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BurlingtonFreePress, VT
Aug 31 2014
A friendship that transcends language
CHRIS BOHJALIAN
August 31, 2014
Zulkuf knows perhaps a dozen words in English, which is roughly 11
more words than I can speak in Kurdish. Sipas means thank you, and
that's the extent of my Kurdish vocabulary. He is a 41-year-old Kurd
from south-central Turkey. But, like me, he is adept at communicating
with hand signals and smiles. Or frowns. Or, occasionally, gently
bringing his fingertips to his heart. His dark hair is so thick that
Alec Baldwin would be jealous. The two times I have visited his corner
of the world with other Armenian-Americans to explore the remains of
Armenian civilization, he has been our driver. Last week when we were
there, he proved that on top of everything else, he is a great friend.
Our group this summer included my wife and my daughter. Visiting
medieval (and older) Armenian ruins in the desert in scorching August
heat probably isn't everyone's cup of tea when it comes to a family
vacation, but it was important to us because my daughter and I are
part-Armenian and descendants of survivors of the Armenian Genocide,
and my blond wife is seriously Armo by Choice.
By the last day of the journey, our group -- at one point as large as
16 -- had dwindled to five: my wife and me, our daughter, our great
friend Khatchig Mouradian who voluntarily leads these trips, and
Zulkuf. Everyone else had returned home, because they were only
planning on doing select parts of the expedition. We were now in
northeastern Turkey and had spent the day before at the haunting
medieval ruins of the Armenian city of Ani. We decided to conclude our
trip by venturing to a small town called Digor to see St. Sargis, one
of five ancient Armenian churches that Turkey blew up there in the
1950s, and the only one that partially survived the demolition.
We knew it was going to be a long walk to the ravine where the five
churches had once stood. Moreover, my family and Zulkuf were
recovering from a bout with a plague that, according to one local
official, had sickened lots of the local children that summer. But as
weak as we were, we gamely soldiered over some gently rolling hills,
conserving our water, and eventually we reached the precipice. When we
looked down we were utterly awed. Several hundred feet below us stood
the battered but proud remains of the 13th-century structure,
including the iconic dome that marks an Armenian church.
We were well aware of how privileged we were to see it; relatively few
westerners have. We also knew that fewer still had climbed down into
the ravine to walk inside it and savor its beauty up close. And so
despite the fact that we were exhausted from nine days on the road and
the hike to the edge of the cliff, we started down.
We took a circuitous path down the mountain, but it was still rocky
and steep and there were vertigo-inducing moments when we looked over
the edge and pined for a guardrail. Or the common sense to turn
around. My wife fell and cut her arm, but gamely soldiered on.
When we got there, we were even more moved than when we had stared
down at St. Sargis from the top of the cliff. It was among the
highlights of the trip.
But then, of course, we had to climb back up --which brings me back to
Zulkuf. My wife is in great physical shape. But she had been hit hard
by the plague that week, and was still weak. She had also taken that
tumble on the way down. We agreed that Zulkuf would always be in front
of her as we ascended and I would always be behind her. Just in case.
About a third of the way up the cliff, I started falling behind. Why?
Because Zulkuf was quite literally pulling my wife up the mountain,
not for one moment letting go of her hand. When we all reached the
top, he just shrugged as if what he had done was nothing.
But that's Zulkuf. Back in 2013, after we met the last survivor of the
Armenian Genocide in Chungush, Turkey, most of our group was crying or
on the verge of crying when we returned to the van. Zulkuf put his
hand on one fellow's shoulder and said, "In my country, we often don't
even cry when we lose a loved one. You people are so big-hearted you
cry for people you never knew."
Maybe. But Zulkuf, my friend? Your heart is plenty big, too. Sipas.
Write to Chris Bohjalian care of Free Press Media, 100 Bank Street,
Suite 700, Burlington, VT 05401, or visit him on www.facebook.com or
www.chrisbohjalian.com.
http://www.burlingtonfreepress.com/story/home/2014/08/31/friendship-transcends-language/14809761/
Aug 31 2014
A friendship that transcends language
CHRIS BOHJALIAN
August 31, 2014
Zulkuf knows perhaps a dozen words in English, which is roughly 11
more words than I can speak in Kurdish. Sipas means thank you, and
that's the extent of my Kurdish vocabulary. He is a 41-year-old Kurd
from south-central Turkey. But, like me, he is adept at communicating
with hand signals and smiles. Or frowns. Or, occasionally, gently
bringing his fingertips to his heart. His dark hair is so thick that
Alec Baldwin would be jealous. The two times I have visited his corner
of the world with other Armenian-Americans to explore the remains of
Armenian civilization, he has been our driver. Last week when we were
there, he proved that on top of everything else, he is a great friend.
Our group this summer included my wife and my daughter. Visiting
medieval (and older) Armenian ruins in the desert in scorching August
heat probably isn't everyone's cup of tea when it comes to a family
vacation, but it was important to us because my daughter and I are
part-Armenian and descendants of survivors of the Armenian Genocide,
and my blond wife is seriously Armo by Choice.
By the last day of the journey, our group -- at one point as large as
16 -- had dwindled to five: my wife and me, our daughter, our great
friend Khatchig Mouradian who voluntarily leads these trips, and
Zulkuf. Everyone else had returned home, because they were only
planning on doing select parts of the expedition. We were now in
northeastern Turkey and had spent the day before at the haunting
medieval ruins of the Armenian city of Ani. We decided to conclude our
trip by venturing to a small town called Digor to see St. Sargis, one
of five ancient Armenian churches that Turkey blew up there in the
1950s, and the only one that partially survived the demolition.
We knew it was going to be a long walk to the ravine where the five
churches had once stood. Moreover, my family and Zulkuf were
recovering from a bout with a plague that, according to one local
official, had sickened lots of the local children that summer. But as
weak as we were, we gamely soldiered over some gently rolling hills,
conserving our water, and eventually we reached the precipice. When we
looked down we were utterly awed. Several hundred feet below us stood
the battered but proud remains of the 13th-century structure,
including the iconic dome that marks an Armenian church.
We were well aware of how privileged we were to see it; relatively few
westerners have. We also knew that fewer still had climbed down into
the ravine to walk inside it and savor its beauty up close. And so
despite the fact that we were exhausted from nine days on the road and
the hike to the edge of the cliff, we started down.
We took a circuitous path down the mountain, but it was still rocky
and steep and there were vertigo-inducing moments when we looked over
the edge and pined for a guardrail. Or the common sense to turn
around. My wife fell and cut her arm, but gamely soldiered on.
When we got there, we were even more moved than when we had stared
down at St. Sargis from the top of the cliff. It was among the
highlights of the trip.
But then, of course, we had to climb back up --which brings me back to
Zulkuf. My wife is in great physical shape. But she had been hit hard
by the plague that week, and was still weak. She had also taken that
tumble on the way down. We agreed that Zulkuf would always be in front
of her as we ascended and I would always be behind her. Just in case.
About a third of the way up the cliff, I started falling behind. Why?
Because Zulkuf was quite literally pulling my wife up the mountain,
not for one moment letting go of her hand. When we all reached the
top, he just shrugged as if what he had done was nothing.
But that's Zulkuf. Back in 2013, after we met the last survivor of the
Armenian Genocide in Chungush, Turkey, most of our group was crying or
on the verge of crying when we returned to the van. Zulkuf put his
hand on one fellow's shoulder and said, "In my country, we often don't
even cry when we lose a loved one. You people are so big-hearted you
cry for people you never knew."
Maybe. But Zulkuf, my friend? Your heart is plenty big, too. Sipas.
Write to Chris Bohjalian care of Free Press Media, 100 Bank Street,
Suite 700, Burlington, VT 05401, or visit him on www.facebook.com or
www.chrisbohjalian.com.
http://www.burlingtonfreepress.com/story/home/2014/08/31/friendship-transcends-language/14809761/