An Armenian Lament

Prelude A son, a grandson, Of this nation My nation Where I live Only in my heart Only in my soul. There was or was not… No, for sure there was A city, a town, A village Many cities, towns, And even more villages In the highlands The root, the very source, Of my transplanted genes. That village, Those collective villages Of our diasporan lot Where but a meager few Have ever been Breathed the air Sipped the water Felt the soil, the rocks, Beneath our feet. Where we might have Hunted, fished, tilled, and milled Where we might have Weaved, chopped, or hammered A living of our own In our own stores, shops, and schools In our own land. The villages Maybe renamed And changed Villages that Don’t know us Could care less Indifferent To our returning In pilgrimage For a few days Or hours. Signs we were there Mostly gone Turned to rubble, In urinals Or barns Used to build The hovel homes of Peasants, occupiers, Victors Grandsons Great-grandsons Of those That kicked our asses That kicked us out Or made us… them. It is from that Imaginary altar That altar, in my Mind, soul, perhaps even My American born liver That I sing this song In this foreign tongue This great-grandson Of Nishan and Mardin This grandson Of Levon and Aram This son of Aram. I. Job of a Nation In our mountains Yes, our mountains, Separated by dialects Of our common language And influences of Being conquered Of intermingled words And genetic codes We mish-moshed into This collective thing This defiance This independence This hate of being Subjugated Though we so often were. This fierce independence A drive to be more To build and succeed (not together mind you) All which seemed to Totally piss off Everyone around us… For centuries We, tending to ourselves, On our lands In everyone’s way And whatever Their manifest destiny. II. The War Repeat history Sure, why not, Blow up our old churches Deface graves and stones Displace people that Lived there, again, For centuries Erase our facts Our existence It’s what you do And have done So very well. What’s a building? A statue? Just things. Our things, but, Just things. They are us They are not us Turn them to rubble It’s what you do So very well. Don’t worry Like the churches and schools In the highlands We have the photos (Now videos too) But as always, we keep them, Etched or branded In the broken, aching hearts Of all of us, every one of us, Born there or Wherever we have Created a new Armenia III. Tavadjaner We need to blame Ourselves Well not all of us We need We must have A traitor or three. We were played Putin taught us a lesson As Stalin did Again, over Karabakh, Nakhichevan long gone. Erdogan provided The iron ladle Of mercenaries Of drones Of command and control. Forced to a treaty The best we could do Versus… what? Annihilation? So, our leaders are What? Traitors? For being played, big time, For being naïve For shunning Putin For lack of leadership For our paper ladle Peashooters versus drones Conscripts and volunteers Facing seasoned mercenaries? Traitors indeed! Sure, traitors, something We can grumble about For centuries. IV. Those still in the Highlands My crypto brothers My hidden sisters Cousins and Half Armenian Half whatever Part Muslim Part Christian A foot in the Highland dock The other in the Diasporan Boat We have nothing But everything in common To explore To learn To tolerate To listen and share And then what? Part? Çetin’s stoic Joyful morose Easter çorek baking Heranuş Hamşini Ayşenur Singing sweetly Songs Levon might have Loved and danced to. My father’s cousin Somewhere In Istanbul Do you even know? Are you even alive? Do your children know? Or care? What about these Armenians We or they or someone Has labeled “crypto” Children of the sword Survivors of the sword Indeed… What a good culture They got going there. Don’t believe me? Ask ‘em… People of peace And harmony Of love and understanding And Grey Wolves And swords And mercenaries Armed with drones. We had paper ladles… V. 1915 Incense wafting Jingling into the air Flowers cast onto a holy river A simple handful of dirt. Thousands thrown to die Into Dudan near Çüngüş Just a creviced Bottomless cavern. An entire village lies there. Or souls burned in a church The incense of charred flesh The kushots of screams Their ashes… Stories upon stories All different, all the same Cut by swords, beheaded, or hanged Cast clutching their babies Into some river You know the names… Survival Against the odds The horrors The blisters and burns The tortures and whippings The sights no one Should ever see Nor could ever forget But for the dementia Of old age… or death VI. Confession Me? Like the rest Sitting in diasporan Comfort… suffering. We wrote checks Worried a lot Cried, felt the gut punch, Followed the news And opinions, of course, On tactics On geopolitics On who should be helping us… Surprised and aghast At what went down In that agonizing month We expressed From afar The pain, the anguish, Of loss Of yet, another defeat. That is our history. There should not be Heroic songs for this one. Can’t dress this defeat This sad outcome Up as any kind of win. So, what then is this? This almost a poem This pathetic cathartic Attempt at what? I’m not even sure. A flailing attempt To say something Anything that helps Ease the anguish We all feel? That is exactly What it is… Megha Asdoudzo. April 24, 2021

An Armenian Lament

This story is FREE for you...

Mark Gavoor

3 Comments

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

This story is FREE for you...

Mark Gavoor

3 Comments

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Related Articles

Sarkisian Workshop Series to feature Sarah Aziza

Interview: Dana Mashoian Walrath on genocide and art

Book review: Dana Mashoian Walrath’s ‘The Book of Genocides’

The Journey Not Chosen