The Scar

Now we are here, contemplating the mountain Varag from the top of Van Fortress. The weather is worrisome and causes cloud formations over the mountain. We are going to start the ascent tomorrow morning. Yes, I have been waiting for this moment for all my life, and now when I am so close to realizing the dream that once seemed so unrealistic to me, my inner unrest hinders me from enjoying this moment to the fullest. No, this turmoil is not related to the ascent. All of the participants are reliable people. We have climbed many mountains together, but only few  “Varags”.

In fact, “Varags” play a crucial role in our lives. They revive our genetic memory and make us ponder. Climbing this mountain is very important, so no matter what, we have to reach the summit. We are looking down from the top of Van Fortress at the ancient district of this town called Qaghaqamej, which got renowned throughout the years of the defense of Van in 1915. There is nothing left from Armenian Van. Today only two mosques with their minarets and a demolished church are left. The district is completely dead.

I am looking at this lifeless piece of earth and envisage the vibrant streets, schools, libraries, and kindergartens that once made the city alive. Seven out of twelve churches of Van were situated in Qaghaqamej, six of which including St. Nshan, St. Tiramayr, St. Poghos, St. Vardan, St. Tsiranavor and St. Sahak were active churches.  

Now we are sitting at the place, from where people used to look at Van and Varag for at least three millennia. Among them were commanders, workers, soldiers, “Vanetsis” (people originally from Van) and tourists. Ironically I am both – a “Vanetsi” tourist. By pointing to Qaghaqamej, I once vocalized that my grandfather was born there. For a moment my friends were surprised. Yes, my grandfather, not my distant ancestors. I told the group about the horrors that his family encountered throughout those years and the story of the unification with his brother after 53 years of separation.

The scar on his head

On a usual day, in a small French town, someone knocked on the door of an ordinary apartment. Benjamin opened the door and found a group of men standing behind it. One of them was looking at him with eyes full of sadness and excitement. He was choked up, and his face was radiating a wave of emotions. But who was that weird man and why was he looking that way? While some thoughts were bombarding Benjamin’s mind one of them introduced himself as a middleman of a company and said:

-Mister Benjamin this is your brother. Life separated you when you were children. He lives in the Armenian Soviet Socialist Republic and found you after so many years.

Benjamin could not believe his ears. After so many years… It was simply impossible… Without saying a word, Benjamin approached the stranger, took his hat off and after palpating the scar on his head exclaimed:

-Yes, he is my brother!

They have hugged each other and those few seconds were enough for Benjamin to relive the horrors of the massacres and reminisce the hardship they were forced to go through. The episode of a Kurdish horseman bashing his brother’s head haunted him all his life. He remembered the way he was covering the injury with his small hands to stop the bleeding. He recalled the images of his bloody hands and his brother’s bloodstained face which made him hug Shahbaz even tighter.

Now, after so many years, he put his hand on his brother’s head, palpated the scar and recognized him.

After 53 years

On 11 June 1975, in a small French town Le Puy, after 53 years of separation the tea factory employee Benjamen Shahbazian met his Soviet Union citizen brother, photographer Shahbaz Shahbazyan.

Van

The family of Shahbazians lived in Van. Manuk Shabazian and Mariam Andonian had three children, two sons and a daughter. Despite living in poor conditions, they were regularly forced to give domestic animals, wine and grain to Turks. So, to help his family, Manuk Shahbazian left his homeland and departed for the United States.

The fate of Manuk Shahbazian remains unknown.

Shahbazians’ family left Van in 1917 and moved to Yerevan. Living conditions were tough, and Mrs. Shabazian worked as a cleaning lady to earn some money for survival. Therefore, the children had to fulfill most of their needs on their own. So, they stole fruits and vegetables from private gardens and even begged on the streets several times.

Getting back to Van

Six months later, when the political situation was relatively stabilized, they returned to their hometown Van, where their financial situation was exacerbated since they had nothing except a house. Thus due to these unbearable conditions, they were forced to leave the town again in 1918, but this time the destination was Baghdad en route to which about 300 hundred Armenians and Shahbazians among them were tortured and killed by Turks.

Fortunately, a woman could save the lives of Shahbaz and Benjamin by hiding them under her dress, whereas the fate of their mother and sister is unknown (probably were killed).

The children had been captured. Some prisoner who survived including the Shabazian brothers were sent to a camp where people were fed raw corn and even human meat.

When the first help arrived the Turkish government started exchanging prisoners. Benjamin and Shahbaz were among them. Fate took these brothers to Baghdad and after that to Jerusalem.

Escaping the orphanage

In Jerusalem the brothers were supposed to live in an orphanage. Benjamin could not fit in with the rules of the orphanage and escaped from it with his six friends. However, the plan failed, and they got caught very soon and harshly beaten in front of others. Nevertheless, this punishment was useless since the second attempt was a success.

So he escaped from the orphanage without Shahbaz since he did not want to endanger the life of his little brother.

Passing hundreds of kilometers on foot, Benjamin and his friend reached Beirut and turned to the American orphanage asking for food and shelter without mentioning the fact that they escaped from the orphanage in Jerusalem. After six months the French Land Association offered the young people to work in France. With thousands of other Armenians, Benjamin has headed to Marcel.

Fate brought Benjamin to France where he had to live the rest of his life and Shahbaz got established in Soviet Armenia after the orphanage. It seemed like there was no way of meeting each other again, but life is unpredictable.

On the top of Mountain Varag

And now, standing on the top of mount Varag I am looking down at Van and contemplating the lake. Maybe we are the first Armenians to set foot on the top of this mountain in the last hundred years. I do not know. My grandparents were probably looking at Varag from Van, without even imagining that one day their grandchildren would climb this mountain not as shepherds but as mountaineers to find their motherland, to pacify the inner unrest caused by the genetic memory, to find answers and would descend bearing more questions, with a hope of returning again.  

 

Article Tigran Shahbazyan

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