23 ապրիլ, 2014
Kesab and Anjar: A Tale of Two Villages
In
Latakia, Syria, 45 minutes from Kesab, the Armenians of Kesab,
deported, homeless, and rootless appeared to be characters in a story
whose collective narrative was abruptly interrupted. The images, the
people and their stories left an indelible mark -- their misery was now
permanently under our skin. A familiar cycle of dispossession and pain, a
rhythm of loss revealed itself to us in ways we never thought possible.
My dreams were black that night.
While we thought the journey to Latakia was hard, we didn’t realize that some of the hardest moments were yet to come.
The following day, we woke up in Beirut to a torrential downpour,
lightening and thunder that seemed to shake the earth. We began the 50
kilometer drive to Anjar, another historic Armenian village, this time
to see the several dozen families from Kesab that had gone there in
search of refuge and a promise of security. We drove up through the
Mount Lebanon mountain range and back down to the fertile Bekaa Valley
to reach the village.
I hadn’t been to Anjar in years. It seemed more beautiful, more
pristine...the trees had grown more majestic, the homes were more
gentrified, the streets cleaner, even the clouds in the sky were more
special. Perhaps it was all of those things, I can’t say for certain.
Perhaps I needed and wanted to see it that way in the face of the
potential loss of Kesab, a historic piece of the lost Cilician Kingdom
that had survived. Perhaps it was because my personal history was
intertwined inextricably with both Kesab and Anjar. There was an innate
and profound loss swirling in the air around me.
We arrived at the Howard Karaguesian Foundation branch located in the
center of Anjar where the deported families from Kesab were invited to
come to receive assistance.
People were milling around outside the center. Inside, others were
sitting on chairs and benches, some were talking, most were silent.
There was a quiet lingering ache in the room. And then the stories
tumbled out, slowly, haltingly at first and then faster and harder.
Conversations led to revelations of deep and rooted connections to one
another and the land. I became part of the story, against my will at
first and then willingly. I let them into my life and their narratives
bled into mine.
The Armenians from Kesab who had come to Anjar appeared more
desolate, they carried a pain that was not palpable in Latakia. The
minute they crossed the border into Lebanon from Syria, they became
refugees, they lost their life’s compass and were mere shadows of
themselves. In Latakia, they could still feel Kesab, it was there,
within their reach, waiting to be liberated to herald their return to
their ancestral lands. In Anjar, the feelings of loss were more defined,
deeper, sharper -- the minute they made the conscious decision to move
forward and search for something more permanent, the magnitude of their
loss seemed to knock them off balance.
They had come to Anjar not only to seek refuge but because of kinship
and familiarity with the customs and dialect, because the Armenians of
Anjar, descendents of the people of Musa Dagh, had suffered a similar
fate; the symbolism didn’t need to be articulated, it hung in the air,
heavy with meaning.
The peoples of Kesab and Musa Ler were now married by a cycle of deportation and loss.
Following their heroic 40-day battle against the Turks during the
height of the Armenian Genocide, the Armenians of Musa Dagh were rescued
by the French and then taken to Port Said in Egypt. With the end of the
First World War in 1918, the Sanjak of Alexandretta came under French
control paving the way for the Armenians of Musa Dagh to return to their
villages. However, 20 years later, the Franco-Turkish Treaty of 1938
gave the region to Turkey. The Armenians of Musa Dagh were uprooted once
again and after passing through Kesab and then Basit, Syria were
eventually brought to Lebanon. Anjar became their new home. Some of the
residents of the village of Vakif chose to stay and today Vakif remains
the only ethnic Armenian village in Turkey.
About two dozen Kesabtsis who refused to be evacuated or who had been
left behind, were taken to Vakif by the rebels who attacked their
village. They continue to remain in Vakif, unsure of what their fate
will be.
Kesab and Anjar represent two cradles of Armenian existence and life,
two villages with so many connections and stories, two villages that
are an integral part of my identity. After spending several hours with
the Armenians of Kesab in Anjar, the village of my ancestors, after
sharing stories and memories, shedding tears and after strong
handshakes, we drove away, exhausted and spent. And now I am in Yerevan
and I wonder what will happen to the Armenians of Kesab, I wonder about
the fate of Anjar and the fate of Armenian communities in the Middle
East. I don’t know what their future holds, but I do know that there is
the Armenian Republic, where everything is not ideal or perfect or
stable, but it must provide a promise of something better and a haven
for Armenians everywhere.
Maria Titizian
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