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THE FLOWER SELLER OF ALEPPO
The Majalla Magazine
June 11 2014
An Armenian-Syrian remembers his blooms and the city he loves
by Hannah Lucinda Smith
BACKGAMMON blog: A board game played in smoky cafes from Beirut to
Baghdad. Backgammon's earliest ancestor is five thousand years old
and was unearthed in southern Iraq. 'Backgammon' covers the state of
play in the countries spanning the Fertile Crescent: Syria, Lebanon,
Israel, Palestine, Jordan, and Iraq.
"Flowers, I love flowers!" exclaims Krikor. "I used to skip school
so I could go and pick flowers. Everyone in Aleppo knew me by my
nickname--I was Krikor, the flower seller!"
His eyes shone bright as he talked about the job and the city he
loved. Krikor was as intertwined with Aleppo's Armenian quarter as
the honey-colored bricks of the old Orthodox churches. Everyone knew
him, he says--he didn't have friends, he had customers. They would
go to see him for important and happy occasions--their weddings, new
babies and birthdays--and he would lovingly put together a bouquet
for them, made up of Aleppo's finest blooms. "I swear, I was loved,"
he says. "Any events that occurred, I enjoyed them. And at the end
of the day, I would say 'Thank God!'"
Two generations earlier, Krikor's grandparents were famous too. "They
were the za'atar makers!" he says. Za'atar is a fragrant blend of
dried herbs, sumac and sesame seeds."They were the best za'atar makers
in all of Aleppo. All the survivors [of the massacre of Armenians in
Turkey in 1915] came to them to buy their za'atar."
Krikor's grandparents were also survivors of the atrocities committed
in 1915 at the hands of the Ottomans. They fled their hometown of
Konya, in central Turkey, and like thousands of others they settled
in Aleppo and built the foundations of the city's thriving Armenian
quarter. A century later, 70,000 Armenians lived in the city, working
as artisans and running businesses, speaking in Arabic with other
Syrians but in Armenian among themselves, and worshipping in the
Armenian churches.
Like many others, Krikor started small. In the third grade he started
selling flowers on the street. His father was ashamed. "He said that
Arabs were known as flower sellers," says Krikor. "He told me that
no one would want me to marry their daughter."
But Krikor loved flowers and so he continued, selling them day after
day on the streets of his city. His business grew and he became well
known. By the time he left Aleppo he had his own shop and he had just
put down the deposit on a house. "Everything I had I paid for with the
sweat off my brow," he says. "That was the first house I ever owned."
But throughout the searing summer of 2012, as the conflict began to
encroach on Aleppo, everything started to change. The bombs and the
curfews were the impersonal signs, but it was the sudden change in
Krikor's business that told the human story of what was happening. No
one was getting married anymore; no one wanted to celebrate their
birthdays. His customers started asking him to arrange funeral wreaths.
Krikor was one of the first Aleppines to flee: when the Armenian
government sent a plane to Aleppo to collect its citizens, he boarded
it with his wife. She held an Armenian passport and he knew that his
ancestry would afford him safe passage. They settled in Armenia's
capital, Yerevan, and hoped they would only be there for a few months.
But that was two years ago, and they are still here. Krikor can't sell
flowers in Armenia, so instead he paints doors and dreams of the day
when he will be able to go back to Aleppo. His house is still there
and so are his parents. Until seven months ago he used to travel
back to see them regularly, taking the coach south through Turkey,
crossing over a rebel-held border crossing and boarding the rickety
bus to Aleppo city.
On his last trip there, in October 2013, he fell foul of the conflict's
ruthless sectarian edge, which he had feared since the earliest
days of the uprising. In between the border and Aleppo, the bus he
was traveling on was stopped at a checkpoint controlled by Al-Nusra
Front, one of the most extreme Islamist rebel groups. The fighters
checked all the passengers' passports, and those with Muslim names
were allowed to go. Krikor, with his Armenian surname, was arrested,
detained and tortured. His only crime was being a Christian.
Out on the streets of Yerevan, Krikor unrolled the Syrian flag with
two stars that he carried with him in his coat pocket and held it
between outstretched arms, proud and unafraid. He did not want to
talk about politics, or Syrian President Bashar Al-Assad, or who is
right and wrong. All he wanted to speak about was his love for his
city and for flowers.
"I believe things will get better," he says. "And if things get better,
I will go back."
http://www.majalla.com/eng/2014/06/article55250245
The Majalla Magazine
June 11 2014
An Armenian-Syrian remembers his blooms and the city he loves
by Hannah Lucinda Smith
BACKGAMMON blog: A board game played in smoky cafes from Beirut to
Baghdad. Backgammon's earliest ancestor is five thousand years old
and was unearthed in southern Iraq. 'Backgammon' covers the state of
play in the countries spanning the Fertile Crescent: Syria, Lebanon,
Israel, Palestine, Jordan, and Iraq.
"Flowers, I love flowers!" exclaims Krikor. "I used to skip school
so I could go and pick flowers. Everyone in Aleppo knew me by my
nickname--I was Krikor, the flower seller!"
His eyes shone bright as he talked about the job and the city he
loved. Krikor was as intertwined with Aleppo's Armenian quarter as
the honey-colored bricks of the old Orthodox churches. Everyone knew
him, he says--he didn't have friends, he had customers. They would
go to see him for important and happy occasions--their weddings, new
babies and birthdays--and he would lovingly put together a bouquet
for them, made up of Aleppo's finest blooms. "I swear, I was loved,"
he says. "Any events that occurred, I enjoyed them. And at the end
of the day, I would say 'Thank God!'"
Two generations earlier, Krikor's grandparents were famous too. "They
were the za'atar makers!" he says. Za'atar is a fragrant blend of
dried herbs, sumac and sesame seeds."They were the best za'atar makers
in all of Aleppo. All the survivors [of the massacre of Armenians in
Turkey in 1915] came to them to buy their za'atar."
Krikor's grandparents were also survivors of the atrocities committed
in 1915 at the hands of the Ottomans. They fled their hometown of
Konya, in central Turkey, and like thousands of others they settled
in Aleppo and built the foundations of the city's thriving Armenian
quarter. A century later, 70,000 Armenians lived in the city, working
as artisans and running businesses, speaking in Arabic with other
Syrians but in Armenian among themselves, and worshipping in the
Armenian churches.
Like many others, Krikor started small. In the third grade he started
selling flowers on the street. His father was ashamed. "He said that
Arabs were known as flower sellers," says Krikor. "He told me that
no one would want me to marry their daughter."
But Krikor loved flowers and so he continued, selling them day after
day on the streets of his city. His business grew and he became well
known. By the time he left Aleppo he had his own shop and he had just
put down the deposit on a house. "Everything I had I paid for with the
sweat off my brow," he says. "That was the first house I ever owned."
But throughout the searing summer of 2012, as the conflict began to
encroach on Aleppo, everything started to change. The bombs and the
curfews were the impersonal signs, but it was the sudden change in
Krikor's business that told the human story of what was happening. No
one was getting married anymore; no one wanted to celebrate their
birthdays. His customers started asking him to arrange funeral wreaths.
Krikor was one of the first Aleppines to flee: when the Armenian
government sent a plane to Aleppo to collect its citizens, he boarded
it with his wife. She held an Armenian passport and he knew that his
ancestry would afford him safe passage. They settled in Armenia's
capital, Yerevan, and hoped they would only be there for a few months.
But that was two years ago, and they are still here. Krikor can't sell
flowers in Armenia, so instead he paints doors and dreams of the day
when he will be able to go back to Aleppo. His house is still there
and so are his parents. Until seven months ago he used to travel
back to see them regularly, taking the coach south through Turkey,
crossing over a rebel-held border crossing and boarding the rickety
bus to Aleppo city.
On his last trip there, in October 2013, he fell foul of the conflict's
ruthless sectarian edge, which he had feared since the earliest
days of the uprising. In between the border and Aleppo, the bus he
was traveling on was stopped at a checkpoint controlled by Al-Nusra
Front, one of the most extreme Islamist rebel groups. The fighters
checked all the passengers' passports, and those with Muslim names
were allowed to go. Krikor, with his Armenian surname, was arrested,
detained and tortured. His only crime was being a Christian.
Out on the streets of Yerevan, Krikor unrolled the Syrian flag with
two stars that he carried with him in his coat pocket and held it
between outstretched arms, proud and unafraid. He did not want to
talk about politics, or Syrian President Bashar Al-Assad, or who is
right and wrong. All he wanted to speak about was his love for his
city and for flowers.
"I believe things will get better," he says. "And if things get better,
I will go back."
http://www.majalla.com/eng/2014/06/article55250245