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Fresno Bee
April 11 2015
Healing begins with speaking the truth
By Danielle R. Shapazian
April 11, 2015
Somewhere on a hill on the Anatolian plateau, there is a tree that
knows my words -- words for my Armenian friends, words for many others.
My words are for the woman who has been slapped or punched by a man
who promises it will never happen again. Until it does.
My words are for the wife who is belittled by her husband, over and
over, until she starts believing she is worth as much as the smirk on
his face.
My words are for the man who has been pulled aside by a police officer
(or employer or landlord) and has to navigate the disparity triggered
by his religion or the color of his skin.
My words are for the abused children who have grown up to remember.
My words are for any human being who has felt oppressed, shamed,
devalued, or persecuted by the act of another. These words are for
you.
More than 100 years ago, before the period of mass genocide, the
initial waves of atrocity against the people of Armenia had already
begun to wreak havoc. My paternal great-grandfather escaped to a new
life, making his way to America before the beginning of the 20th
century. In 1905, it was his son's turn to get out of Dodge -- or in
this case, the village of Pazmashen, in the region of Kharpert.
Re-defining your lot isn't easy. Eighteen years old, with little to
show except his character, my grandfather disembarked ship in Boston
and found training as a barber. He slowly began to learn English. In
1913, his parents arranged for a 16-year-old girl from their homeland
to become his bride.
My grandparents moved to Fresno three years later. They had no
material wealth, but pockets full of possibility. Hovannes became
John. Hripsime became Ruth. And their granddaughter would come to
write these words protected by the First Amendment of the U.S.
Constitution.
I will never accept the horrors that good people suffered, tortures
that allowed men, women, and children to be treated as less than
human, the methodical eyes of a persecutor a knife that pierced each
victim's soul. When a person is devalued in extreme ways by someone
who breathes evil, death arrives long before the body yields.
Much harassment is verbal, repeated and layered, a devil's taunt.
Eventually, the tortured begins to believe the falsehoods, the spirit
beaten so badly that he or she is no longer able to fight against the
lie: You are invaluable, interchangeable, not uniquely important in
this world. You are worthless, don't you know? My power over you
proves it.
Shame leaks into your DNA, unconsciously passed through generations.
Tragedy defines you. Loss becomes the subtext of your life. Hurt
dissolves into a dark puddle, barely traceable, painting your heart
with a cracked veneer.
Whether your ancestors were killed on the hot sands of Armenia or your
spouse abused you in the privacy of your home, the pain transcends.
Wounds can last for a long while. Recovery takes time.
Healing can surely quicken if the culprits of malevolence admit their
caustic ways. Contrition isn't the only cure. Even if the apologies
never come, even if no one has borne witness to the secrets that were
suffered, the purest salve lies in speaking the truth until you are
heard -- then speaking it again.
On the other side of the globe, a tree understands my words. It grows
singularly, on a small rise, across a patch of barren land where the
soil meets the sky. In this far-away, yet familiar place, lost
families seed the earth.
You look toward the tree. In your line of sight, perspective shifts
over time. You've survived. You've learned. Now it's time to look
beyond. Gnarled wood and green leaves reaching toward heaven, the
pomegranate tree is really a shrub.
A small bird alights a branch, his voice melancholy in song. Der
voghormia, Lord have mercy, he pleads. In healing, hope comes.
When the fruit of the shrub is broken in our hands, the past and the
future become one. We never forget what was once lost. Yet, we gain
the strength to move on. We see a thousand garnet seeds gleaming in
the sun.
Danielle R. Shapazian is a nurse and writer who lives in Fresno.
http://www.fresnobee.com/2015/04/11/4471085_danielle-r-shapazian-healing-begins.html?rh=1
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress
April 11 2015
Healing begins with speaking the truth
By Danielle R. Shapazian
April 11, 2015
Somewhere on a hill on the Anatolian plateau, there is a tree that
knows my words -- words for my Armenian friends, words for many others.
My words are for the woman who has been slapped or punched by a man
who promises it will never happen again. Until it does.
My words are for the wife who is belittled by her husband, over and
over, until she starts believing she is worth as much as the smirk on
his face.
My words are for the man who has been pulled aside by a police officer
(or employer or landlord) and has to navigate the disparity triggered
by his religion or the color of his skin.
My words are for the abused children who have grown up to remember.
My words are for any human being who has felt oppressed, shamed,
devalued, or persecuted by the act of another. These words are for
you.
More than 100 years ago, before the period of mass genocide, the
initial waves of atrocity against the people of Armenia had already
begun to wreak havoc. My paternal great-grandfather escaped to a new
life, making his way to America before the beginning of the 20th
century. In 1905, it was his son's turn to get out of Dodge -- or in
this case, the village of Pazmashen, in the region of Kharpert.
Re-defining your lot isn't easy. Eighteen years old, with little to
show except his character, my grandfather disembarked ship in Boston
and found training as a barber. He slowly began to learn English. In
1913, his parents arranged for a 16-year-old girl from their homeland
to become his bride.
My grandparents moved to Fresno three years later. They had no
material wealth, but pockets full of possibility. Hovannes became
John. Hripsime became Ruth. And their granddaughter would come to
write these words protected by the First Amendment of the U.S.
Constitution.
I will never accept the horrors that good people suffered, tortures
that allowed men, women, and children to be treated as less than
human, the methodical eyes of a persecutor a knife that pierced each
victim's soul. When a person is devalued in extreme ways by someone
who breathes evil, death arrives long before the body yields.
Much harassment is verbal, repeated and layered, a devil's taunt.
Eventually, the tortured begins to believe the falsehoods, the spirit
beaten so badly that he or she is no longer able to fight against the
lie: You are invaluable, interchangeable, not uniquely important in
this world. You are worthless, don't you know? My power over you
proves it.
Shame leaks into your DNA, unconsciously passed through generations.
Tragedy defines you. Loss becomes the subtext of your life. Hurt
dissolves into a dark puddle, barely traceable, painting your heart
with a cracked veneer.
Whether your ancestors were killed on the hot sands of Armenia or your
spouse abused you in the privacy of your home, the pain transcends.
Wounds can last for a long while. Recovery takes time.
Healing can surely quicken if the culprits of malevolence admit their
caustic ways. Contrition isn't the only cure. Even if the apologies
never come, even if no one has borne witness to the secrets that were
suffered, the purest salve lies in speaking the truth until you are
heard -- then speaking it again.
On the other side of the globe, a tree understands my words. It grows
singularly, on a small rise, across a patch of barren land where the
soil meets the sky. In this far-away, yet familiar place, lost
families seed the earth.
You look toward the tree. In your line of sight, perspective shifts
over time. You've survived. You've learned. Now it's time to look
beyond. Gnarled wood and green leaves reaching toward heaven, the
pomegranate tree is really a shrub.
A small bird alights a branch, his voice melancholy in song. Der
voghormia, Lord have mercy, he pleads. In healing, hope comes.
When the fruit of the shrub is broken in our hands, the past and the
future become one. We never forget what was once lost. Yet, we gain
the strength to move on. We see a thousand garnet seeds gleaming in
the sun.
Danielle R. Shapazian is a nurse and writer who lives in Fresno.
http://www.fresnobee.com/2015/04/11/4471085_danielle-r-shapazian-healing-begins.html?rh=1
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress