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Well sharpened dialogue
APRIL 11TH, 2015
As the Armenian church celebrates Easter today and the community marks
100 years since the genocide THEO PANAYIDES meets Archbishop Nareg
Alemezian
It's a good time to interview His Eminence Nareg Alemezian, Archbishop
of the Armenian Apostolic Orthodox Church in Cyprus - because today is
Easter Sunday for the local Armenian community (numbering about 3,500
souls), one of the many things their Church does slightly differently
to its Greek Orthodox counterpart. The Archbishop's sermon (spoiler
coming up for Armenian readers!) will be taking a very specific tack,
not just celebrating Christ's resurrection but linking it to the
resurrection of the Armenian people after the 1915 genocide - because
this year marks the 100th anniversary of that hellish time when around
1.5 million perished at the hands of Ottoman troops, just before the
creation of modern-day Turkey. That's another reason why our interview
is topical.
Just last week, Parliament amended the law to make denial of the
genocide a criminal offence in Cyprus (Armenia wasn't mentioned by
name, but the change in the law - making it sufficient if the genocide
in question has been recognised by our parliament, as opposed to an
international court - was clearly designed to encompass the events of
1915), a change the Archbishop welcomes; that kind of law is crucial
"if we want to prevent future genocides," he says in his office at the
Armenian Prelature, flanked by an icon of the Virgin Mary and a photo
of the current 'Catholicos', Aram I. 'Catholicos' (meaning 'Supreme
Patriarch') is a title unique to the Armenian Church - yet another of
the things this small, traditional faith does slightly differently to
its larger counterparts.
His own name, 'Nareg', means 'well-sharpened sword' according to the
internet - but this particular Nareg has a mild, earnest manner, eyes
gazing patiently from above his bushy beard. His eyebrows have a
slight upward slant when he talks, giving him a pleading, almost
beseeching air. He tends to sit back in his chair, wrapped in priestly
robes, his hand gesturing rhythmically as he talks. He's an easy
talker, fluent in four languages - and in fact his previous post, when
he was based in Lebanon (he only came to Cyprus in September 2014),
was as Ecumenical Officer, "which is like foreign affairs minister. I
was in charge of foreign relations for the Armenian church". One can
see his patient, earnest manner having thrived in that job, fostering
dialogue with other churches (including Islam) in Armenian dioceses
from Iran to Venezuela.
Lebanon is one of two headquarters for the Armenian Apostolic Orthodox
Church (the other being Armenia itself). Lebanon - Beirut, to be
precise - is also where he was born 53 years ago, the only child of "a
very pious Christian family". His dad was a deacon in the church; his
grandparents were survivors of the genocide, carrying memories of life
in old Armenia; Nareg himself was never in any doubt about his future.
"There is a story about my entering the kindergarten when I was three
years old," he tells me, "[and] the principal asked 'What would you
like to become?', and my immediate answer was: 'I want to become a
clergyman'. So I consider this as a pure calling of God. It's a
vocation."
The only real decision - which he took at the age of 19, just before
being ordained - was whether to become a married priest or a celibate
priest; the former serve in the parishes, he explains, the latter
"belong to a brotherhood" and are able to rise up the ranks, to Bishop
or indeed Archbishop. The young man was advised to consult with his
parents before making his decision (if nothing else, the celibacy of
their only son would deprive them of grandchildren), but in fact the
decision was easy. "You have two families now," cried his jubilant
parents: "Your first family is the Church, and then you have your
paternal family". Mum and Dad are now in their 80s, live in Montreal
and see him when he visits every few months. "They are very happy.
They always say this is the will of God."
Isn't celibacy a huge sacrifice, though? "It's a decision of a
lifetime," he admits, "it's a lifetime commitment. But, as I say, I
don't regret it ... I consider celibacy also as a vocation". It's
unclear how much of life he'd experienced at 19, having been ensconced
in a seminary for eight years - but he'd certainly seen something of
the dark side, since those were also the first years of Lebanon's
civil war (it dragged on for years, long after he'd left for Vancouver
in 1981). The war "was more or less fluid, it wasn't targeted in one
place," he recalls. "There was a time - for weeks, months, sometimes a
year - that we were enjoying relative peace. But other times, yes,
there were some bombardments, and we received our share of
destruction."
His teenage memories of war are mostly innocuous - queuing up for
bread with other seminarians, for instance ("to sustain our physical
life," as he puts it). But he also recalls one time, after a
bombardment, when he heard a commotion outside and went out to see a
truck belonging to a local militia roaring down the street, dragging a
person (presumably a prisoner) behind it. The soldiers were whooping
and cheering, lost in "an atmosphere of happiness or satisfaction that
they were driving that person around, and that person was going to be
killed in that way," he says solemnly.
Why doesn't God intervene in such situations? There's no easy answer
to that question (the Archbishop mutters something about the soldiers
having free will - but that still doesn't explain why He didn't
intervene to help the victim, who must've been praying for all he was
worth at that moment), in fact it's no mystery that God moves in
mysterious ways. "I strongly believe that all my decisions, all my
plans, all my steps are guided by God," says Nareg firmly - yet he
also knows that God is elusive, and may just be a phantom for some
people. What about atheism? Can he imagine a world without God?
"Personally I cannot imagine that, and I cannot accept that," he
replies. "But, on the other hand, if there are people who say 'I don't
need God', I'm ready to respect their opinion. But they have to
respect my opinion, saying that I need God [in order] to survive. I
need God to live."
It's a typical response from this genial, ecumenical man, a man for
whom compromise seems to come naturally even as he stays very firm in
his own beliefs; "I'm sure we can find common ground, through dialogue
and through mutual trust," he affirms at one point. Dialogue is his
forte, reaching out to other creeds. "I consider myself to be a person
of all cultures, all faiths - a person in dialogue, a person in
contact, a person in relationship," he says earnestly. "I feel like
I'm part of the whole world, although I keep my Armenian identity".
Despite his move to Cyprus (which may even feel like a step down,
though of course he doesn't say so), he's still on the Central
Committee and Executive Committee of the World Council of Churches,
talking to everyone from Anglicans to Mennonites - and he still goes
on "special assignments", as for instance next Sunday when Pope
Francis will be holding a special Holy Mass on the 100th anniversary
of the genocide. Catholicos Aram will be there, so will the President
of Armenia - and so will Nareg Alemezian, indeed "I will be there
prior to the visit, in order to organise the visit in a proper way".
Ah yes, the anniversary. Events are being planned all over the world,
wherever the Armenian diaspora has a presence. In Cyprus, a
commemorative stamp is coming out, a photo exhibition is being
organised, a book is being published on how the Greek press covered
the atrocities in 1915, the Cyprus Symphony Orchestra is giving a
performance with an Armenian guest conductor - and that's not even
mentioning the religious service being held on April 24, viewed as the
starting-date of the genocide.
'But why dwell on it so much?' I ask, somewhat impertinently. After
all, it was a long time ago. Why not just move on?
He sighs patiently. "Well, we are ready to move on. Because our appeal
has been, from the beginning, reconciliation - but based on
forgiveness," he adds with emphasis. "You cannot forgive someone if
that person does not say 'I'm sorry'". Turkey continues to deny the
genocide; some have even claimed that Turks were killed by Armenians,
instead of vice versa. Above all, the wounds haven't healed, despite
the existence of an independent Armenia (which is only about one-tenth
the size of "historical Armenia"); on the contrary, the violence
persists as a kind of cultural genocide. "On a daily basis, we have
many historical monuments in occupied Armenia - which is nowadays
Turkey - being destroyed," he reports. Even in Cyprus there's the
matter of Sourp Magar, the Armenian monastery in the occupied
Pentadaktylos, not quite destroyed (at least not yet), but ruined by
years of neglect.
The Archbishop visited Sourp Magar eight years ago, while in Cyprus
for an ecumenical conference, and visited again a couple of months
ago; he was shocked by how much it's deteriorated. The place must be
saved, he insists, but not as a historical monument - it needs to be
restored as a monastery: "Monks have to live here. This place has to
serve its purpose". The biggest obstacle isn't money, but politics; a
full restoration, like he envisions, would have to be part of an
overall solution to the Cyprus problem. Couldn't he just make a deal
with the Turkish Cypriot authorities, maybe through a private
investor? "I don't know," he replies, looking uncomfortable. "I have
also to respect the position of the authorities of the Republic of
Cyprus."
It's a telling remark - because of course Armenians are a minority in
Cyprus, totally integrated yet not quite assimilated, dependent to
some small extent on the "hospitality" of their hosts. They used to
live in a glorified ghetto in Nicosia (Victoria Street, now in the
occupied north), but that's now changed - yet the Armenian Prelature
is on Armenia Street, next to the Nareg Armenian School, and the
neighbourhood is dotted with Armenian businesses. Armenian culture is
fiercely preserved, "and the Church is the bastion of that
preservation and enrichment". The Archbishop is a man on a mission.
What kind of person is Nareg Alemezian? A man of God, in the literal
sense of having devoted his whole life to religion - but also in the
more general sense of being austere, ascetic, un-tempted by the world.
"I'm a simple person," he shrugs. "I believe in simplicity in life."
He lives simply, in a flat above the Prelature. He likes reading,
mostly memoirs and biographies - recent subjects have included Pope
John XXIII and Lee Kuan Yew, the late Prime Minister of Singapore -
and classical music. "I've never said, for instance, that I like to
drive this kind of car, or wear this kind of shirt," he tells me.
"Whatever is given to us is a gift. As a matter of fact, our very life
is a gift. And, in order to fulfil ourselves in the world, we have to
think of spiritual and moral richness, not material. Unfortunately our
world has become a very materialistic place, and our society a very
consumerist place."
He tells me a story. He lived for six years in New Jersey, working in
the Armenian diocese there, and one of his great pleasures was reading
the book reviews in the New York Times every Sunday. "The next day, I
used to go to a bookstore," looking to buy what he'd read about - "and
entering a bookstore was for me a great occasion of joy. But, on the
other hand, I found that instead of buying one or two books, that I
would have time to read, I became addicted to buying 10, 15, 20, even
there was a time when I bought 75 books in one visit!". One day, he
looked at the piles of unread books on his bookshelves and realised he
was being self-indulgent - so "I stopped that habit. And now, I have a
discipline. When I go to a bookstore I know what book I have to buy,
and when I finish reading that book then I buy another book." He nods,
in his mild gentle way: "This is the way of life that has to be
adopted by all of us."
Is that true? Some will agree, others may violently disagree. Life is
short, they'll say; why deny yourself pleasure? The Archbishop will
surely hear them out, and tell them he respects their opinion - but,
for him, denial of pleasures (at least worldly pleasures) has been
part of his life, part of his vocation. Meanwhile there's the question
of Armenia, still surviving in its scattered global fragments, still
intact but heavy with the memories of 1.5 million dead in a
long-vanished homeland. "Still, we are uprooted," he tells me, and
shakes his head sadly.
http://cyprus-mail.com/?p=48877
From: A. Papazian
APRIL 11TH, 2015
As the Armenian church celebrates Easter today and the community marks
100 years since the genocide THEO PANAYIDES meets Archbishop Nareg
Alemezian
It's a good time to interview His Eminence Nareg Alemezian, Archbishop
of the Armenian Apostolic Orthodox Church in Cyprus - because today is
Easter Sunday for the local Armenian community (numbering about 3,500
souls), one of the many things their Church does slightly differently
to its Greek Orthodox counterpart. The Archbishop's sermon (spoiler
coming up for Armenian readers!) will be taking a very specific tack,
not just celebrating Christ's resurrection but linking it to the
resurrection of the Armenian people after the 1915 genocide - because
this year marks the 100th anniversary of that hellish time when around
1.5 million perished at the hands of Ottoman troops, just before the
creation of modern-day Turkey. That's another reason why our interview
is topical.
Just last week, Parliament amended the law to make denial of the
genocide a criminal offence in Cyprus (Armenia wasn't mentioned by
name, but the change in the law - making it sufficient if the genocide
in question has been recognised by our parliament, as opposed to an
international court - was clearly designed to encompass the events of
1915), a change the Archbishop welcomes; that kind of law is crucial
"if we want to prevent future genocides," he says in his office at the
Armenian Prelature, flanked by an icon of the Virgin Mary and a photo
of the current 'Catholicos', Aram I. 'Catholicos' (meaning 'Supreme
Patriarch') is a title unique to the Armenian Church - yet another of
the things this small, traditional faith does slightly differently to
its larger counterparts.
His own name, 'Nareg', means 'well-sharpened sword' according to the
internet - but this particular Nareg has a mild, earnest manner, eyes
gazing patiently from above his bushy beard. His eyebrows have a
slight upward slant when he talks, giving him a pleading, almost
beseeching air. He tends to sit back in his chair, wrapped in priestly
robes, his hand gesturing rhythmically as he talks. He's an easy
talker, fluent in four languages - and in fact his previous post, when
he was based in Lebanon (he only came to Cyprus in September 2014),
was as Ecumenical Officer, "which is like foreign affairs minister. I
was in charge of foreign relations for the Armenian church". One can
see his patient, earnest manner having thrived in that job, fostering
dialogue with other churches (including Islam) in Armenian dioceses
from Iran to Venezuela.
Lebanon is one of two headquarters for the Armenian Apostolic Orthodox
Church (the other being Armenia itself). Lebanon - Beirut, to be
precise - is also where he was born 53 years ago, the only child of "a
very pious Christian family". His dad was a deacon in the church; his
grandparents were survivors of the genocide, carrying memories of life
in old Armenia; Nareg himself was never in any doubt about his future.
"There is a story about my entering the kindergarten when I was three
years old," he tells me, "[and] the principal asked 'What would you
like to become?', and my immediate answer was: 'I want to become a
clergyman'. So I consider this as a pure calling of God. It's a
vocation."
The only real decision - which he took at the age of 19, just before
being ordained - was whether to become a married priest or a celibate
priest; the former serve in the parishes, he explains, the latter
"belong to a brotherhood" and are able to rise up the ranks, to Bishop
or indeed Archbishop. The young man was advised to consult with his
parents before making his decision (if nothing else, the celibacy of
their only son would deprive them of grandchildren), but in fact the
decision was easy. "You have two families now," cried his jubilant
parents: "Your first family is the Church, and then you have your
paternal family". Mum and Dad are now in their 80s, live in Montreal
and see him when he visits every few months. "They are very happy.
They always say this is the will of God."
Isn't celibacy a huge sacrifice, though? "It's a decision of a
lifetime," he admits, "it's a lifetime commitment. But, as I say, I
don't regret it ... I consider celibacy also as a vocation". It's
unclear how much of life he'd experienced at 19, having been ensconced
in a seminary for eight years - but he'd certainly seen something of
the dark side, since those were also the first years of Lebanon's
civil war (it dragged on for years, long after he'd left for Vancouver
in 1981). The war "was more or less fluid, it wasn't targeted in one
place," he recalls. "There was a time - for weeks, months, sometimes a
year - that we were enjoying relative peace. But other times, yes,
there were some bombardments, and we received our share of
destruction."
His teenage memories of war are mostly innocuous - queuing up for
bread with other seminarians, for instance ("to sustain our physical
life," as he puts it). But he also recalls one time, after a
bombardment, when he heard a commotion outside and went out to see a
truck belonging to a local militia roaring down the street, dragging a
person (presumably a prisoner) behind it. The soldiers were whooping
and cheering, lost in "an atmosphere of happiness or satisfaction that
they were driving that person around, and that person was going to be
killed in that way," he says solemnly.
Why doesn't God intervene in such situations? There's no easy answer
to that question (the Archbishop mutters something about the soldiers
having free will - but that still doesn't explain why He didn't
intervene to help the victim, who must've been praying for all he was
worth at that moment), in fact it's no mystery that God moves in
mysterious ways. "I strongly believe that all my decisions, all my
plans, all my steps are guided by God," says Nareg firmly - yet he
also knows that God is elusive, and may just be a phantom for some
people. What about atheism? Can he imagine a world without God?
"Personally I cannot imagine that, and I cannot accept that," he
replies. "But, on the other hand, if there are people who say 'I don't
need God', I'm ready to respect their opinion. But they have to
respect my opinion, saying that I need God [in order] to survive. I
need God to live."
It's a typical response from this genial, ecumenical man, a man for
whom compromise seems to come naturally even as he stays very firm in
his own beliefs; "I'm sure we can find common ground, through dialogue
and through mutual trust," he affirms at one point. Dialogue is his
forte, reaching out to other creeds. "I consider myself to be a person
of all cultures, all faiths - a person in dialogue, a person in
contact, a person in relationship," he says earnestly. "I feel like
I'm part of the whole world, although I keep my Armenian identity".
Despite his move to Cyprus (which may even feel like a step down,
though of course he doesn't say so), he's still on the Central
Committee and Executive Committee of the World Council of Churches,
talking to everyone from Anglicans to Mennonites - and he still goes
on "special assignments", as for instance next Sunday when Pope
Francis will be holding a special Holy Mass on the 100th anniversary
of the genocide. Catholicos Aram will be there, so will the President
of Armenia - and so will Nareg Alemezian, indeed "I will be there
prior to the visit, in order to organise the visit in a proper way".
Ah yes, the anniversary. Events are being planned all over the world,
wherever the Armenian diaspora has a presence. In Cyprus, a
commemorative stamp is coming out, a photo exhibition is being
organised, a book is being published on how the Greek press covered
the atrocities in 1915, the Cyprus Symphony Orchestra is giving a
performance with an Armenian guest conductor - and that's not even
mentioning the religious service being held on April 24, viewed as the
starting-date of the genocide.
'But why dwell on it so much?' I ask, somewhat impertinently. After
all, it was a long time ago. Why not just move on?
He sighs patiently. "Well, we are ready to move on. Because our appeal
has been, from the beginning, reconciliation - but based on
forgiveness," he adds with emphasis. "You cannot forgive someone if
that person does not say 'I'm sorry'". Turkey continues to deny the
genocide; some have even claimed that Turks were killed by Armenians,
instead of vice versa. Above all, the wounds haven't healed, despite
the existence of an independent Armenia (which is only about one-tenth
the size of "historical Armenia"); on the contrary, the violence
persists as a kind of cultural genocide. "On a daily basis, we have
many historical monuments in occupied Armenia - which is nowadays
Turkey - being destroyed," he reports. Even in Cyprus there's the
matter of Sourp Magar, the Armenian monastery in the occupied
Pentadaktylos, not quite destroyed (at least not yet), but ruined by
years of neglect.
The Archbishop visited Sourp Magar eight years ago, while in Cyprus
for an ecumenical conference, and visited again a couple of months
ago; he was shocked by how much it's deteriorated. The place must be
saved, he insists, but not as a historical monument - it needs to be
restored as a monastery: "Monks have to live here. This place has to
serve its purpose". The biggest obstacle isn't money, but politics; a
full restoration, like he envisions, would have to be part of an
overall solution to the Cyprus problem. Couldn't he just make a deal
with the Turkish Cypriot authorities, maybe through a private
investor? "I don't know," he replies, looking uncomfortable. "I have
also to respect the position of the authorities of the Republic of
Cyprus."
It's a telling remark - because of course Armenians are a minority in
Cyprus, totally integrated yet not quite assimilated, dependent to
some small extent on the "hospitality" of their hosts. They used to
live in a glorified ghetto in Nicosia (Victoria Street, now in the
occupied north), but that's now changed - yet the Armenian Prelature
is on Armenia Street, next to the Nareg Armenian School, and the
neighbourhood is dotted with Armenian businesses. Armenian culture is
fiercely preserved, "and the Church is the bastion of that
preservation and enrichment". The Archbishop is a man on a mission.
What kind of person is Nareg Alemezian? A man of God, in the literal
sense of having devoted his whole life to religion - but also in the
more general sense of being austere, ascetic, un-tempted by the world.
"I'm a simple person," he shrugs. "I believe in simplicity in life."
He lives simply, in a flat above the Prelature. He likes reading,
mostly memoirs and biographies - recent subjects have included Pope
John XXIII and Lee Kuan Yew, the late Prime Minister of Singapore -
and classical music. "I've never said, for instance, that I like to
drive this kind of car, or wear this kind of shirt," he tells me.
"Whatever is given to us is a gift. As a matter of fact, our very life
is a gift. And, in order to fulfil ourselves in the world, we have to
think of spiritual and moral richness, not material. Unfortunately our
world has become a very materialistic place, and our society a very
consumerist place."
He tells me a story. He lived for six years in New Jersey, working in
the Armenian diocese there, and one of his great pleasures was reading
the book reviews in the New York Times every Sunday. "The next day, I
used to go to a bookstore," looking to buy what he'd read about - "and
entering a bookstore was for me a great occasion of joy. But, on the
other hand, I found that instead of buying one or two books, that I
would have time to read, I became addicted to buying 10, 15, 20, even
there was a time when I bought 75 books in one visit!". One day, he
looked at the piles of unread books on his bookshelves and realised he
was being self-indulgent - so "I stopped that habit. And now, I have a
discipline. When I go to a bookstore I know what book I have to buy,
and when I finish reading that book then I buy another book." He nods,
in his mild gentle way: "This is the way of life that has to be
adopted by all of us."
Is that true? Some will agree, others may violently disagree. Life is
short, they'll say; why deny yourself pleasure? The Archbishop will
surely hear them out, and tell them he respects their opinion - but,
for him, denial of pleasures (at least worldly pleasures) has been
part of his life, part of his vocation. Meanwhile there's the question
of Armenia, still surviving in its scattered global fragments, still
intact but heavy with the memories of 1.5 million dead in a
long-vanished homeland. "Still, we are uprooted," he tells me, and
shakes his head sadly.
http://cyprus-mail.com/?p=48877
From: A. Papazian