Ermerouk Chorba (Marash Armenian Purslane Soup)

Our first night in 2015 on Martha's Vineyard . . . Marash Girl awoke thinking about the recipe for Ermerouk Corba  (Purslane Soup).  Why?  Because before going to bed, she checked the Facebook Page, "I am a survivor of a descendant of the Armenian Genocide", and there was the image of a light-hearted poster asking the following questions:  "What is it that Armenians cannot live without?" Ignoring the fact that one should never end a sentence with a preposition, Marash Girl immediately answered "Perper" (in Armenian), "Ermerouk" (in Turkish), "Purslane" (in English), [See Marash Girl http://marashgirl.blogspot.com/2013/09/ermerouk-purslane-only-thing-that-kept.html], for it was that little plant that grew along the sides of the road -- all that grew along the sides of the road -- that kept some Armenians alive early in the 20th century during the aksoroutioun աքսորություն (the deadly deportations from their homeland).

Marash Girl remembers Marash Boy's mother making Ermerouk Chorba.  Marash Girl looked for the recipe online, but could not find it.  So Marash Girl is delving into her memory, and if her memory serves her well, here is the way to make Eremerouk Chorba.

Photo Credit: WildForageWordPress

Purslane has small fleshy leaves and red fleshy stems and grows low to the ground -- often the first "weed" to appear in someone's neatly tended tomato garden! Most folks call this little plant a weed, and try desperately to get rid of it.  Do those folks a favor. Gather the purslane for them! Try not to pull the plant up by the roots, because a flurry of dirt will cover the purslane, making it difficult to wash. [When you gather purslane, be very careful, because there is a plant that grows among the purslane which is poisonous to eat and looks similar to purslane but without the fleshy leaves and red stems.] 
Cut the purslane off just above the roots. Carefully wash in a large pan of cold water -- wash  numerous times before beginning to process.  When no soil particles appear in the bottom of the wash pan, it is time to begin preparing your soup.

1) Prepare the purslane by chopping in half inch lengths, stems and all. (No roots, of course.) Set aside.

2) In a large pot, place fresh cool water, cooked chick peas (canned chick peas that have been drained and rinsed -- or dried chick peas that have been soaked overnight and cooked until soft), dzedzadz (hulled wheat that has been soaked and cooked until soft),  tomatoes (freshly gathered from the garden or canned, depending on the season). Bring this mixture to a boil, add chopped purslane and simmer the soup until the purslane is al dente. In other words, don't simmer the soup for too long. Add salt, black pepper, Marash red pepper, and freshly squeezed lemon juice to taste.  Bring to a boil once more and remove from heat.  The purslane should still be slightly chewy and the soup slightly sour.  

Enjoy!  And while you're enjoying the soup, thank Azniv Sanjian Charkoudian (born in Marash in 1904) for the recipe!

Turkish Only

 A friend of the family, in fact a neighbor who lived on Waverley Avenue in Newton Corner, Miss Gayzakian was born in Marash, Turkey, early in the 20th Century. She survived the Armenian Genocide.  She was placed in a German Orphanage in Marash, Turkey, in 1920.

When Marash Girl interviewed  Miss Gayzakian in the 1970's, Miss Gayzakian related the following: she and the other Armenian girls in the German orphanage were told that they should speak only Turkish from then on, that Armenian was gone forever.  In fact, the girls were punished by the German missionaries if they were caught speaking Armenian.

Miss Gayzakian's interview was conducted in English and is in storage at the Armenian Museum of America, Watertown, Massachusetts.

Oud Repair, Springfield, Massachusetts, 1953

Again an email.  This time from a friend who recently acquired a family heirloom -- the oud her mother had brought with her from Syria, soon after the deportation and mass murders that were a part of the planned genocide of the Armenian people by the Turkish government.

Marash Girl's friend writes, "This is a picture of the writing inside my oud. When I was very little, my mother would play this oud and sing.  My uncle from Springfield would take it out when he played his violin etc.  Everyone in the family and extended family knew my mother had an oud. 

Pete Roberts was able to get between the design covering the writing.  I am so excited!  His son-in-law majored in Byzantium history and will be teaching at Columbia.  He lived in Aleppo where I think my mother bought this oud.  …The mystery continues……"

Marash Boy (a Middle East scholar in his own right) replies, "The Arabic translates: 'My work (product) George Khayik (Khayyak) in Aleppo 1924.'

 As interesting is the label of the repair in Springfield, Massachusetts, on Court House Place, a row of artisan shops, in 1953.  My sister and I had our violins, as did all violin owners in the Commonwealth, repaired by Raoul A Ricard."

Which came first? The food or the tribe? Ghuzu ichi (or Kuzu ucu)

MARASH GIRL recently received an email with the following question -- 

Since your ancestors are from Marash, and you know a lot about food, you may know the answer to a question thrown up by my nearly completed translation, for   AIWA, of Yessayan's Աւերակներուն մէջ. Here it is. 
Were the Cretan Muslims/Turks who settled in Cilicia some time before 1909 (who seem to have played a particularly gruesome role in the massacres) known as Ghuzu ichi (or Kuzu ucu or some other variant of the name) -- was this tribe named after the name of their favorite lamb-and-rice dish?  Or was the lamb and rice dish named after the tribe?

Just to make sure, I'll ask my very old mother whether she knows the dish, although I'm quite sure she and my grandparents before her never made it.

It was my old mother, not my acquaintances's middle-aged mother, who confirmed that people from Kharpert don't eat ghuzu ici, as a rule.

[From an Assyrian acquaintance originally from Adana comes the following:
"In Turkish "kuzu" means lamb (or young sheep); "içi" would be translated as "interior of ..." As a result, the complete translation would be "the interior of the lamb".»]

Below are extracts from the email in which the writer's Assyrian acquaintance from Adana vaguely describes Kuzu ici.

"So in the region, which encompasses south-south east Turkey (from Tarsus in the west to Urfa in the east) there is a dish called "kuzu içi". It is a type of rice meal combined with lamb meat and/or lamb meat filled with rice. 

In conjunction with that, when I read about Cretan Turks/Muslims, I discovered that the only type of meat they accept eating is lamb meat. It is one of the integral parts of their cuisine. They do not like to eat any other type of meat."
(signed) gmg

Houshamadyan printed the following: Marash pilav with lung (kuzu içi pilavı).

Abbasiye Sisman (Shishman) writes from Turkey, "I know that kuzu içi  is Marash's favorite meal . . . an onion an amount of oil with roasted tomato and pepper sauce mixture is added to stirred, water is added by the amount of rice, rice is soaked in boiling water, spices  added and cooked, some butter on rice cooked if desired, be added 
this pillar is eaten with cacık (juju) beside it.
Anyone out there know the answer?  Marash Girl is guessing that the lamb and rice dish was named after the tribe.  Is she correct?

And on Bir Zamanlar Marash (Facebook Page), the following:  

"Zülgani Kazanıcı Abbasiye  size "Kuzuiçi " nin görüntüsünü yüklemek düşer.. Tabiki yanında "Cacık" olmadan olmaz.. (Zannedersem)"

Yildirim Atli writes, "galiba kaburga dolmasını soruyor, yada gerdan dolması. et ile kemik arasına iç pilav."

A Plea for Garden Sanity

Dear Alison, I write to you with the hope  of doing something about the inordinate invasion of our neighborhoods—this beautiful Garden City—by the professional landscapers and their machines that are meant to bring beauty. . .

Yesterday, I was visiting with a friend on our front porch — a friend that I have not seen since college days.  As we sat there, the landscapers arrived to pretty up the house across the street.  The noise and the dust that ensued for the next 45 minutes chased us into the house, but that was no protection.  The noise and the dust seeped over our front stairs, onto our front porch, through the storm door, and under the closed front door . . . grit now all over my wooden hall floor and the small oriental rug that is there it.

Is there nothing that can be done?

Respectfully, Marash Girl

God Answers Prayer

With all the talk about drought in California and flooding in Texas, Marash Girl is reminded of an old joke, a joke that was alive and well while she and her young family were living alongside the Connecticut River, a joke that has become the centerpiece of her philosophy of life.  Here goes.

Flood warnings. The river was rising but the man refused to leave his home.

A police car came by; the policeman offered to drive the man to higher ground. "The river will flood; you must leave now," said the policeman.

"I will stay," said the man.  "God will save me!"

The waters continued to rise and  the man climbed to the second floor of his house, as the waters covered the first floor.

A man in a rowboat came by and shouted to the man:  "Come with us. The river continues to rise."

"I will stay," said the man.  "God will save me!"

But the waters continued to rise, and the man had to climb onto the roof of his house.

A helicopter hovered over, dropped a rope ladder, and shouted, "Climb the ladder; you must leave!  You're house will be covered with water soon, and you will drown!"

"I will stay," said the man.  "God will save me!"

The waters continued to rise, covered the house completely, and the man drowned and, yes, he went to heaven.

He arrived at the pearly gates, and when St. Peter answered, the man demanded to see God.

"What's the problem?" asked St. Peter.

"I need to talk to God.  He didn't keep his promise to me!"

"Okay," said St Peter.  "Come with me."

The man followed St. Peter, and as soon as the man saw God, the man cried out,

"You promised to save me, and look!  You didn't keep your promise!  I drowned in the floods!"

God answered.  "I sent a police car, a rowboat, and a helicopter.  What more did you want?"

N.B. Special thanks to Paul Siemering, Marash Girl's helicopter during her first years teaching at English High School!

Armenians on Facebook

Yesterday, reading a missive on Facebook, Marash Girl was shocked to learn of the story of her Aunt Arousiak, the story, that is, of how Aunt Arousiak  survived the Armenian Genocide.

Dr Hagop Bessos, Descendant of Genocide Survivors, writes on Facebook -- 7:59pm May 24, 2015 My grandfather was one of those caught up in the snow storm that Marash Girl refers to. Here is the testimony that was passed to me: How my 13 year old mother survived the Genocide The picture above (1913) shows my grand parents' family (Mesrobiani/Bilezikjian), with my 3 Mesrobian great uncles in the back. In 1920 at the tail end of the Armenian Genocide, as Turkish troops prepared to attack the French controlled town of Marash, my grandfatlher took his wife and three children to an American missionary centre for protection. He left them there and, carrying as much jewelry as he can (he and this family were wealthy jewelers), he joined the countless Armenian men and French troops escaping to Aleppo in a freezing blizzard. Sadly the message to leave reached his three younger brothers too late for them to escape, who were caught up in the Turkish assault and cold bloodedly slaughtered. As my granfather marched in the snow he was kicked by horse mounted by a French trooper, knocking him out. By the time he regained consciousness, the convoy had moved on considerably and he could only make them out in the distant horizon. He noticed a man lying down beside him and poking him he said to him “come on, let us move and catch the others up otherwise we will be left behind and freeze to death”. The man did not budge and my grandfather realized that the man was frozen to death. Leaving the body behind he caught up with the retreating convoy and reached Aleppo safely, where he immediately set out to organise the rescue of his children. Using some of his jewelry he hired a carriage and couple of Turkish men, instructing them to go back to Marash and smuggle my grandmother and the three children to Aleppo (my 13 year old mother Eliz, my 10 year old aunt Arosiag, and my newly born uncle John). The two Turkish men managed to leave Marash undetected by the Turkish troops, but on the way to Aleppo they were attacked by armed Kurdish men who tried to kidnapp the children. My grandmother had to make an impossible choice by holding on to her son but letting his sisters go. Soon after, my grandmother and her son along with the two Turkish men reached a village where they sought refuge. My grandmother was inconsolable, devasted at loosing her two daughters. As it happened, her plight came to the attention of a prominent and influential Turkish town elder who took pity on her and set out to find the Kurdish perpetrators and retrieve the girls. To my grandmother's utter relief he managed to rescue the girls and reunite them with their mother. My grandmother, wanting to show her gratitude, offered to give the town elder one of the expensive rugs she had stowed away in the carriage. However, he refused to accept the gift and sent them safely on their way to Aleppo, where they were reunited with my granfather. My mother went on to attend high school at the Aleppo American College graduating in 1925 and shortly thereafter marrying my dad and settling down in Beirut, Lebanon. Thus, in the midst of the genocide, there were kind Turkish people to whom are owed the lives and wellbeing of countless people such as my mum and aunt.

The Beauty Queen of Lenane, presented by Newton Nomadic Theater

Last night, the Auburndale Library, the Newton Nomadic Theater presented an all too realistic performance of Martin McDonagh's THE BEAUTY QUEEN OF LEENANE . Intense acting and the intimate setting contributed to the stark and creeping horror of the destruction of two lives, perhaps three.  Presented in heavy Irish brogue (before you get to the play, you'd better practice listening to some Irish to get your ears attuned), the play slowly went from humorous, sometimes snide remarks about the English, to the psychological and physical cruelty (beyond measure) between an aging mother and her 40 year old daughter.   

Well done, indeed, folks, and you can even meet the actors while you have a glass of wine at the end of the show. (You may need one.)

Click here for performance info and tickets

The Best Iced Coffee is Coffee Iced Coffee

And speaking of iced coffee (see below), the easiest way to make iced coffee that doesn't taste watery after the first few minutes?  Just freeze some coffee in your trusty ice cube tray, and fill glasses with coffee ice cubes before pouring the coffee into the glass.  Your iced coffee will never get watery . . . just coffee -ey! (Is there such a word?)

Cold Brew Coffee

Marash Girl discovered cold brew coffee thanks to a friend visiting from California.  Marash Girl  didn't really believe her friend, didn't believe that the coffee would be better than freshly (hot) brewed coffee, but last night, with nothing exciting in the offing, Marash Girl decided to try her hand at making a cold brew for breakfast.  Here's what she did, and what you can do, too!

Coarsley grind 1 cup of coffee beans (Marash Girl likes French Roast or Sumatra).

Put 1 cup of freshly ground coffee into a pitcher with 2 cups of cold water.  Cover the pitcher with plastic wrap. Leave overnight on your kitchen table (or, if you have a kitchen counter, which Marash Girl does not, that will do as well).

In the morning, stir the mix and (1) pour into a French Coffee Press, if you have one, and press down until the coffee is all at the top, and the grounds at the bottom, or (2) pour through coffee filter paper into your Chemex coffee urn (if you have one) or (3) pour through a fine sieve into a bottle.  Give the liquid time to filter through.  Be patient!

The resulting coffee will be absolutely delicious, and very concentrated.  Store it in a glass bottle in your refrigerator and when you're ready for a cup of coffee, simply add steaming hot water or steaming hot milk to taste (about 1/4 cup coffee to 3/4 cup water or milk, or if you like your coffee strong, more coffee, less water or milk -- test it out and see how you like it).

Or pour the cold brew over ice, and there you have delicious iced coffee, the perfect summer drink!

This process produces a cup of coffee that is smooth with lower acidity.

True Sign of Spring - Sidewalk Art in Newton Corner

                                                         "All Me"                           Photo by Renee Brant

A block from Underwood Elementary School on the Eldridge Street sidewalk was this chalk drawing  celebrating spring and the springtime of life!                                                                            

She Killed Her Cat

A while back, a friend gifted a very large dragon leaf begonia to Marash Girl.  The plant was too 

large for any space in Marash Girl's abode, so Marash Girl gifted the plant to a friend who worked at 

Newton Parks and Recreation.

Last night, at a meeting of Newton Parks and Recreation, Marash Girl saw the new owner of the 

dragon leaf begonia and asked how the plant was doing.

"Oh, it's fine," she said.   "We're keeping the begonia at the office though.  After doing some research, 

I learned that begonias are poisonous to animals, especially cats!  All of us at the office love the 

begonia."   The conclusion to the story?   "The plant is doing great, and so is my cat!"

N.B.  The former owner of the begonia never could figure out why her father's cat, a cat she had adopted and dearly loved,  mysteriously passed away soon after she adopted it.

No Armenian in Marash

Uncle Paul went to grammar school in Marash, Turkey. Uncle Paul shared many 

stories of his experiences with his children, nieces and nephews; one of those 

took place in his grammar school where the children were secretly taught  

Armenian. When the Turkish soldiers came in on their regular inspection, an 

inspection to ensure that only Turkish was being spoken/taught, the students 

had to hide their books as best they could; Uncle Paul sat on his book.  Teaching 

Armenian, Uncle Paul said, was strictly forbidden by the Turkish government in 

Marash.

Marash Girl's father Peter Bilezikian was told by his mother never  to speak 

Armenian in the streets, although the family  spoke Armenian in the home.  

Peter remembers when he was a little boy in Marash, seeing a man with no 

tongue; Peter was told that the man's tongue had been cut out for having 

spoken Armenian outside of the safety of his home.

In the early 1970's, Marash Girl did an oral history interview with Miss (Sion?) Gayzagian, (the interview stored at the Armenian Museum of America), a neighbor who lived on Waverly Avenue, a woman who was born in Marash.  She told Marash Girl that she was placed in an orphanage in Marash (was it Bethel Orphanage?) somewhere between 1915 and 1918, and that the missionaries who ran the orphanage told the girls that they were to forget Armenian, to never speak it again; that they should speak only Turkish; that Armenian was gone forever.  In fact, they were punished if they were caught speaking Armenian.

It was Turkish only, folks!

Kumbet, Marash, Turkey

Kumbet, Marash, Turkey, taken from the Bilezikjian house.  1916           Photo Credit: Bir Zamanlar Marash, Facebook

Marash Girl's father Peter, Uncle Paul, Auntie Rosie, Auntie Gulenia, and Grandma Yepros were living in Kumbet when this photo was taken in 1916.
According to the Facebook page, Bir Zamanlar Marash, what is still known as the Bilezikjian house is situated in the "Kayabaşı mahalle" it's situated near the German hospital and the Fransiscan monastery.

Early 20th Century Map of Marash - Note Kumbet Quarter to the East, middle of the right side of the map, just West of the road to the German Farm, just southwest of the mountains that Peter used to roam as a child.

Bethel Orphanage, Marash, Turkey

 Present day building that was Bethel Orphanage, Kumbet, Marash, Turkey

The building has four floors and 27 rooms and is presently used as a private residence. Marash Girl wonders who lives there now  . . .  See Marash Girl's blogpost, Saturday, October 18, 2014, for family history related to this building.  See vintage photo below.

Stairs from the past -- Osman Koker sent this photo of the stairs in the Bethel Orphanage -- no wonder blind Grandma Yepros had no trouble managing three flights of stairs at the family home on Lowell Avenue in Newtonville! 

According to Facebook's Bir Zamanlar Marash, as of today, 124 years old and the oldest of the historic mansions still standing in Kahramanmarash, Bethel Orphanage, the oldest German orphanage, four-story masonry building has 27 rooms.

Photo Credits:  Bir Zamanlar Marash, Facebook

Author Aline Ohanesian and ORHAN'S INHERITANCE

Aline Ohanesian, author of the recently published novel, Orhan's Inheritance,  addressed an audience of 60 people on Thursday evening at Porter Square Books.  Before she began her talk, she looked around her and commented, "I love independent book stores!"  Marash Girl seconds that thought!

Aline Ohanesian, author of the new novel  Orhan's Inheritance, greets admirers on

Thursday, May 15, at Porter Square Books, Cambridge, Massachusetts.  Later, she admitted,

"I guess I'm writing about the Armenian Genocide."

Aline Ohanesian's grandmother, (which grandmother, we never learned,) an Armenian who survived the genocide perpetrated on the Armenian people by the Turks at the beginning of the  20th century, pulled aside the author who was then only 8 years old, and told little Aline her story. Years later, Aline Ohanesian, now married with her own little children, was drifting into sleep when she heard a female voice uttering two sentences -- sentences that would not leave her -- sentences that became the heart of Orhan's Inheritance. 

             

              "[t]here is only what is, what happened. The words 

              come much later, corrupting everything with meaning.”

[Much to her parents' dismay, the author dropped out of a history Ph.D. program in order to write Orhan's Inheritance,  a book which was nominated, and became a finalist for the PEN/Bellwether Prize for Socially Engaged Fiction.]     

Ohanesian's ancestors were from Sepastia (Sivas), Ottoman Empire, where, according to Ohanesian, there was no physical segregation between the Armenian and Turkish communities.  Given that fact, she stated, there must have been moments when love grew between a young woman and a young man, love that knew no religious boundaries.  On this premise, and after much research on the period as well as visits to Turkey, Ohanesian chose to set her novel in 1915 in the Ottoman Empire in its declining years, during the Armenian Genocide. Orhan's Inheritance is, among other things, a love story between a 15 year old and an 18 year old, between an Armenian Christian  girl and a Turkish Muslim boy; it is the story of Armenians being forcibly torn from their homeland.

Marash Girl began reading Orhan's Inheritance yesterday evening; she has not been able to put the book down.  By page 160, her tears were flowing freely.

Orhan's Inheritance has been translated into 12 languages, and is the #1 best seller in Serbia, Croatia and other countries that have suffered ethnic cleansing. 

President of the Armenian International Women's Association Barbara Merguerian (left)  congratulates author Aline Ohanesian (right), 

on the success of the author's first novel, Orhan's Inheritance

Aline Ohanesian autographs her first novel, Orhan's Inheritance.

                                                                                                                               Photos by Marash Girl

WBUR's Bob Oakes talks of Vietnam

Photo by Marash Girl  

During a recent WBUR fundraiser, Bob Oakes took a moment out of his busy morning to regale a group of volunteers with colorful tales of his recent trip to Vietnam.  Unfortunately, Marash Girl was too busy answering telephones to get the details of the conversation!                                                                                                                                                                                          

Red Sox Suitcase in the Nation's Capital

The 8 hour train trip from Boston to Washington, DC, had finally come to an end.  As Marash Girl descended from the train onto the walkway, the train service attendant reached up to help Marash Girl with her bag.  "Whoa! I burned my hand!" said the Amtrak attendant as he lifted Marash Girl's suitcase off the train, onto the platform in Washington, DC.

Confused, Marash Girl wondered what he was talking about until she remembered that she had borrowed her son's Red Sox suitcase for the trip.

Grandma Jennie's Strawberry Short Cake

Today, King Arthur sent me an email with a recipe for their strawberry shortcake using biscuits for the base. Immediate flashback to Grandma Jennie's strawberry shortcake which always tasted better than anyone else's. Why?  Because Grandma Jennie made her strawberry short cake from scratch, yes, with freshly picked strawberries,  her own freshly prepared and baked sponge cake (possibly Betty Crocker's recipe for sponge cake?) and heavy cream freshly whipped by her own hand.  (Those were the days when folks thought it was very cool to buy frozen sliced strawberries and whipped cream in a tin can that squirted out the cream in a stream or in a plastic tub that contained an artificial whipped cream called Dream Whip -- so many chemicals that it would make you faint just to read them!)  But Grandma Jennie bucked the tide and made her own, old-fashioned strawberry shortcake, cake that left everyone asking for seconds and left Grandma Jennie (Marash Girl's mother)  smiling!

iPhoneless in the Nation's Capital

Her iPhone had not charged during the night, although she had plugged it in the night before  so that it would be charged before she left.  She took the iPhone downstairs that morning and plugged it into her computer so that she would be certain that it would be charged when she left the house for her 4 day journey.  And charge it did -- for 4 days running - as Marash Girl was in such a rush to catch the 6 AM train to Washington, DC  -- a train that would be taking her to see her grandchildren AND to the National Commemoration of the Armenian Genocide Centennial -- yes, she was in such a rush that she left her iPhone charging at home.  No phone calls -- well, that wouldn't have been so bad . . . but no photos for 4 days, 4 days when she would be surrounded by iconic images, historic photographs, antique textiles, and famous Armenian Americans (famous to her, at least) from all over the United States  . . . not to mention her old friends and her daughter and grandchildren!  It was difficult.  Marash Boy tried to comfort her by purchasing a throwaway camera from CVS, but taking photos with that was like trying to wash clothes by hand, feeding the clothes into the ringer one by one, (do you know what a ringer is?  Clue -- it is not a bell!) and using clothespins to hang each piece up, one by one, on a clothesline to dry.  

Marash Girl is still hoping that the throw-away camera has some decent photos to post, but before she'll know that, she has to drop it off at the Watertown CVS to have the photos put onto a disk so that she can transfer the photos from the disk onto this computer and then onto this blog.  

But then, all may not be lost.  Maybe she'll see some famous Armenians that she can photograph with her iPhone at the Watertown CVS . . . 

The problem with going away is coming back . . .

There's no place like home, or so the adage goes, and going away makes one appreciate home all the more!  The only problem with going away and playing,  is coming back and playing . . . catchup!

Lilacs for Mother's Day

Returning home late Sunday night, Marash Girl was greeted by her lilac bushes in full bloom -- lilacs, the flowers that Marash Girl's mother Jennie loved the best.  The lilac bushes had been gifted to Marash Girl by her children on Mother's Day a number of years ago, the bushes then small, unassuming, flowerless . . . now in full bloom. Author Claire Merrill once titled her children's book,  A Seed Is A Promise. Marash Girl would like to paraphrase that by noting that a small plant is a promise, and the promise has indeed been fulfilled!

Judith Saryan, Zabel Yessayan and THE GARDENS OF SILIHDAR featured at the Armenian Genocide Centennial

                                                Photo by Marash Girl

Judith Saryan speaks about Zabel Yessayan in the Decorative Arts Room 
at the National Commemoration of the Armenian Genocide Centennial, Marriott Marquis, Washington, D.C.   

Zabel Yessayan's book, THE GARDENS OF SILIHDAR, is available at 
Bethel Charkoudian Books. To search her catalogue of  books and sheet music, or to order THE GARDENS OF SILIHDAR, click the link below:

http://www.biblio.com/bookstore/oldcornerbooks-newton-corner?aid=BSCB132202 

Traditional Armenian Costumes at the National Commemoration of the Armenian Genocide Centennial, Washington, DC.

l. to r.  Raffi Charkoudian-Roger, Lorig Charkoudian, and Aline Charkoudian-Rogers, model traditional Armenian dress on Friday, May 8, 2015, at the National Commemoration of the Armenian Genocide Centennial, Washington, DC.  [The folks pictured above are descendants of Marashtsi genocide survivor Peter Bilezikian and 1st generation Aintepsi Armenian American Lucille Mae (Jennie) Vartanian Bilezikian, and Marashtsi genocide survivor  Azniv Sanjian Charkoudian and Marshtsi Armenian American Nishan Charkoudian ]

Yesterday King R and Enila went to the Centennial Commemoration of the Armenian Genocide in Washington, DC.  King R and Enila and their mother Girol, dressed in traditional Armenian costume and paraded through the Marriot Marquis, contributing to the centennial commemoration of the Armenian Genocide, the commemoration that will continue through to Sunday in Washington, DC, and throughout the year 2015.

King R says of the experience, "Those cloth Armenian shoes from the 18th Century were really comfortable!" Enila says, "The traditional Armenian costume was surprisingly comfortable, and I felt like a queen wearing it."  They both agreed that "it was super fun."  Girol said that everyone was asking them who they were, where they had come from, and if they were a dance troupe from Hayasdan!

The Bee Haven

The Bee Haven -- no, not the bee hive, The Bee Haven!  Yes, that's what it says on the front of this little house that Marash Girl found in a church thrift shop on Cape Cod.  Marash Girl thought it was cute and put it up on her front porch as decoration, but yesterday, a honey bee (who apparently can read) went right inside and took up residence!

Remembering Joan Scully Metz On Her Birthday

Joan Scully Metz 1942-2013
We miss you, Joan! Every day!

"Pizza? Uh,Uh!" - New York Times

On May 1, 2015, The New York Times published an article by Eric Lipton and Rachel Abrams entitled, "Commonly Used Chemicals Come Under New Scrutiny".  The article should have been entitled, "Pizza Boxes Come Under New Scrutiny"!  The import of the article for those of us who love pizza?  Ya can't order out pizza.  The cardboard of the pizza box contains the poisonous chemical PFAS which readily bleeds from the cardboard into the pizza, and from the pizza, guess where?  So now what . . . Well, if you're Armenian, or at least Marashtsi Armenian, you have no problems.  Just dig out your big, round, trusty sini kufte tray . . . or do you make paklava in that big round tray   . . . and take it along to the pizza shop when ordering, politely asking the pizza man,  "Just put the pizza in here, Խնդրեմ!"

Oh, and don't forget to make sure that the tray is stainless steel and not aluminum . . . (Some Armenian stores now carry the trusty sini kufte/paklava 18 inch in diameter circular trays in stainless steel!)  You wouldn't want to ingest any of  the tomato sauce that may have interacted with the aluminum, thus bringing the possibility of alzheimer's into your future!

Resting Along the Charles River

Black Double-Crested Cormorants on the Charles River, Watertown, Massachusetts  -
Thanks to John Simmons for bird identification.                                                          Photo by Marash Girl

Going to Washington, DC to commemorate the Armenian Genocide Centennial?

For weeks, Marash Girl's daughter has been looking forward to a visit from Marash Girl and Marash Boy so that they could commemorate the Armenian Genocide Centennial together at events in Washington, DC.  The question always came down to the following:  

"But what events shall we attend?  I checked the website -- http://armeniangenocidecentennial.org -- and all of the events are sold out!"  

Marash Girl kept sending her daughter the link, reminding her that the website referred to many events; Marash Girl's daughter, who had earned her doctorate at Johns Hopkins University,  kept searching but always came up with the same answer: "All the events are sold out!"  Marash Girl checked the website herself and came to the same conclusion.  But that couldn't be.  So she asked Marash Boy, who had earned his doctorate at Harvard University (granted not a doctorate in how to manipulate websites), and he too came up with nada.  Marash Girl called Tatoul Badalian who masters the online calendar of Armenian Events in the New England area, and he could not help.    What was going on?  Finally, Marash Boy reminded Marash Girl that she was friends with one of the managers of the centennial program.   Marash Girl immediately picked up her iPhone, and commanded Siri to call said manager who immediately answered and greeted Marash Girl.  Marash Girl had, apparently, interrupted the manager's dinner.  Nonetheless, the manager was gracious and patiently explained to Marash Girl that Marash Girl (did Marash Girl have a pencil?) should go to the website, http://armeniangenocidecentennial.org, and would there find a list of events.  "But they're all sold out," Marash Girl announced, with great assurance. 

"NO!  Did you go to the website?" 

"Yes!" answered Marash Girl, "and I clicked on EVENTS. And everything was sold out!" 

"Oh," announced her friend.  "There's your problem.  You have to click on 'OUTREACH' and you'll find a listing of all kinds of free events going on in the Washington, DC area over May 6, 7,  8" . Marash Girl had never imagined that "Outreach" meant a listing of events. Nonetheless, Marash Girl did as she was instructed  and did indeed  find a list of free events that were NOT sold out, although no dates or times were listed for the individual events on the website.  Luckily, the website tells us that "schedules and venue sites are provided at the Marriott Marquis."  Whew!  Finally an answer?  We'll see . . .

Durumlu Marul and Uncle Paul

Marash Girl never buys iceberg lettuce, not since the word was out that the darker and more bitter lettuces are  better for you.  Sometimes she cheats and uses Romaine Lettuce, but nothing is as wonderful as iceberg lettuce, good and crunchy.  (Marash Girl's son's favorite treat at Not Your Average Joe's used to be a big wedge of iceberg lettuce with their special dressing -- almost as good as dessert!)

Growing up, Marash Girl doesn't seem to remember any other offering BUT iceberg lettuce -- or was it her mother's favorite as it is hers. . . Grandma Jennie would offer delicious salata made of sliced  tomatoes and cucumbers (both fresh from Grandpa Peter's garden if it was summertime) with chunked iceberg lettuce and freshly chopped mint. On occasion, Marash Martha decided to offer a salad that the family had never tasted before:  iceberg lettuce, freshly chopped apples (from the apple trees in the back yard), and freshly chopped walnuts (NOT from the walnut trees in the back yard -- the squirrels always managed to get those nuts the night before Grandpa Peter  and Uncle Paul were about to harvest them). 

Marash Girl can't remember what either of Grandma Jennie or Marash Martha used for salad dressing; she remembers the first time her mother served romaine lettuce, though. That time and ever thereafter, whenever her mother served romaine lettuce, her father started chanting, "Durumlu Marul, Dumumlu Marul".  What was that all about?  He soon regaled the family with the story of Uncle Paul, who as a young boy in Marash, would walk through the streets of Kumbet chanting "Durumlu Marul, Durumlu Msarul", and carrying a basket of Durumlu Maral over his head, hoping to sell the heads of romaine lettuce one by one to the ladies of the houses in their neighborhood in Marash, Ottoman Empire.  As Paul was still young enough to be considered a child, but old enough to carry the basket over his head, the Muslim women could freely purchase from him, as he was not yet a man!

A Sermon for the Grace Church (Episcopal), Brooklyn Heights, NY, on the Centennial Commemoration of the Armenian Genocide by Rev. Julie Hoplamazian

A Sermon for the Grace Church Brooklyn Heights On the Centennial of the Armenian Genocide by Rev. Julie Hoplamazian

I have a story to tell you. It’s not a nice story. In fact, this is a very graphic story.

If you’re the kind of person who is disturbed or upset by stories of violence, or if you have a young child with you who you don’t want hearing this kind of story, it is OK to exit the sanctuary at this time and return in a few minutes.

The story I have to tell you is about a young woman named Maritza Mooradian. Maritza was born at the turn of the 20th century, in the town of Malatia, in Ottoman Turkey. She was the third of four children and the only girl. In the year 1915, when she herself was about 16 years old, there came a knock at the door. Her father opened the door to Ottoman soldiers and was shot and killed at point blank range. In fear, her younger brother, about 5 years old at the time, ran and hid. The soldiers stormed into the house and found her older brother and took him away, never to be seen again. Those remaining – Maritza, her mother, and her two grandmothers – were ordered to leave the house immediately, taking only what they could carry, and join the mass deportations of the Ottoman Armenians to the Syrian desert. One of her grandmothers was bedridden. In panic and shock, Maritza, her mother, and her other grandmother were forced to leave her behind. They marched through the desert for weeks, maybe months. Maritza’s grandmother died first, of starvation. They left her body at the side of the road as bayonets threatened to pierce them if they stopped to mourn her. The marches continued. In order to protect Maritza from rape and torture that was so common for the young women in these marches, her mother caked mud on Maritza’s face in order to disfigure her and make her unappealing to the ruthless Ottoman soldiers. Eventually her mother died too, of starvation. Occasionally, these death marches would pass through towns, which gave opportunity to the soldiers to sell the deportees as slaves. On one of these stops, Maritza had the good fortune of being sold as a slave girl to a Turkish family. This family took good care of her and helped her flee the Ottoman Empire as the war ended. Maritza’s oldest brother had already come to the United States several years prior and was fortunate enough to escape the genocide. Through the communication among Armenian churches on either side of the ocean, she was able to locate her brother, and eventually, she managed to travel to the U.S. and arrive at the harbor of safety, one of hundreds of thousands of other Armenian refugees escaping the horror and trauma of genocide.

It was early on in my life that I understood Maritza’s story as my own. How much of this was taught to me, and how much I absorbed through unspoken cultural assumptions, I will never be certain. But it was clear to me, from my childhood, that as an Armenian, I took part in my great-grandmother’s pain. Maritza, or “Medz Mayrig,” as I called her, lived a long life in the US. She married, had 3 children, outlived 2 of them, and was a stalwart matriarch of our family until she died in 1995, when I was 16 years old. I had the privilege of knowing her my entire childhood. When my brother and I were young, I recall regular visits to Medz Mayrig, where we would have to sit with her and speak only in Armenian. She almost demanded these visits, to make sure we were learning about our heritage and never forgetting how to speak the Armenian language. She would always tell us, “Never forget your mother tongue, and never forget your faith.” She never spoke of the genocide, but even the trauma of genocide wasn’t enough to shake her faith in God. And what she passed down to us was an equally unshakeable faith in God and pride in our Armenian heritage that I am honored to be able to share with you today.

This deeply rooted cultural identity was my first awakening to the idea that by virtue of who and what I am, I share in someone else’s pain and someone else’s story. Woven into the fiber of my being was the reality that my birthright bestowed upon me an equal weight in carrying the burden of the pain of the past and the grief of my people. Maritza’s trauma, though it didn't happen to me, is my trauma too.

It is trauma that still seeks closure and resolution. For a century now, the Turkish government has vehemently denied that the atrocities suffered by the Armenians in WWI constitute genocide. This is actually the final stage of genocide: the denial of it. It is the last violence done to a people: after the violence of erasing physical existence, it is the violence of erasing memory. Without memory of wrongdoing, perpetrators are not held accountable for their crimes. Anytime impunity reigns, injustice wins, and the victim is caught in an endless cycle of grief. Injustice is toxic. It poisons people’s spirits and ability to live with hope. The repeated denial of the Armenian Genocide has been a grave injustice that is slowly killing the Armenian hope that the world will come to terms with the truth of its history.

The denial surrounding the Armenian Genocide has made manifest another reality that sadly has come to fruition throughout the 20th and now 21stcenturies: Maritza’s story is not just my story, or the story of all Armenians. It is the story of millions of other people throughout the world – Jews killed at the hand of Nazis, Cambodians at the hand of Pol Pot, Rwandan Tutsis at the hand of Hutus, Bosnians at the hand of Serbs, Sudanese victims in Darfur, Christians in the Middle East today… despite cries of “never again,” Genocide continues to happen all over the world, over and over and over again.

My first awakening to the issue of genocide was as an Armenian, but my great awakening to this issue was as a Christian. Sometime in my 20s, as I had grown weary of the Armenian cries for justice falling on deaf ears, it was my seminary community - ecumenical Christians, Christians from all around the country from all different denominations, all of whom cried out at the injustice of it all – that opened my eyes to the power of Christian solidarity to awaken hope where despair seemed too easy a victor. Hearing non-Armenian people of faith feel disgusted at genocide denial was a tremendous witness of what it means for Christians to bear one another’s burdens and take part in each other’s pain. They reminded me that by virtue of who and what I am – not only an Armenian, but a child of God – I share in someone else’s pain and someone else’s story.

The ecumenical Christian community helped me remember that at our baptism, we pledge “To strive for justice and peace among all people, and to respect the dignity of every human being.” Our faith is rooted in a Savior who was executed for a crime he did not commit; Jesus’ suffering on the cross is a reminder that he is our co-sufferer in injustice. As the body of Christ, we share in one another’s suffering, just as Christ does with us, especially the suffering of injustice. In Paul’s words about the body of Christ, he says, “If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it.” (1 Cor 12:26) As the body of Christ, we are inextricably linked to each other. Crimes against humanity affect us all. Having been on the receiving end of this kind of solidarity – experiencing others standing with me and other Armenians and indeed all victims of genocide not because of their own personal experience but because of the convictions of their faith – was transformative for me. I learned the immense power of living into our identity as children of God, and that I could participate in that transformative power anytime I chose to stand in solidarity with victims of injustice.

Many people have asked, in the face of such injustice, where God is in all of it. I’ve known many descendants of genocide survivors – peers and friends of mine – express deep anger at God for letting this genocide happen to the Armenian people, some of whom reject faith altogether. Yet I’ve known so many actual genocide survivors, like my Medz Mayrig, who had a steadfast faith in God despite the immense suffering she endured. I’ve never lived through genocide myself, but I imagine you have to have some sort of faith… in something… to survive such horrors. Some sort of faith to get you through an experience that could easily give you over to despair. For Medz Mayrig and so many like her who might have wondered where God was in all of it… God was in their hope for a better tomorrow. Whether that tomorrow means freedom from Ottoman oppression or a day without death and destruction in our daily headlines, God is in the hope that the dark times do not get the last chapter in the story.

And yet, as Christians, if by virtue of who and what we are we participate in one another’s stories, then the question we must ask in the face of genocide is not only “Where is God in all of this?” but “Where am I in all of this?” As our Scripture reading from the first letter of John says today, “How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help? Little children, let us love not in word or speech, but in truth and action.” (1 John 3:17-18) On this day when we commemorate the 100thanniversary of the Armenian Genocide, what does it mean to love in truth and in action?

After all, what can we really do? Genocide continues on a global scale with impunity. The problem of genocide is far bigger than any of us can even imagine. What does it mean to take part in the suffering of others, to love them in truth and in action, when there most likely isn’t anything we could do that would make any difference at all?

Where injustice is concerned, we can be inspired by the faith witness of so many genocide victims and survivors who looked to God in hope, even in the most dire of circumstances. With a fundamental trust in God, loving in truth and action means we can take many steps toward the powerful witness of solidarity with our suffering sisters and brothers. Loving in truth and action means being careful we do not fall victim to lies and denial. Pope Francis set an example of this 2 weeks ago when he expressed his solidarity with Armenians and mourned with them the first genocide of the 20th century. Loving in truth and action means having the courage to speak the truth to power. It means seeking the truth and knowing the stories of those history is trying to forget.

Loving in truth and action means we must pray, ceaselessly, for victims of genocide; pray, ceaselessly, for justice for its perpetrators; and pray, ceaselessly, for an end to genocide worldwide.

Loving in truth and action means we can join political action aimed at preventing and stopping genocide.

Loving in truth and action means that we do not remain silent or complacent about the crime of genocide. It means educating others about it, speaking up when we hear denial taking place, and refusing to be a bystander in this global problem.

Recalling the words of Paul again, “If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it.” When we stand in solidarity with our fellow human beings who have fallen victim to the injustice of genocide, we not only suffer alongside them, but we honor them too. In this, the whole body not only suffers together but rejoices together as well. Go forth then, sisters and brothers, and be the body of Christ who rejoices together. Be the body of Christ who honors its members. Be Easter people who love, not only in word or speech, but in truth and in action. Amen.

Thanks to Andrea Colls-Halpern of Brooklyn Heights, NY,  for calling Marash Girl's attention to this sermon which she was lucky enough to find on the internet and has copied above.