The little children sit enthralled, watching with baited breath the colorful
biblical figures pirouette around the flannel-covered display board perching on
its makeshift tripod.
The
story
being
depicted
in
the
2D
diorama
is
familiar
to
them:
the
Three
Wise
Men
in
pursuit
of
the
elusive
Star
of
Bethlehem.
But
the
animation,
created
by
the
imposing
pastor
with
the
sonorous voice, is an altogether new experience for the motley Sunday class, of which I am one.
We
can
only
gape
open-mouthed,
and
keep
coming
back
for
more,
half
a
dozen
rowdy
children
from the Armenian Quarter, guests of the Evangelical church.
It
is
1946,
a
brief
spell
before
all
hell
breaks
loose
and
the
bombs
start
falling
on
our
beloved
Old City of Jerusalem in the first major Arab-Jewish conflagration.
We
know
hardly
more
than
the
pastor's
name,
Jamil
Chamichian,
this
magical
story-teller
who,
like
his
Savior,
we
learned
later,
had
been
a
carpenter
in
a
neighboring
country.
His
ancestors
had
hailed
from
the
distant
land
of
the
Peacock
Throne
but
had
been
expelled
and
forced
to
find
refuge elsewhere.
Among
the
displaced
group
was
Jurjy
Chamichian,
the
man
who
had
been
crowned
the
"king
of
the
pistachios"
for
his
expertise
in
cultivating
the
tree.
His
green
thumbs
were
known
to
coax
copious harvests of nuts from even the most bashful tree.
And when he and his people fled Persia, they took their precious pistachio saplings with them.
The
refugees
settled
in
Ainteb,
Turkey,
in
what
they
thought
was
a
safe
haven,
but
it
proved
an
illusion:
their
descendants
were
forced
to
flee
again,
and
this
time
seek
succor
in
Jerusalem
and
Aleppo: how many remain alive in that devastated, mournful city in Syria remains unknown.
Jamil's
daughter
Ani
picks
up
the
tale
of
woe,
taking
us
back
to
the
cataclysmic
year
1915,
the
year
of
the
Armenian
"yeghern",
when
the
Ottoman
Turks
attempted
to
wipe
the
Armenian
entity
off
the
face
of
the
world.
They
set
about
putting
into
action
their
"final
solution"
to
the
Armenian
"problem"
by
singling
out
the
cream
of
Armenian
society,
their
intelligentsia:
the
heartless
pruning
of
the
flower
of
Armenian
literature
saw
giants
like
Krikor
Zohrab,
Daniel
Varoujan
and
Siamanto,
vanish like the morning fog of lake Van.
The
other
victims
were
deported
[many
were
summarily
executed
along
the
way],
decimating
the
heart
and
mind
of
Armenia,
but
not
the
soul
of
a
people
that
was
the
first
in
the
world
to
accept the teachings of Jesus, and become Christians.
One and a half million Armenians perished in the first genocide of the 20th Century.
Those
who
survived
told
harrowing
tales
of
privation
and
starvation,
torture
and
torment,
midnight
flights
through
desert
and
forest,
subsisting
on
the
rinds
of
oranges
they
rummaged
from
the lifeless soil.
Najib
Shirkijian,
Ani's
maternal
grandfather,
was
one
of
those
who
survived
the
pogrom,
but
only
because
of
his
prowess
as
a
goldsmith.
It
seemed
the
executioners
were
prepared
to
make
an
exemption
in
the
case
of
tradesmen
like
him:
if
you
were
a
carpenter,
blacksmith
or
goldsmith,
you
were reprieved and would be allowed to stay behind and serve the needs of their Turkish "hosts."
The
Chamichian
clan
in
of
Jerusalem
belonged
to
the
Evangelical
denomination
and
had
their
own
church,
the
Nazarene,
perched
at
the
top
of
a
flight
of
stairs,
a
minute's
walk
from
the
Christian Quarter of the Old City where Ani and one of her sisters were born.
Ani
suspects
her
grandmother
was
not
really
a
Protestant
because
"every
once
in
a
while
she
would
take
me
to
[the
Cathedral
of]
St
James,
and
quietly
slip
upstairs
for
a
service.
She
would
say,
'don't
tell
your
father
or
mother'
because
it
would
be
embarrassing
to
him
as
the
pastor
of
a
Protestant
church.
She
loved
to
listen
to
the
"sharagans"
(hymns)
and
I'm
assuming
she
missed
them
in the more austere Protestant church."
The
other
thing
she
missed
in
her
Jerusalem
exile
was
the
"hamams",
the
public
baths
of
which
one is still functioning in the Old City.
"In
our
house
we
had
an
indoor
bathroom
with
a
tub
and
shower
but
she
would
frequently
drag
me
to
a
'hamam'
with
her
to
be
tortured
by
the
hot
water
and
be
scrubbed
down
with
the
black
"cassa"
[bag]
that
she
took
along.
After
getting
clean
the
ladies
wrapped
themselves
in
huge
towels
and sat around chatting."
"I
don't
remember
tea
being
served
as
like
in
the
Ainteb
and
Paris
'hamam's
I
visited
in
my
travels," Ani recounts.
One
of
her
Saturday
chores
as
a
child
was
to
heft
a
large
tray
of
loaves
and
carry
it
to
the
bakery
just
outside
the
Convent
of
St
James,
then
wait
for
it
be
baked
and
take
the
warm
bread
home.
"Because
of
my
father's
position
in
the
church,
we
were
frequently
visited
by
American
Nazarene
pilgrims
who
came
to
the
Holy
Land.
This
was
at
Easter,
Christmas
and
summer,
just
those
times
when I didn't have to go to school and got to go along [on their tours]," she recalls.
"In
this
way
I
was
very
fortunate
to
see
parts
of
the
region
I
would
not
have
otherwise
seen.
We
went
to
Bethlehem
at
Christmas,
the
Garden
Tomb
at
Easter,
and
my
grandmother
used
to
take
me
to
the
miraculous
appearance
of
the
Holy
Fire
on
the
Saturday before
Easter
at
the
Church
of
the
Holy Sepulcher."
Eventually,
Ani
left
Jerusalem
and
settled
in
the
United
States
but
her
attachment
to
the
"city
of
gold," and "the flower of cities," remains strong.
"I
feel
very
fortunate
to
have
grown
up
in
a
city
with
such
an
ancient
history
and
physical
beauty
and
to
have
been
taken
to
so
many
places
with
deep
pre-
and
post
Roman
history.
The
white
stones
along
the
hillsides,
the
red
poppies
blooming
in
the
spring
and
the
crisp
clear
air
have
all
become
part of who I am," she proclaims.
(Dec 10, 2016)