Bezjian: The Butterfly and the Smile

Special for The Armenian Weekly

The last of my dreams this morning was a strange short film. A form of classroom glob white in color like a mother’s milk, yet transparent like a pure glass floating in a dark space weightlessly, shining. But this translucent small UFO in a galaxy was gooey like a jellyfish, as it kept shaping and reshaping its perfect, global body.

I tried holding it between my palms like Gypsy Rose would her crystal ball, and just then the globe turned into a tubular circle with a large hole in the middle resembling a doughnut glazed with cream. Then pointing dots appeared pulling spikes from the upper surface and forming a royal crown for a queen. When I tried to touch it, it crumbled and disappeared into nothingness. I opened my eyes from the dreamy dark space to a cloudy sky pregnant with rain.

Moments later, sitting on my couch, coffee in hand, sipping away my dream, and looking into the open space through the balcony windows, I saw another strange form and rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t still dreaming.

A white butterfly, pure white like a snow petal, the size of a large pallet of a master painter, was flying in the dark and cold sky. It reminded me of the white handkerchief my grandma kept in her worn-out black leather purse. Strange morning, I said to myself, and went to take a closer look at this flying oddity. I opened the door and stepped out, but the graceful butterfly that had invited me out had shied away, vanished into oblivion, as raindrops started falling. I took a deep breath from the cold wind and went back to my warm couch and morning sips.

Seconds later, halfway through my sweet drink, I got a message from my brother in Boston that read, “Mother now is resting in peace.” This message from thousands of miles away shook me; it gave meaning to this morning’s extraordinary experience and sent salty tear drops into my unfinished drink. I wanted to sit down and grasp all of this. I looked for my notebook, for my pen to write something… Holy paper, where have you disappeared to, I said, and began thinking about a mother’s life. Mother meant endless stories, a dense past layered between black and white ends. If she could’ve seen me, she would have smiled and said, “You look like the effendi who lost his donkey in the bazaar.”

Smile she did all her life. For me, the unmatchable smile came during my last visit to Boston. I had just arrived home and had woken her up gently from her sleep, unsure if she would recognize me, as her mind had been slipping in and out of reality. She opened her eyes and smiled, making me believe in angels for once. She looked at me, and my brothers, Raffi and Njteh, carefully, one by one. Gathering the strength, she said, “Oh my son you have come home. The three of you look so wonderful together, standing above me,” and closed her eyes, and went back to her medicated sleep.

Humble mother, how few know your glorious past as a daring teenage girl in Aleppo’s ultra-conservative Armenian community, acting in plays of “The Valley of Tears” and “Extinguishing Lanterns,” and dancing in Armenian folk ensembles when girls were not allowed to be on stage.

Strong mother, how few know how you defended us from our fanatic and racist neighbors. How few know how you were attacked by a bearded men when father was away while I, a little fragile boy, shouted my lungs out at the father of the girl I had kissed as a game children play.

Mother, how many know that you worked and toiled all of your life and supported anyone who needed help? How many know how you took me from door to door to ask neighbors to tutor me in Arabic, wishing me to be a better person than yourself?

How many know that you tailored my school uniform by candlelight all night long, and managed to buy an orange, a few chestnuts, a peach and apricots with your savings from time to time. How many know how father and you tailored gowns, stitch by stitch and with needle pierced fingertips, for every gracious woman in town, making them shine on the dancing floor of Aleppo’s Mogambo nightclub.

When I unleashed my anger, how you laughed at me and said, “Grow up, learn how to govern anger.” And with your laughter and energy, you gathered friends and foes, strangers, neighbors, and familiar people, young and old, and made them laugh with you in your palace that was your kitchen.

“Is the man you were talking to an acquaintance,” I asked her once, for she loved talking to anyone during her free time. “I just met him. He was shopping for his family like we are,” she said. When I asked why she talked to strangers, she said, “He is a human and lives on earth, how could he be a stranger?” She smiled assuredly, pushing her full shopping cart ahead and pointed at a cellophane-wrapped rotten French blue cheese—a favorite—before leaving Russo’s farm market.

With her relentless humor and eternal smile, she defeated everything and everyone. Hate, sadness, tarnished memories, and bad news did not brood within her, even when she was diagnosed with spinal stenosis. Her sadness and unease only lasted the distance between the doctor’s clinics and the parking lot. She took out her anger on the seatbelt, yelling, “This stupid thing again! It is the law, law, does the law know about my back pain?” She quickly propelled a smile, “That’s a funny old doctor you know? Next time I’ll bring a nice gift to him. He is Jewish, maybe he likes baklava.” Astounded, I asked how she could be angry, smile, and be funny at the same time.

“My name is Arshaluys [Twilight],” she responded, “and light is what I give to all with my smile, day or night, rain or sunshine. Humor is the cane that walks you through life; anger, I don’t know what is it good for.” She had a sentence or two for every occasion, which at times sounded like proverbs.

“If you say what you want freely, you will hear what you don’t want unwillingly.”

“The line between pride and humility is slimmer than your tiniest hair.” These were words she used for wisdom, and she would say them, again, with a smile.

Her final angelic smile was a punch line, it was her way of exiting from life, and she did it for one last time. I held her cotton-soft hand and kissed her forehead, knowing this would be our last goodbye, a moment of farewell that had arrived before its time. This person, who had taught her children how to be independent, free, and righteous, would soon depart through the same gate everyone has and will.

Mother, now that you rest next to your husband, do tell father about the last seven years we spent without him—the good, the bad, and the in-between. He will call you after favorite star and you will make fun of him—“You give me this name to make yourself feel like Gregory Peck!”—and both of you will roll your sparkling eyes and giggle like you did in your younger days, and then start singing, “Yeraz” (Dream), anew.

When I was at last with my pen and notebook, turned to a white page pure like a mother’s love, I wrote:

“Today I’ll burn incense and be silent

Today I’ll mourn and light candles

Today her last smile once again

I’ll see through the tears in my eyes

Today is a holy day, a day of feast

Forever my MOTHER to the soil I give.”

And so it goes…

• Bio
• Latest Posts

Nigol Bezjian

Nigol Bezjian is a producer, director, and a graduate of UCLA film school and School of Visual Arts. His work has been based in Beirut, Lebanon for the past several years. His most recent film is "Broken Kisses, Postponed Kisses."

Latest posts by Nigol Bezjian (see all)

• Ara Jan, Goodbye… - November 7, 2018
• My School… - February 25, 2016
• Bezjian: On the Way to Baykoz - February 5, 2014