The “day” approaches by Harry A. Sachaklian

Editor’s note: On victory, loss and resurrection

On May 9, we commemorate two historic victories: the defeat of Nazi Germany in 1945, and the liberation of Shushi in 1992. Both seemed like impregnable fortresses, and the dream of tearing down their walls became a symbol of hope—that ordinary people can outlast the bleakest darkness.

The Nazis believed their Third Reich would endure for a thousand years. It crumbled in just 12. Soviet Armenian soldiers were filmed dancing in a liberated Berlin. Decades later, their compatriots in Artsakh would dance again—in a liberated Shushi. 

And yet, fascism, genocide and occupation have returned. Europe, once proud of its post-war order, now seems to be slipping back into the chaos of history. And Shushi, like all of Artsakh, remains under the grip of a new Reich. This year, no one is dancing in the mountains.

In the face of this painful resurgence, we turn to the words of Harry Sachaklian, a U.S. Army veteran who served in World War II, Korea and Vietnam. Before becoming a decorated soldier and military aide to Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, Sachaklian was a founding member of the Armenian Youth Federation—an organization created in 1933 by Gen. Karekin Njdeh, who that same year, turned his attention from the battlefield to the diaspora, mentoring young Harry in the mission of moral resistance through cultural survival.

Decades later, Sachaklian would bring that same clarity of purpose to the battlefields of Europe. In a letter published here for the first time, Sachaklian writes with the fire of a man who had seen—and survived—the worst of humanity. “A curse is better than a prayer,” he wrote. Because a prayer is submission, but a curse “breathes defiance and dares fate to take its course. We must fight! That is the only certainty.” 

Amid the horrors of global war, genocide and starvation, Harry Sachaklian did not warn that culture was in peril; he warned that we, the people, were. The threat to a culture is not abstract. It is always embodied in the threat to human lives. Like his Armenian name, Harutyun—meaning “Resurrection”—his message resonates, transcending time and death.

His letter closes with a line out of Raffi’s page: “Our fight will be hard, is hard, was always hard. At best, it is a fool’s errand. Only fools will undertake it, and only fools have any hope of success.”

In 1945, as in 1992, fascism was out-dreamed, out-organized and outlived—by resistance fighters and survivors, by fools and dreamers. In a world once again cloaked in darkness, the spirit resurges—on the “Day After” and all the days to follow.

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The “day” approaches by Harry A. Sachaklian

The time is coming. Slowly, inexorably, the grinding wheels of Fate roll on and on—to our doom or salvation (who knows which?). The world stinks of war. The nations arm frantically. Intrigue, deceit, promises, treaties all go on, surreptitiously or openly, as the world furiously and desperately prepares for the next clash of unalterably opposed interests and doctrines.

At the bottom of all this bedlam and turmoil, peeking furtively out from under the doubtful protection of the “Bear’s” paw, lies the one nation certain to suffer the greatest—Armenia—the race accursed.

For 40 centuries we have been struggling to exist—to breathe—to be alive and to take our rightful place in the roster of the nations of the world. Time and time again we have been engulfed in the consuming maw of one great nation after another and still we have emerged— broken, ruined, destitute but not beaten—to start the struggle anew. And now the cycle has reached its climax. Once again we are threatened with destruction and virtual annihilation. But this time the prayers of our ancestors will not suffice. What can we do?

Let us curse—curse our fateful nemesis. A curse is better than a prayer. A prayer means submission, but a curse breathes defiance and dares fate to take its course. We must fight! That is the only certainty.

The Psalms say that the meek shall inherit the earth. Yes—of course—six feet of it! Asia Minor is dotted with mounds of earth that the meek inherited. We must be strong. We’ve got to be strong or we vanish forever. The last remnant of our population on Armenian soil is in dire danger from our greatest, most implacable enemy, the barbarian from the deserts of Central Asia—the Turk.

When this brewing storm breaks —our fate is sealed, irrevocably.

Preach all you want, you Armenian literati and intelligentsia, of the beauty of Armenian culture. Boast, you Armenian historians, of all our glory in the past. All of you, tell the world of Armenia’s great contributions to civilization. What will it get you? Nothing. We are not living in a civilized world. We live in a stinking, rotten shambles, with men who profess to possess souls, with men who steal, murder, loot and rape in the name of the God they worship—who look at nothing beyond their own mean, grasping, selfish interests.

Our problem now, our only problem, is not to spread our culture over this forsaken world, but to save ourselves.

Even the wildest stretch of imagination would not exaggerate the peril that lurks around the corner we are approaching.

There will be no use in running about looking for help.

We are horribly alone—now—as we always have been. We have no friends, no allies—because we have no strength, and in this world only strength is respected. The responsibility for our existence rests solely upon our own shoulders, and should we fail, this callous, careless world will diffidently shrug its shoulders and we will pass into history with no one to mourn, with no one to regret, no one to care, no one to blame, except ourselves.

We are burying our heads in the sand. The danger is hidden from view momentarily, but is not in the least lessened. We’ve got to stand erect and fight it. Fight with what? With whatever we’ve got, every resource, every bit of the courage that kept us alive for 4000 years, every bit of the shrewdness that makes us the canniest in the business world, every bit of the craftsmanship skill that makes us the leading artisans wherever we go, every bit of everything we’ve got—or we lose.

The odds against us are virtually hopeless (but when have they been otherwise?). Our people, scattered over the face of the earth, beset by internecine strife, strive to eke out some sort of a living but our Fate pursues us. Our enemy is not satisfied with his work to date, he must annihilate us all, every individual through whose veins the Armenian blood courses and leaps at the mere mention of his name.

Our fight will be hard, is hard, was always hard. At best, it is a fool’s errand. Only fools will undertake it, and only fools have any hope of success.