Memories Within Us

Posted on December 23, 2015 by thisihumblyspeak

The time had come for me to clean out my closets in preparation for the move from one house to another. On that crisp, cold morning, I wore sweatpants, a mismatched cotton shirt and a rust-colored wool sweater. Once fashionable, the sweater was now stretched with sleeves that were rolled up a number of times to fit the length of my arms. The wool had thinned out in the elbows and it was missing a button at the collar.

The sweater belonged to my dad. But the workmanship was my mother’s. It was an intricate pattern of braid cable and twist knit, basket weave and seed stitch, with aran honeycomb and cell stitch knitting. She had made it for him long ago to guard him against the winter cold. It had seen a lot of holidays and good events over the years, but eventually, after 25 years, the sweater frayed and was left in my home to be relegated to grocery shopping in the vicinity, leaf-raking and other yard work during cold days of winter. On this particular morning, it served to keep me warm as I moved boxes with items in and out of the house and the garage.

My daughter and son had come to help as we went through closets in the house either keeping or eliminating “stuff.” Both my children had moved out of the home years ago, having built their own nests in different cities. Yet, as we worked, at least five coats, six pairs of shoes with countless pairs of socks, high school and college books and notebooks, stuffed toys and mementos, sleeping bags, board games and trophies emerged from the bowels of what was once their closet. As we sifted through the various items, we felt like we were on a journey down memory lane. “Remember when we bought this blue suit for my high school awards night?” my daughter asked. “I do remember,” I answered, as we looked at each other teary-eyed with fond shared memories. My son pulled out a neatly folded scout shirt with a sash of badges rolled inside his Eagle hat. Memories of our last camping trip with the Boy Scouts of America began to unfold as he draped the sash across his shoulder and chest. Their visit was bittersweet. A walk down memory lane.

Among the organized “chaos” of my hallway closet I found a box labeled FAMILY. It was sealed with packing tape. I cut through it.  Papers and letters. Pictures of people framed in colorful ornate paper and ribbon popped out emitting a wave of nostalgia chock full of affection. They were all there, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins, sisters, brothers, sons, and daughters, every one of them gathered in pictures, richly trimmed, framed and made into beautiful handmade ornaments for the Christmas tree. This was a tradition I had started with the children, to include family members near or far, past and present, young and old, known and unknown into the joyous gathering of our home and hearts. The tradition had long since become dormant but one I seem to have held onto sealed in a box perhaps because I was trying to hold on to pieces of me, to pieces of the past, much like I had been attempting to hold on to pieces of my children and their past with “stuff” gathered in boxes. Downsizing remnants of 35 years of my children’s life was not easy. How could I downsize even further remnants of sentimental attachment to family?

I know and I realize our memories are within us and not within our “stuff” in hallway closets and boxes, proof of which I had carried the memories and the love of the past into our home without ever accessing the sealed boxes in nearly 20 years. But we hold on to those we love, that which we are, and that which we never want to lose. We cling to their memory.

This box was a keeper. I labeled it FAMILY CHRISTMAS ORNAMENTS. They, along with the new additions of people who are most dear to me in this world would decorate the Christmas tree in the new home. I closed the box, ready for the move.

This Christmas, may you each find your sealed box of memories; visit it, open it, share it, fill your heart with nostalgia, and unfold the love that resonates deep within you. This Christmas, may the memories cling to you as comfortably as does the fit and warmth of this old sweater I wear. Merry Christmas!

 

 

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Trees, Bricks and Mortar

Posted on November 2, 2015 by thisihumblyspeak

I have always liked getting my hands dirty, feeling the earth run through the webbing of my fingers, digging through sand, mud and stone. My passion must have started as a child growing up in the hot, dry desert sands of Kuwait. Unbelievable, yet true, in the stubborn soil of petroleum rich land, we had the most colorful garden of flowers, shrubs and trees that bloomed. The tall delphiniums lined the grey concrete walls of our garden, and the aster and daisies grew in wild clumps of bush throughout. It was the envy of the neighborhood, and my mother took great pride in ownership. It was mother who lovingly tended to the first snap dragons and carnations with fingers that carefully plucked away the crisp, dead leaves and dried debris that had fallen from the overhanging trees. She used the shade of those trees to plant her feet firmly on the pebbled paths that divided the plots of hues as she moved the garden hose from one section to the other. It was as though she fell under the spell of a certain nostalgia, a spell that remained with her whenever she found herself among nature, potted, planted or wild. She loved her garden. She looked centered. Whole.

I too love the garden. There is something magical about trees of all shapes and sizes – their majesty, their sheer grandeur as you stand in their shadow, the way they change but still remain a constant presence whether in full flower preparing for fruit or with bare branches, dormant for the winter. In every home that I have lived, I’ve enjoy planting rose bushes, seasonal flowers that bloom and trees with fruit, tending to their needs. When I am digging beneath the earth, beneath the flower beds, I am wholly involved. I begin to lose myself in the physical work that is nearly as old as the planet itself…scraping, digging and mixing to prepare the soil for what it does best…sustain life. I am revived, centered and whole again. Why? Maybe it’s because when “things to do” on my list add up, I don’t do every task with the whole of myself. I look at the calendar, and the next appointment or date is already moving in before I have even finished whatever I have set for the day. Stress and pressure build up. I step outside. I fall under the spell of a garden sanctuary and of life sustaining earth. Alone with the plants and trees, their presence is felt, strong yet delicate, sustaining me with their steadfast beauty. The roses I planted smile at me. I feel joy. The eucalyptus tree with its gnarled branches that let the moonlight shine through stands majestic at the edge of my hill. It was there before I moved into this house. It will be here when I move out.

I am moving.

It all started when fatigue, a word that did not exist in my dictionary, started to creep its way into my lifestyle decisions. There was no more white space in my calendar to even pencil something in, and I noticed that the yard had slowly transformed itself and had become rougher around the edges. I could no longer flatter myself to be a nurturer and yard-proud without making too many landscaping changes. In frustration, I said, “I want to own a home. I don’t want brick and mortar to own me.” My husband, bless his understanding and intuitive heart, gave my words a short second thought. We concluded that it was far more important to spend 168 hours of every week truly enjoying a good return on our investments of time and energy into family than to spend precious time and energy into maintaining a house and lifestyle we seem to have outgrown.

I am moving.

It is exciting, however, the process of downsizing is intimidating and complex. One thing is for certain; the joys of my life have nothing to do with brick and mortar. They do not change. The morning and evening sky. Sunrises that move me. Sunsets that draw me to prayer. The flowers. Trees. Summer sun and dew on grass. Leaves that crunch under my feet. Rain, snow atop mountains, the first crocus. I depend on these true joys that have nothing to do with possessions—nature, life source, human love—all these joys make life flow through me at every moment and every day.

When I finally move house, I know I’ll miss the trees more than the bricks and mortar.

 

 

 

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Look in the Mirror

Posted on September 4, 2015 by thisihumblyspeak

There comes a pivotal moment in everyone’s life when fleeting past a window or mirror, he or she stops for a split second because the image reflected appears as that of his or her parent.

Looking in the mirror these days I find more and more an image that is familiar to me. When did my features change so completely? I know the image in the mirror is me, but if I look closely at my forehead, my brow and eyes, the lines around my mouth, and even my neck, I can see another familiar face—my mother. Though my features do resemble my mother’s, it is her voice and words of wisdom that form the characteristics I carry of her. They mold my features, and now, hers are woven into my face—a lasting and undeniable connection to the woman who shaped the woman I have become today.

My mother was regal, classy, and a “one of a kind” original masterpiece that combined authority, with benevolent tenderness and compassion. She came from a privileged family that valued education, simplicity, and thrifty living over extravagance. Strong, outspoken, friendly, strict, principled, devoted, and generous are just a few of the words to describe her. She had a faith in God that sustained her, and she relied on that same faith to keep her company in her older years. “Be compassionate with people. Most appear to be brave, but they are just scared of life.” She would say. On occasion she would cry. “When I cry I know who I really am. I cry when others hurt as well as myself. I cry at the brutal world news. It’s my strength and my weakness,” she would say. I have come to treasure the many words of wisdom my mother shared with me as I was growing up. I draw upon them in these uncertain days and times.

Looking and listening to the news these days, I find more and more an image that is familiar to the history of humanity. The camera shows a woman dressed in her native attire of what used to be the brightest of colors, now faded by the sun and weeks of treacherous trek of land and seas. She holds an infant in one arm, and with the other, embraces a knee-high toddler wrapped around the skirt of her dress. The infant is limp, weakened with dehydration, and asleep; the toddler is tired, his eyes barren, a hollowness that fear often leaves in its wake. Both have tracks down their dark stained cheeks where the tears have run and chased the dirt away. All are famished, desperate, displaced, devastated, lonely, and frightened. With all the dignity that the woman can muster, she says in Arabic, “We are not beggars. We are not dirty people. Our smell is the stench of persecution, exile, famine, and hopelessness.” And with that image and those words, I see my ancestors… I see the innocent people of my Armenian heritage. I see the faces of millions of families in their faces. I see the innocent children of Afghanistan, Ethiopia, India, and China. I see the Burmese refugees. I see Jewish refugees, Cambodians, Arab refugees, Bangladeshi and Pakistani refugees. I see German refugees, Koreans refugees, Irish refugees, Bosnians… As the world watches, more than 4 million Syrian refugees have been forced to flee their homeland by four years of conflict. This is not a Middle Eastern, or South-east Asian, African or European problem. It doesn’t belong to poor countries, or to rich. It is a global issue that belongs to you and me. Millions of children are in dire need of humanitarian assistance. Given the chance of peaceful and secure living among the scant yet familiar surroundings of what was once their home, most refugees would want to return. All they seek is a chance for survival. But, there is too large a disconnect between their aspirations and the mirror of our reality. The image that separates fact from fiction in our lives has widened to a cosmic abyss. If only the world would look closely into that image, it would see a familiar history of migration and exodus. If only the world would look into the mirror and see its true reflection. The image would come back to haunt us.

I am grateful to have my mother’s words of wisdom to draw upon in these uncertain days and times. I proudly carry her words not only in my heart but on my face for the whole world to see. I cry. I cry at the brutal world news.

 

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Multitasking or Multidistracting

Posted on August 4, 2015 by thisihumblyspeak

Gone are my days when I could be talking to my mother on the phone while snapping my fingers at my husband to draw his attention to a tool he’d been looking for while at the same time emptying the dishwasher and using my leg to shut the fridge door left open by a three year old. Gone are my champion multitasking days. The truth is, I am terrible at multitasking. Yet, it seems to be the norm in offices where people are often required to keep chat rooms open, surf the web, and respond to e-mail within 15 minutes. It seems to be common in sports arenas where fans in mega-buck seasonal seats actually watch the game on big-screen TVs and text friends and post photos on Instagram and Facebook, tweet the scores and send out selfies. It seems to be the norm in college classrooms where professors’ lectures compete with web search engines and social networking sites on laptops while “passing notes” through text messaging. Multitasking is the new social norm. It is part of this world in which people talk separately on cell phones while walking together side by side. It is part of this world where I hear the click of a friend’s keyboard while talking on the phone, and where two people who seem to be holding a serious conversation while one is surfing the Internet.

I am delighted to find a report by the late professor of communication at Stanford, Dr. Clifford Nass, who spent more than 25 years studying people as they confronted the constantly changing technology of the computer age. According to his study, people who multitasked less frequently were actually better at it than those who did it frequently. He argued that heavy multitasking shortened attention spans and the ability to concentrate; in other words, easily distracted. Even this, however, puts me at the low end of the multitasking scale since I am not Facebooking while surfing the Net, downloading iTunes and driving. Worse yet, my inability to simultaneously YouTube and IM and listen to voice mail makes me a technological dinosaur.

Today, I am challenged by one task at a time. I sit in front of my computer to write my blog and while I’m hashing out the words, I hear my cellphone buzz with a text message. It’s my daughter requesting a reply to one of her life’s questions. I drop everything and seek to find a well-informed answer through the various search engines on the web. As I search for a satisfactorily relevant answer, I am distracted by other information that appears on the page and which is of interest to me. I delve further into the topic of my interest, leaving behind my daughter’s quest for later. I become engrossed in the subject until a message on the computer screen pops up to say a friend posted a reply to a comment I had made on Facebook. She’s the person I was hoping to reach through LinkedIn earlier this morning. I go to FB, check her reply, click a ‘like’ to her response and catch up on everybody else’s news. Someone’s become a grandparent, another just returned from vacation while another just ate a great meal with a picture to prove it. Someone types Amen, another asks for likes to combat animal cruelty while another shares a post claiming it is the funniest thing you’ll ever read. My home phone rings. I take the call in my bedroom. I chat for a bit while tidying the room. I hang up the phone. I look out the window to my back yard and notice the dry leaves on my patio. I decide to go out into the yard and rake the leaves and as I am doing so I am met by the hummingbird that whirrs and hums her rapid wingbeats next to me in midair. She flies to her two chicks hatched in the nest she has built on the strings of the chime hanging from the eave above my patio. I marvel at the beauty of a tiny avian feeding her babies. The thought of the hummingbird feeding her chicks reminds me that I need to go grocery shopping, and I step into the kitchen to take inventory of needed items for today’s dinner. While making my list I notice the daily paper. A headline catches my attention. I’ll read it later since I’m headed out the door. The mailman drives up. I wave. I might as well bring in the mail. My bank statement has arrived. I return indoors to verify the transactions and balance the books using my on-line banking skills. My phone bings. I’ve received an IM from siblings on WhatsApp asking about my well-being and to join the conversation. About to answer, I hear a couple of chimes. Emails are coming in. I’ll explain to my siblings as soon as I answer these emails. …

Now then where was I? Multitasking.

 

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Inalienable Rights

Posted on July 8, 2015 by thisihumblyspeak

(Dear readers, thank you for checking in on my blog on July 4th expecting to see some thoughts on the day. Your inquiries inspired me to write this one. Although the 4th of July has come and gone, my sentiments do remain the same.)balloonsThere are few American National Holidays that we celebrate as a nation, but none as powerful as the 4th of July that commemorates the birth of an independent nation. It is a celebration of pride in a country that has captured, in the first sentence of paragraph two of the Declaration of Independence, the essence that enshrines Life, Liberty and Happiness: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

It is among the greatest sentences ever written regarding what a civil government exists to preserve and protect. Every human being has God-given rights to live, to be free, and to pursue her/his happiness.

We are a society that prizes freedom, proof of which many of us came to this country because of her offer of Liberty, one for which many men and women have fought and died. That same fight for liberty and freedom is not always country against country or foe, but often within ourselves. Freedom requires sacrifice and understanding that certain rules are necessary to create a society in which people of different skills and ideas work together in mutually beneficial exchanges. A free society is not one where people are free to do as they wish at the expense of infringing on or harming someone else’s rights.  A mature, learned, advanced society where “man” is a rational and moral being, is one where we freely elect to exercise our reason in the name of choosing well. We may not be responsible for the actions of our fellow citizens, but we are responsible for our own actions, and as citizens of this free nation, we must hold ourselves accountable when we abuse our freedom rights. Freedom of life and the pursuit of happiness is a complicated right that requires tolerance from all sides, a tolerance that is often lacking…as witnessed by national tragedies of flawed misinterpretations of the Declaration of Independence and the First Amendment.

The system of government clearly places liberty at the center of its concern.  Ideally, government “shall” enforce the law only to protect that freedom…the freedom of the fundamentalist and the atheist, the female and the male, the child and adult, the Black and Caucasian, the Asian and Hispanic, the islander and the mainlander, the majority and minority groups, the gay and the straight.  I find it troubling that despite the battles fought in the past, there are many wars still being waged on the liberty of others today.

I find it troubling that the true meaning of liberty and freedom is not self-evident by the masses.   I find it troubling that we claim to be a more advanced society yet we confuse our inalienable right to freedom with the First Amendment of the Constitution that guarantees freedoms concerning religion, expression, assembly, and the right to petition. As a society, we don’t seem to be willing to respect a wider range of ideas under the umbrella of freedom, especially when those views may cross the line of our personal beliefs. “Rightful liberty is unobstructed action according to our will within limits drawn around us by the equal rights of others. (Thomas Jefferson)

I find it troubling that too many people blame government rule for our social problems when these problems have been created as a result of the people themselves exercising irresponsibly the constitutional rights granted them in our founding documents.  I find it troubling that we don’t take responsibility for our own actions and are obsessed with quickly finding out whose “fault” things are, and who we can blame.

I find it troubling that our religious or otherwise beliefs continue to distort our ability to see things clearly.  We are free to “worship” according to our conscience. Everybody worships. Even the atheist. The only difference is who or what we worship…God, Allah, Jehovah, Noble Truths, Wiccan, Body, Material, Self… Freedom to worship or not to worship according to our conscience is an inalienable right.

We should all be deeply thankful, “endowed by” the “Creator” for our inalienable rights in the United States.  Even with its sometimes tragic flaws, we should never lose sight of the freedoms we enjoy in this great Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

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Perfect Imperfections

Posted on June 15, 2015 by thisihumblyspeak

The picture of Prince George with his sister Princess Charlotte is a perfectly poised image. It reminds me of a picture that I carry of my grandson at the same age in the same position holding his baby sister. The difference is that while Prince George is spotlessly clean and well groomed, my grandson who was prepped for the picture to be spotlessly clean, had managed to sneak a piece of chocolate and pop it into his mouth right before the click of the camera. The camera captured the tell-tell sign of chocolate dripping down the side of his mouth.    Needless to say, the photo was rejected for its “imperfection”.  It remains one of my favorite photographs. It captures the impish features of a 2 year old who, much as he was awed by a baby sister who looked more like a cabbage patch doll,  thought that it was just as okay to be eating a piece of chocolate at the same time. Perfect for him…imperfect for the parents.

Among the many pieces of furniture that I have in my home which have been handed down to me from my parents’ home are two foot stools. They are bow legged with scratches and scuff marks, and the original two tone wood stain gloss varnish has faded to an almost matte finish. They are my favorite piece of furniture. Not because they are lovely, with their beautifully proportioned carvings of figurines on their short legs. They are my favorite because of the scuffs from the generation of children in our families standing on them, using them as table tops, and placing on them their plates of food. They are my favorite because they have indentations from the hard-pressed lettering of kids who didn’t like homework, and from kids who over eagerly learned to use crayons. They have edges that are scratched from kids who used them as building blocks and drove matchbox cars under, on and around them. Now my grandchildren use them to stand on and reach for things, among other uses that go undetected. I treasure these stools not in spite of their imperfections, but because of them. The imperfections are what make them attractive.

As a girl who grew up with women magazines that created an entire culture of perfection-based exploits, I now find myself wiser to the messages that these magazines promote in order to sell products.  Buy this product to look more beautiful; use this to hide blemishes; add sexy satin shine to naturally dull hair; do this to attract perfect guys; do that to stimulate more responses; liposuction for a perfect body; laser treat sagging skin for the perfect glow; even low libido?  We can fix that too.   In other words, every product assumes I am flawed and promises to bring me closer to perfection.  Don’t misunderstand. I have no issue with using products that will aid in overall appearance or performance, but I do have a problem with the presupposition that I am (or you are) flawed. That my imperfections are seen as faulty or that they are problems that need fixing is the premise I argue against. It is our uniqueness that makes us desirable, intriguing and beautiful beings. There is no perfection. There are imperfections that personalize our lives.

This leads me to the realization that it is the imperfections, the dents and potholes, the misadventures that bring memories flooding back: I will remember taking the wrong train to find myself among the sheep herders’ wagon; or a flat tire as the best part of a miserable trip. I won’t forget strangers finding us a place to stay when we were so very, very lost; or an honest mistake in a restaurant that left us well fed but with a lesson learned. I will recall getting soaked on the way to the theater in an unexpected summer rainstorm; or  a burst of childish laughter in the seriousness of a situation; even our heads bumping as they moved toward a kiss.  These are imperfections that punctuate life and flood the memories each with a story to tell.

When we talk of loved ones who have come into our lives, who have made an impression and who are now missed, what is it about them that we recall with a fondness that brings a smile or laughter or a shake of the head? Not their perfections but their quirky look, their ethnic features, the gap between their teeth that caused a whistle as they said your name, their lopsided smile, a double chin that jiggled as they laughed, their wrinkled forehead, a lifting of one eyebrow, bushy eyebrows, pursing of thin lips…need I say more? We are defined, not in a bad way, by our imperfections. They are reminders that we are all in this together, scuffed, dented, scratched yet beautifully carved, naturally bold…perfect imperfections.

 

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She Said Mama

Posted on May 9, 2015 by thisihumblyspeak

mamaI have never owned a Barbie doll. I owned a big black African doll I called Babie. She wore blue overalls over a red and white striped shirt and she could walk if I held her hand just right in mine. Her hair didn’t need combing as it was tightly woven into curls on her beautifully shaped head. Her large brown eyes sparkled until she shut them whenever I laid her down to sleep, and when I turned her over, she would open her eyes and say Mama. Barbie never said Mama.

I consider myself a feminist. It’s a little antiquated to admit it, but it’s true.  Barbie was about fashionable clothing, great jobs, cool friends and pretty accessories—a woman who always wore high heels, and walked and slept on tippy toes.  Barbie was created to be the well-dressed and attractive role model to be considered a tool for teaching daughters about the importance of appearance and femininity.   I give her credit because Barbie moved far beyond the career ambitions of a teen fashion model. Over the years since 1959, Barbie has held down more than 80 jobs, including paleontologist, astronaut, and McDonald’s cashier. Yet, at the time, I used to think, “Poor Barbie, she can’t stand on her own two legs without support from another girl/woman holding her upright.”  My Babie could stand on her own two legs without assistance. I grew up loving my Babie for her tomboy and carefree appearance which screamed freedom from conforming to how a woman should dress and look, and I imagined I could be anything I wanted to be on my own two legs.

Flash forward to the 70’s. Driven to make a name for myself, I had started working in a publications office, meeting last minute deadlines into the late hours of night, rehearsing for an amateur theater company into the wee hours of the morning and working toward a post-graduate degree, volunteering at a retirement home, keeping up with the Jones’, and happily married. I was on the rise as an independent, educated woman at the forefront of changes. And change did happen. I became pregnant with my first child.  For a young aspiring professional, to leave my job was out of the question. The Women’s Movements of earlier years and Feminists of the 70’s to which I belonged, had paved the way to the plethora of choices that became ours (just like Barbie) as a direct consequence of our liberation, externally as well as internally. After all that, I was not going to jeopardize my position. I hid my pregnancy well into my 5th month. When my daughter was born, I jumped right back on the wagon and resumed my roles in life, and like Barbie, I changed clothes to fit the roles.  I tried to fit everything in at once. I worked harder to meet deadlines as they became powerful motivators behind my sitting in an office for 9 hours a day– I wanted to be sure I could make dinner, pick a child up from day care, and yes, in between get to finish my postgraduate studies.  Sleepless nights became what I thought was a life sentence. Was I to spend the rest of my life in a mismatch of day to day motherhood and the roller coaster of deadlines and meetings?

Within a year of my daughter’s arrival, (and with no offence to a husband who helped), I realized that without the assistance of another woman holding me up, (much like a little girl holding Barbie up to stand on her own legs), my career was to be put on hold. Besides, my baby girl said Mama. She smiled and laughed and hugged me unconditionally. Being a mother became, without question, the number one priority for me. For mothers in the workplace, without the support, usually of other women, it is practically a death by slow unnoticed increments of cuts. By supporting each other, women can help pave the path for their future in so many ways, but it starts with just recognizing that we’re all in different positions at different times in our lives. One thing is clear. Motherhood seems to be the future for most women. According to the 2012 US Census Bureau, nearly 81% of women will become mothers by the age of 44. Hence, mothers, daughters, fathers and sons, embrace the women who gave you life; embrace your future, and support it at work!

Incidentally, in 2012 “I Can Be President Barbie” came out wearing platform loafers which provided her with a base, and for the first time, Barbie was able to stand on her own, albeit still on her tippy-toes. She still doesn’t speak. My Babie still says Mama.

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“River” of Humanity

Posted on April 25, 2015 by thisihumblyspeak

Yesterday, marked the Centennial of the Armenian Genocide. los angeles river

With the wisdom of Elie Wiesel who said, “There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest it,”  a river of humanity moved and meandered far beyond the eyes could see through the streets of Los Angeles to protest injustice.  Armenians and friends of Armenians marched in solidarity to acknowledge the one and half million lives perished at the hands of Ottoman Turkey in a genocidal attempt to systematically cleanse their identity. The few Armenians who survived the persecutions and who were forced to disperse throughout the globe, rose again to preserve their brave ancestry that never failed to prove their nation’s roots in Christianity.

There is a short story of a man at a bar who boasted of his unattached rootlessness to any country while others were demonstrating their extreme national and patriotic emotions. Later in the evening, after a few drinks, one man spoke harshly and criticized a small principality in one of the countries of the Balkans. The man without a country clenched his fist because he would not endure the insult to the place where he was born.

The likelihood that there ever is a man without a root, is to a world without a creator.

the world for justiceThank you to all the rivers of humanity from across the countries and states who clenched your fists with ours to march with pride in protest of the injustice of this and other genocides.

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100 Years Strong

Posted on April 14, 2015 by thisihumblyspeak

genocide10One hundred years since the Genocide of the Armenians and I am reminded everyday of human injustice and the countless injustices inflicted by The Ottoman Turks and continued through today’s Turkey that have not been made right. I saw  “Woman in Gold,” (film), simplistic, sentimental with heart rending flashbacks of the mistreatment of Jews by their Austrian countrymen in the ‘30s. I was moved.   But what struck me was the idea that denial by the perpetrator of a crime committed only serves to strengthen the plight and cause of the “victim/plaintiff.” That being said, the Armenian cause for justice keeps growing stronger.

One hundred years and the atrocities cannot and will not be forgotten. The painful horrific memories of mistreatment through humiliation and shame, through violation of body and soul, of starvation, torture, and the stench of death that is imbedded in the veins of every survivor of the 1.5 million Armenians whose massacres turned the Euphrates river into blood red and whose ashes and bones enriched the soils of the cities along their path, live in all who have fed off the land and drank the waters. We grow stronger, not weaker, guided by our faith in our Christian heritage. One hundred years, and the echo of the Lord’s Prayer in Armenian resounds through the walls of the Vatican and in union with the tintinnabulation of the bells that ring for justice and peace. We are 100 times stronger, 100 times more credible, with 100 times the allies who speak the truth and with 100 times more integrity than one Turkish government that fears the truth.

One hundred years: Unimpaired strength.

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I Am A Survivor

Posted on April 6, 2015 by thisihumblyspeak

 

gen18 genocide9  gen17  gen16 gen20Photos taken from part of a collection of media coverage of Hamidian massacres, the Adana massacre and the Genocide, researched and assembled by curator and author Dr. Hayk Demoyan, Director of the Armenian Genocide Museum Institute in Yerevan, Armenia.

On April 24, 1915, the Ottoman government began rounding up and murdering leading Armenian politicians, businessmen and intellectuals, followed by a systematic extermination of all Armenians living in Anatolian Turkey. By 1918, one and a half million Armenians had perished at the hands of Ottoman and Turkish military and paramilitary armed forces through atrocities intentionally inflicted to eliminate the demographic presence of Armenians in Turkey. In the process, tens of thousands became homeless and stateless refugees while the population of historic Armenia at the Eastern extremity of Anatolia was wiped off the map. One hundred years later, Turkey continues to deny the Armenians their just claim to the truth of a Genocide perpetrated, backed by a U.S. government that continues to condone Turkey for the purpose of political gain.

Victoria’s Story
Somehow, I survived. I survived the march. With every blast of dry wind that blew across the hardened sand of the desert, uncovered bones littered the ground we walked on. I survived, like many of us, orphaned, alone, with only a distant memory of my parents’ faces. I lived in an orphanage. We spread ourselves across countries and continents. I came to feel that I was a nothing in this world, and, at the age of 7, I felt old and worn out. Eventually, I was adopted by Vartouhi Morak. They were kind. They too had a past like mine. But this became a home where memories were not welcome, a home with an unspoken past. I was told to believe that I was too young to understand, and that the only thing that mattered was that we were all very lucky to be alive and together again. While I grew up, I was to remain secretly tormented by my painful memories. When I tried to break the silence, I was always quickly reminded how lucky I was, far luckier than most. We became a family of strangers. We were so deeply hurt in our minds, hearts and souls that we were unable to speak as to what happened. We were silenced by the horror, and guilt set in with the silence because we had no words to describe the atrocities. Guilt, the embodiment of anger directed toward ourselves. It was the penance paid for the “gift” of survival. How could I overcome guilt, humiliation, shame? How could I shut away a time and pretend to assert a different identity? How could I cut out those precious years of childhood that left a wound too deep to mend and maintain a continuity between what was and what is? How could I reassert my dignity? Sure, we went on to live our lives, raising children and making good in the countries that took us in while playing political soccer with our people. Through the years, after having begged silently for a touch of humanity, I softened to kindness of family I created.

Yervant’s Story(Victoria’s son)
I was the offspring of a guilt ridden family that was the victim of a genocide the world ignored. I grew up in a country that had welcomed my parents and I became a citizen of that country. Yet I did not belong in the way other cultures did. It was a struggle to watch my parents make ends meet and speak in hushed silence of selective memories. I carried with me the “shame” of suppression by governments who refused to acknowledge the tragedy of the first Genocide of the Century. Despite historical records and warnings by foreign government, the world suffered yet another genocide in the Holocaust.
Fifty years. My parents spent 50 years hungering for an ear to hear the truth for our outrage and anger until we finally began to proclaim to the world that this horrendous act had taken place. Some of us took it upon ourselves to “right” the wrong, to pay for the loss of life of so many of our parent’s families, but our voices and actions only cut through our own skin and we remained scarred like that hollow place that outrage and anger carved in our hearts. Our actions and reactions proved that it was not death that we feared, but the fear of life without hope, without a dream, without an Armenian identity. It wasn’t the suffering and the torture that we feared. We feared a world without justice. For too long the moral balance of the universe had been swayed.

Hrant’s Story (Yervant’s son)
My family and I had to move. We, like many Armenians were displaced from our adopted countries. The Middle East was in turmoil and the world saw the fall of communism. Our Armenia and our church opened her doors to all her descendants. I’m not ashamed to say that the tears began to flow and I welcomed them. In the face of our struggles of the past 75 years we rose again. We made a new life for ourselves, adapting, yet preserving the riches of our culture. Our Armenian traits came out once again. We were resilient. We had adaptability. We were tenacious and we took initiatives as proud contributors to the countries we served. We were task oriented, hardworking with strong family values. We believed in giving our children the best so that they could become proud foreign nationals with an even prouder Armenian name. We couldn’t be weak or uncertain. Because if we were, then we would only be dragging ourselves back into the desert of the past. We became stronger individually and collectively as Armenians. Meanwhile our horrendous history of Genocide continued to be the playground of shortsighted politicians whose only concern was to please their constituencies, even if it took the distortion of our nation’s documented past.

Nairie’s Story (Hrant’s daughter)
I am a survivor and victor. I am alive and I am here working with this generation of Armenians and our friends toward a forward march for truth and justice. We need not prove that there actually was a Genocide. There is so much documentation and volumes of memoirs that there cannot be any more denial. The voices of 1.5 million are no longer silenced. They are being heard with all our voices, and the truth, in one way or another is coming out. Armenians are not so powerless after all. We have the power of testimony and witness, the power of voice, the power of presence, the power of struggle, the power of righteousness, and the power of a people who refuse to die. We bounce back with the resilience of our women and the resourcefulness of our men. We are durable. We possess the creativity of Aivazovky and Pinajian, Saroyan, Balakian, Bohjalian, Dink, Khachaturian, Hovhaness, Karsh and Garabedian, and so many others; the clever riches’ of Gulbenkian, Manougian, Hoplamazyan, Kerkorian and the like; the wisdom of Garsoian, Hovhanisian, Injejikian, Babikian, and more; the loyalty of Sarafian Jehl; the agility of Agassi, Movsisyan, Goulian, Mirzoyan, Darchinyan, Eskandarian, Parseghian and the like; the scientific of Bagian, Acopian, Sahagian ,Keonjian, Mikoyan to name a few; the fired forces of Speier, Krekorian, Philibosian, Apkarian, Poochigian, Deukmejian, Eshoo, Tevrizian, Hampartsumian and oh, so many more; the imagination of Egoyan and Mamoulian, Sarafian and Garnikyan, Bagdasarian, Keshishian, Zailian, and on and on; the voices of Aznavour, Cher, Tankian, Esperian and the like; we even have the vanity of the Kardashians. We have it all in academia, journalism, music, arts and entertainment, in fashion, in business, in banking, the law and politics, in the sciences, the sports, the military. We have served well the countries of our choices. Now, here we are at 100 years and our plight has just become stronger, our recognition firmer. I appreciate that dozens of countries have acknowledged the Genocide; that the majority of states, that the House of Representatives, that the US Government and that several International organization have passed resolutions and issued proclamations in recognition of the Genocide, but until Turkey is held to the same standards of unacceptability of modern day genocides, I cannot find my peace.
Yet, anger no longer consumes me and my generation. My personal and collective history empowers me and those who come after me to leave our mark to insure that never again a people must suffer while the world watches with eyes wide shut.

Recognition of the Genocide by Turkey, responsible for the deliberate and systematic extermination of my ancestors committed with the sole intent to destroy my race, is an obligation that if not done on her own MUST be mandated by a brave US government that is not so short sighted to live in fear of her constituents. Retribution through recognition is the least of reckoning!

I am confident. I am revived. I am proud.  I am a survivor. I am Armenian.

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