his father died a few months
later, Soghomon had to return to Kutahya. He was sad and felt homeless,
in spite of the reports that his uncle's family loved him. He played in
the streets and some days "forgot" to go home. In 1881, he was chosen
to go to Etchmiadzin to study at the seminary. When Catholicos Kevork
IV asked why he had come to Etchmiadzin if he did not know Armenian,
young Soghomon replied, "but I can sing in Armenian!" And he sang
"Looys Zevart," moving the Catholicos so greatly, and assuring his
admission into the seminary. Soghomon had served on the altar in
Kutahya with his father and uncle. In Etchmiadzin, he soon learned
Armenian. As a young student and as the guest of a friend in a
nearby village, he was fascinated by the women singing folk songs
and took down notes. He later composed the music. Over the years,
his passion grew to collect and arrange Armenian folk songs (nearly
4,000 pieces in all). As a serious researcher, he also studied old
Armenian writings and attempted to decode the Armenian khazes (music
symbols). His scientific approach was unparalleled. After graduation,
Khrimian Hairig facilitated his musical education in Germany. There,
Komitas completed courses in the philosophy of music, piano playing,
and music in three years, impressing his teachers and audiences with
his exceptionally beautiful voice and talents. For the first time,
Europeans heard Armenian folk music, and were amazed by its beauty.
Komitas was named a founding member of the Berlin branch of the
International Music Society. Upon returning to Etchmiadzin, he aimed
to update his musical education by bringing with him new instruments,
and by forming multi-voice choruses. His musical programs included
folk and sacred music; in fact, he believed that they were one and the
same. His actions and ideas, however, upset a conservative faction in
Etchmiadzin. Komitas ignored them and continued modernizing Armenian
musical delivery. After Khrimian Hairig passed away in 1907, Komitas's
stay in Etchmiadzin became more problematic.
He wrote that he could not breathe, that he was suffocating in
Etchmiadzin. His formal request to become a hermit and continue
his work was denied. He finally decided to move to Constantinople,
a cultural hub at the time, and in 1910 left Etchmiadzin. In
Constantinople, he rented an apartment with renowned painter Panos
Terlemezian, held concerts, taught music and singing, prepared
presentations that he had given in Europe, and supported himself.
In April 1915, a few weeks after Turkish officials praised his fine
performance on stage and pointed out that a child of Anatolia had
gained prominence while Turkish clergy stayed idle, Komitas was
imprisoned with more than 200 Armenian intellectuals and community
leaders and was exiled-with no warning, no accusation, no due
process-to Chankiri. At Senjan Koey train station, the prisoners were
abruptly separated; some were sent to Ayash, some to Chankiri.
His good friend, Siamanto, who he had hoped to protect, was sent
to Ayash. Komitas's behavior changed along the exile route. A few
weeks later, while still in exile and officiating a church service,
word came that he would be sent back to Constantinople with a few
other notables. He returned and met a slew of women-wives, mothers,
sisters of prisoners-who asked about their loved ones.
The return was very difficult for Komitas. He started showing clear
signs of post-traumatic-stress disorder (PTSD), and his personality
changed such that his contemporaries, even physicians, could not
diagnose his condition properly. Since being scared of (vs. brave) or
angry at Turks-police were harassing Armenian citizens at time-were
unpopular feelings among Armenian citizens of Constantinople, his
friends, not understanding his PTSD reactions, considered him mad
and committed him to the Turkish Military Psychiatric Hospital.
Immediately after, they emptied his house and dispersed his belongings,
including his compositions and notes. Komitas expressed his anger,
but only served to confirm his so-called madness: At the psychiatric
hospital, he believed that the food given to him was inferior to
that given to Turkish patients. He refused to see some visitors,
accepted others. He continued to show signs of PTSD, which was not
understood nor diagnosed at the time. (Since accessing the records
of this psychiatric hospital is not possible, we do not know what
diagnosis he was given and if any treatment was offered or received.)
Three years later, his friends, seeing no change in Komitas, sent
him to Paris; a caretaking committee had been formed there that
followed his condition and admitted him in a private psychiatric
hospital. The treating psychiatrist, who later was transferred to
the Villejuif asylum and who had known Komitas for 13 years, wrote,
"I do not remember what diagnosis they gave him," that all Komitas
needed is a room and the attention of a psychiatrist with a light
load-namely, psychotherapy. The suggestion was made to send him
to Vienna, where he could be evaluated by Dr. Bleuler, but finances
precluded this luxury. Komitas stayed taciturn throughout these years,
refusing to accept old friends and seeing only new acquaintances. His
conversations, as reported by these visitors, indicated mental
abilities not seen in seriously ill psychiatric patients.
Now, does this mean that Komitas was not traumatized by the Great
Crimes of 1915? No, he was indeed traumatized. He knew full well what
was happening in the Ottoman Empire, perhaps better than the majority
of terrorized Armenians in Constantinople. When he stated that the
Turks should not be trusted, he was considered inappropriate. Even
in Paris, Armenians did not talk about the Great Crime, making only
passing reference to it. Why? Was it only fear of the Turks and
Turkish government, or were they in a conspiracy of silence?
As Armenians, we need to understand this and talk about our feelings in
reference to the genocide. A traumatic event and, especially, a series
of events block the proper expression of emotions. When such trauma as
the Armenian Genocide occurs, both young and old are unable to find
the words, the language, to express their feelings. The expression
of anger comes more easily than the expression of sadness and pain.
I hope I've clarified my reasons for writing this book on Komitas.
Copies of the Western Armenian version (and soon, the English
version) can be obtained by visiting www.amazon.com or by
e-mailing [email protected].
http://www.armenianweekly.com/2013/07/24/did-gomidas-go-mad-writing-a-book-o
n-vartabeds-trauma/
From: Baghdasarian
[ Part 2.2: "Attached Text" ]
Posted on July 24, 2013 by Meline
Karakashian in Featured, Headline, Opinion
The idea for this article came about when two individuals, one in
Armenia, the other in the United States, asked what had led me to write
a book on Komitas (Gomidas, in Western Armenian) and his psychological
state. Below, I share my story with readers of the Armenian Weekly.
1x1.trans Did Gomidas Go Mad? Writing a Book on Vartabed's Trauma
Komitas (1909 photo)
In 1994, an article appeared in the Armenian Reporter titled, "Story
of Gomidas' illness emerges in psychiatrist's study." The topic
intrigued me, and so I kept a clipping. Until then, I knew Komitas
as the great Armenian composer whose music I had heard and whose
songs I had sung in choruses. I also knew Komitas as my husband's
grandmother's-Marig's-cousin, who was breastfed by Marig's mother
after his mother passed away in 1870. Many years later, in 2001, I
read a book on a similar topic; Dr. Rita S. Kuyumjian inArcheology of
Madness posited that Komitas as a young boy was a wandering lad. My
husband's cousin, Zareh Tashjian, remembered his mother's-Marig's
daughter's-statement that Komitas was not homeless (Tashjian,
1995/2005), that he had a loving family.
I thought there must have been a reason for Komitas to wander, even
when he had an extended family that loved him. The contradiction
between Dr. Kuyumjian's statement and Tashjian's intrigued me even
more. Later in 2001, I heard a presentation with piano music by Dr.
Richard Kogan, a psychiatrist in New York, on Shumann's mental state
and creativity.
I then decided to do my own research and determine whether Komitas had
"gone mad" or not. Since the archives and references on Komitas are
found in Armenia, Europe, and the United States, the research became
both time-consuming and tedious. In addition, reading the details
about the tragic events of 1915-called the Great Crime, and later, the
Armenian Genocide-was very emotional for me, as a child of survivors
of the genocide and of the Great Fire of Smyrna, and I often had to
take breaks during my research. As a result, the study took years.
I first wrote the book in Western Armenian (published by the
Catholicosate Press in Antelias, through the Richard and Tina Carolan
Fund, and edited by Rev. K. Chiftjian, issue no. 11) in December
2011. While I continued my research, I had the book translated into
Eastern Armenian, and translated it into English myself. Both of
these versions are now ready for publication and will hopefully be
available to the reader soon, if I can secure funding.
What I discovered during the research process was as interesting as
the book itself-it indicated a shared psychology among Armenians
that has not yet been addressed nor studied in reference to the
genocide. Komitas, the genius, was not only an icon for the Armenian
people, but a symbol of the genocide. I discovered that the symbolism
of Komitas's plight was carved out in the creative literature of the
Soviet Armenian republic. In time, the information spread as truth:
He had gone mad after witnessing the horrors of the Great Crime.
In the Armenian Diaspora, too, this symbolism also took shape, but for
a different reason: Armenians were unable to verbally express their
deep-seated emotions. They did not have the words to tell about their
sadness and the losses they endured-the violent loss of loved ones,
the loss of family assets and belongings, the forced deportations,
the deaths of loved ones, and the elimination of a centuries-old
culture, traditions, schools, and churches. It was easy for some to
express anger, though not so easy for others, who swallowed their
pride and pain.
1x1.trans Did Gomidas Go Mad? Writing a Book on Vartabed's Trauma
Komitas to sister Marig
During my research for the Eastern Armenian version, titled The
Genocide Trauma and Armenian Identity, I found only one writer
who had expressed the Armenian psyche so poignantly. Arlene Oski
Avakian's Lion Woman's Legacy (the title refers to her grandmother)
writes that as a young child she noticed the difference in her family's
and her American neighbors' ability to express feelings.
In her family, feelings were expressed by offering food; they were
not verbalized. Even the men in her family kept their self-control
at all times, and suppressed feelings of anger. In a later article,
she writes about family narratives in reference to the genocide, and
states that what was not talked about was more important than what was.
It is interesting that this phenomenon has already been studied and
demonstrated by Yael Danieli, Ph.D., a psychologist. Danieli terms
it a "conspiracy of silence," when not only the victim survivors but
also their caretakers refrain from talking about tragic experiences.
The idea fascinated me.
In my own family, I had only heard my grandmother refer to the Great
Crime (or "sefer berlik") in her conversations with visiting compatriot
women friends when I was very young. As middle-aged women, they all
wore black; I did not realize then that they had lost their husbands
and children in 1915. I never heard any conversation about the genocide
in my family when I was growing up. My other grandmother always said,
"Let us not talk about the past, but look at the future." I never
imagined that talking about their losses could be so difficult for
them. I finally understood when, years later, an American asked me
why the word "genocide" was so important for me.
I came to understand my grandmothers when I answered, "It is not the
word genocide per se-which is a legal term, essential for recognition
of genocidal actions and reparations-but finding a word that describes
the enormity of what the Armenian people endured. What my father
described in his memoir (My Legacy, 2004) was so difficult, while
one word-genocide-collapses all of the atrocities in itself.
I, too, did not have the language to express the disturbing memories
that had been transmitted to me through my grandmothers and father.
One must think it silly that I went all the way to Gurun, Turkey-my
father's birthplace-to find the descendants of the neighbor to whom
my grandmother had entrusted her dear cow! Yet these are emotions
that we, Armenians, must cope with during our lifetime. (The Turks in
Gurun, meanwhile, wondered what unearthed gold must have been left
behind.) In a separate article, I will write about the concept of
the conspiracy of silence. For now, let us focus on Komitas.
I observed that in the diaspora, a public opinion had taken shape
that used Komitas's persona as a symbol of the genocide, much like
in Armenia. Throughout my research for the book, I wondered whether
Komitas had truly gone mad, what he had witnessed, and whether there
was a different explanation of the events we had come to know. In my
book, I've attempted to unearth and present the events, and allow
the reader to come to his own conclusions. I am hoping that in the
next volume, I will more specifically write about my psychological
analysis. For the sake of this article, what follows is a summary.
Komitas was born as Soghomon Soghomonian in 1869 in a Turkish-speaking
town, Kutahya, to a young couple that composed and sang folk music
in Turkish. He lost his mother during the first year of his life,
was nursed by his uncle's wife, and was cared for by his grandmother
and aunt. In 1873-75, Turkey faced a devastating famine. His family
had been wealthy, but became poor. His father, a shoemaker, grieved
the loss of his beloved wife. When Soghomon completed the four-year
primary Armenian school in town, his father sent him to Broussa to
continue his schooling; however, when his father died a few months
later, Soghomon had to return to Kutahya. He was sad and felt homeless,
in spite of the reports that his uncle's family loved him. He played in
the streets and some days "forgot" to go home. In 1881, he was chosen
to go to Etchmiadzin to study at the seminary. When Catholicos Kevork
IV asked why he had come to Etchmiadzin if he did not know Armenian,
young Soghomon replied, "but I can sing in Armenian!" And he sang
"Looys Zevart," moving the Catholicos so greatly, and assuring his
admission into the seminary. Soghomon had served on the altar in
Kutahya with his father and uncle. In Etchmiadzin, he soon learned
Armenian. As a young student and as the guest of a friend in a
nearby village, he was fascinated by the women singing folk songs
and took down notes. He later composed the music. Over the years,
his passion grew to collect and arrange Armenian folk songs (nearly
4,000 pieces in all). As a serious researcher, he also studied old
Armenian writings and attempted to decode the Armenian khazes (music
symbols). His scientific approach was unparalleled. After graduation,
Khrimian Hairig facilitated his musical education in Germany. There,
Komitas completed courses in the philosophy of music, piano playing,
and music in three years, impressing his teachers and audiences with
his exceptionally beautiful voice and talents. For the first time,
Europeans heard Armenian folk music, and were amazed by its beauty.
Komitas was named a founding member of the Berlin branch of the
International Music Society. Upon returning to Etchmiadzin, he aimed
to update his musical education by bringing with him new instruments,
and by forming multi-voice choruses. His musical programs included
folk and sacred music; in fact, he believed that they were one and the
same. His actions and ideas, however, upset a conservative faction in
Etchmiadzin. Komitas ignored them and continued modernizing Armenian
musical delivery. After Khrimian Hairig passed away in 1907, Komitas's
stay in Etchmiadzin became more problematic.
He wrote that he could not breathe, that he was suffocating in
Etchmiadzin. His formal request to become a hermit and continue
his work was denied. He finally decided to move to Constantinople,
a cultural hub at the time, and in 1910 left Etchmiadzin. In
Constantinople, he rented an apartment with renowned painter Panos
Terlemezian, held concerts, taught music and singing, prepared
presentations that he had given in Europe, and supported himself.
In April 1915, a few weeks after Turkish officials praised his fine
performance on stage and pointed out that a child of Anatolia had
gained prominence while Turkish clergy stayed idle, Komitas was
imprisoned with more than 200 Armenian intellectuals and community
leaders and was exiled-with no warning, no accusation, no due
process-to Chankiri. At Senjan Koey train station, the prisoners were
abruptly separated; some were sent to Ayash, some to Chankiri.
His good friend, Siamanto, who he had hoped to protect, was sent
to Ayash. Komitas's behavior changed along the exile route. A few
weeks later, while still in exile and officiating a church service,
word came that he would be sent back to Constantinople with a few
other notables. He returned and met a slew of women-wives, mothers,
sisters of prisoners-who asked about their loved ones.
The return was very difficult for Komitas. He started showing clear
signs of post-traumatic-stress disorder (PTSD), and his personality
changed such that his contemporaries, even physicians, could not
diagnose his condition properly. Since being scared of (vs. brave) or
angry at Turks-police were harassing Armenian citizens at time-were
unpopular feelings among Armenian citizens of Constantinople, his
friends, not understanding his PTSD reactions, considered him mad
and committed him to the Turkish Military Psychiatric Hospital.
Immediately after, they emptied his house and dispersed his belongings,
including his compositions and notes. Komitas expressed his anger,
but only served to confirm his so-called madness: At the psychiatric
hospital, he believed that the food given to him was inferior to
that given to Turkish patients. He refused to see some visitors,
accepted others. He continued to show signs of PTSD, which was not
understood nor diagnosed at the time. (Since accessing the records
of this psychiatric hospital is not possible, we do not know what
diagnosis he was given and if any treatment was offered or received.)
Three years later, his friends, seeing no change in Komitas, sent
him to Paris; a caretaking committee had been formed there that
followed his condition and admitted him in a private psychiatric
hospital. The treating psychiatrist, who later was transferred to
the Villejuif asylum and who had known Komitas for 13 years, wrote,
"I do not remember what diagnosis they gave him," that all Komitas
needed is a room and the attention of a psychiatrist with a light
load-namely, psychotherapy. The suggestion was made to send him
to Vienna, where he could be evaluated by Dr. Bleuler, but finances
precluded this luxury. Komitas stayed taciturn throughout these years,
refusing to accept old friends and seeing only new acquaintances. His
conversations, as reported by these visitors, indicated mental
abilities not seen in seriously ill psychiatric patients.
Now, does this mean that Komitas was not traumatized by the Great
Crimes of 1915? No, he was indeed traumatized. He knew full well what
was happening in the Ottoman Empire, perhaps better than the majority
of terrorized Armenians in Constantinople. When he stated that the
Turks should not be trusted, he was considered inappropriate. Even
in Paris, Armenians did not talk about the Great Crime, making only
passing reference to it. Why? Was it only fear of the Turks and
Turkish government, or were they in a conspiracy of silence?
As Armenians, we need to understand this and talk about our feelings in
reference to the genocide. A traumatic event and, especially, a series
of events block the proper expression of emotions. When such trauma as
the Armenian Genocide occurs, both young and old are unable to find
the words, the language, to express their feelings. The expression
of anger comes more easily than the expression of sadness and pain.
I hope I've clarified my reasons for writing this book on Komitas.
Copies of the Western Armenian version (and soon, the English
version) can be obtained by visiting www.amazon.com or by
e-mailing [email protected].
http://www.armenianweekly.com/2013/07/24/did-gomidas-go-mad-writing-a-book-o
n-vartabeds-trauma/
From: Baghdasarian