For the Armenians of Jerusalem, descendants of a race
of mountainous warriors, but imbued as they have
become with the Middle Eastern ethic of sentimentality,
a child is their literal treasure on earth.
No
vestal
"gouyces"
could
have
been
more
ethereally
graceful
and
exquisite
than
the
bevy
of
white-garbed,
tremulous
graduates
clustered
around
the
creaking
platform.
No
aspiring,
"ishkhan"
could
have
been
more
handsomely
resplendent
in
his
brocade
finery,
or
more
masculine
and
self-possessed
than
the
young
men
who
hovered
protectively around them.
There
they
stood,
clutching
their
diplomas
in
one
hand,
their
dreams
in
the
other,
with
the
huge
cutout
painting
of
Saint
Mesrob
towering
over
their
heads,
listening
with
rapt
attention
to
the
exhortations
of
their
indefatigable
principal
and
spiritual
adviser,
Bishop
Gyuregh
Kapikian,
who
had
seen
them
developing,
year
by
year,
*from
helpless
crawling
larvae
into
dazzlingly
arrayed
butterflies, waiting impatiently to try out their wings.
Despite
the
traumatic,
often
violent
discombobulations
in
the
political
arena
of
the
region,
Kapikian
had
been
able
to
steer
his
charges,
through
a
treacherous
minefield,
to
this,
their
moment
of
greatest glory: Graduation Day, at the St. Tarkmanchatz.
They
still
had
to
face
another
heavy
barrage
of
examinations
(the
crucial
London
University
General
Certificate
of
Education,
GCE),
and
although
these
are
uncompromisingly
demanding,
the
Tarkmanchatz
hopefuls had been gearing up for them for quite a while.
The
maudlin
tradition
of
the
"Amaverchi
Hantess"
has
survived
for
over
half
a
century
and
has
been
an
endless
succession
of
bright
stars
tossed
into
the
darkness
of
a
befuddled
world,
illuminating
it,
even
if
briefly, with the fire that informs the Armenian soul.
And
as
he
has
done
for
the
duration
of
his
lengthy
tenure,
Kapikian
has
consecrated
the
day;s
festivities
to
the
memory
of
some
glorious
episode
culled
from
the
pages
of
Armenian
history.
This
year
Graduation
Day
coincided
with
the
the
70th
anniversary
of
the
battle
of Sardarabad.
Sardarabad . .
The
word,
with
its
quadruple,
resounding,
throaty
'A's
evokes
such
a
multitude
of
passionate
emotions
in
all
Armenians
-
this
was
the
original,
crucial
battle
of
Avarair,
all
over
again,
fought
against
a
most
bloodthirsty
enemy
whose
sole
aim
was
nothing
less
than
the
total
annihilation
of
the
proud
Armenian
race,
descendants
of
the
immortal Haig who had vanquished the tyrannical Pel.
"When there is no way out at all,
"And when all hope is lost,
"Then may madmen find a way ...
"This
was
how
the
day
of
the
great
battle
of
Sardarabad
dawned"
as Edgar Hovhannesian sang.
Bands
of
desperate
Armenians,
led
by
their
priests,
scurrying
from
town
to
town,
village
to
village,
street
to
street,
mobilizing
every
man,
woman
or
child
able
to
bear
arms,
for
the
battle
that
would
decide the fate of their fatherland.
"Armenians
have
always
won
their
victories
with
their
deaths,"
as
Gevorg Emin says in his "Seven Songs About Armenia."
Every
Armenian,
no
matter
what
spot
on
earth
he
may
call
home,
lodges
in
his
soul
the
undying
flame
immortalizing
the
endless
litany
of
martyrs
and
heroes
that
have
illuminated
the
pages
of
the
illustrious history of this nation.
And
the
tiny
community
of
Armenians
in
Jerusalem
is
no
exception.
In
fact,
despite
the
sometimes
acrimoniously
morbid
spate
of
ill-feeling
that
factional
politics
have
since
time
immemorial
spawned
among
them,
the
hardy
relics
who
continue
to
wage
their
inexorable
battle
for
survival
here,
remain
one
of
the
most
dynamic
and tenacious of all the "bantukhds" of the diaspora.
No
matter
how
disparaging
their
shortcomings,
or
how
scabrous
their
conduct,
these
incorrigible
larrikins
continue
to
keep
the
flame
alight.
Walking
through
the
history-encrusted
alleyways
of
the
St.
James
compound,
you
breathe
that
rarefied
air
that
has
invigorated
interminable
generations
of
your
forefathers,
with
its
distinctive
Armenian
aroma:
the
black-scarved
"barays"
exchanging
the
latest
round
of
gossip,
the
staple
Sunday
shish
kebab
party
against
the
background
of
a
mellifluous
rhapsody
by
some
"ashough"
bewailing
his
lost
love,
the
heady
incense
and
soulful
tunes
of
the
Badarak
wafting
on
the
breeze,
that
seems
to
encapsulate
the
eternal
wanderlust
of
the
Armenian
and,
above
all,
wallowing
in
the
invigorating
luxury
of
an
extravagant
inundation
of
Armenian:
hearing
Armenian,
thinking
Armenian,
speaking
Armenian,
in
an
oasis
of
self-assertion,
standing
out
among
the
babble
of
alien
tongues
that
makes
Jerusalem
so
special.
"No
man
who
does
not
know
the
Armenian
language
can
ever
be
a
real
Armenian,
or
share
in
the
glories
of
his
people,
or
be
a
part
of
its
history,"
Archbishop
Karekin
Kazanjian,
the
Grand
Sacristan,
reminded the graduates as he bade them farewell and godspeed.
He
needn't
have
worried.
The
Tarkmanchatz,
despite
some
quite
glaring
anachronisms,
makes
sure
its
students
receive
a
thorough
drilling
in
their
mother
tongue
and
an
all-round
indoctrination
in
the
religion and history of their forefathers.
And
Graduation
Day
is
nothing
if
not
a
grand
triumphant
testimony
to
that:
for
two
hours,
the
captive
audience
sat
enthralled
(there
was
the
usual
quota
of
bored,
restless
souls
yearning
for
release),
listening
to
a
rolling
litary
of
orations,
speeches,
songs,
poems, delivered in uplifting Armenian.
Perhaps,
the
most
haunting
memory
people
took
back
with
them
was
the
Farewell
Song,
lyrics
by
Yeghivart
(pen-name
of
Patriarch
Yeghishe Derderian), music by Ohan Durian.
In
a
haunting
cadence,
it
mourns
"the
golden
days
of
our
childhood,
the
beautiful
days
that
we
lived
at
the
Tarkmanchatz."
There
were
few
dry
eyes
when
the
nine
ex-students
together
sang
"Mnak
Parov"
for
hardly
anyone
remained
unmoved
by
the
old
familiar
strains
that
he
or
she
himself/herself
had
sung,
only
yesterday,
it
seemed.
But
long
before
it
was
over,
each
of
the
nine
had
spent
wakeful
nights
pondering
his/her
prospects
for
the
future.
For
whiz
kid
Elie
Kahvejian,
the
world
will
be
a
silicon
chip,
while
Sarkis
Ishkhanian
will
shoulder
a
camera
and
follow
in
his
father's
footsteps.
Sarkis
Djernazian
has
his
heart
set
on
going
to
Armenia,
but
his
parents
are
against
the
idea,
and
like
Seven
Panosian,
he
will
most
probably
end
up
as
a
jeweler
or
goldsmith,
Lili
and
her
sister
Dalila
Chavoushian,
will
join
the
inexorable
exodus
to
the
States,
but
Azniv
Baghdasarian,
who
ran
away
with
an
armful
of
distinctions,
will
join
a
local
university.
Seta
Ajemian
is
keen
to
take
up
graphic
arts,
and
Jacqueline
Hagopian
(with
several
distinctions
to
her
credit),
has
the
option
of
going
back
to
Australia,
where
she
was
born,
to
Yerevan,
on
a
full
scholarship,
or
to
a
local
art
academy.
And
for
Marta
and
Aster
Getaneh,
the
two
Ethiopian
sisters
who
are
also
graduating
this
year,
it is the Egyptian skyline which beckons.