In the icy stillness of Lake Van
Aghtamar’s silhouette pierces the cloudless sky
Our boat moves toward history, hope, strength
I picture my grandmother Zartar —
nine years old, on a ship to Ellis Island,
the outline of the Statue of Liberty towering above her
a figure as strong as her mother
who had carried her across the desert
I knew I was safe, she said —
beyond the reach of the hands that tore our world apart
Our boat stops on Ktuts Island near Aghtamar
We hopscotch on slippery stones
to the land where bones lie scattered, decaying
the monastery crumbling to dust.
In North Burial Ground, Providence, Rhode Island
a khachkar rises above the rest of the “ians” —
my modest grandmother Yaghout’s one demand:
to honor those whose names were lost
who died on the march like rolling stones
To pay for the privilege of surviving
Dearest Maral, congratulations on your successful journey to become a doctor. My parents were in the 1915 Genocide and they were lucky enough to get to this country. With nothing they became pillars of our commmunity.
I have been fortunate to have made the pilgrimage to Armenia. Although they were born in ancient Armenia. ( like your grandparents).
We are proud of you and your accomplishments and telling our story. My daughter also made that successful journey. Therefore, the Turks did not win.
Maral, as you bridge in your poem, islands Ktuts and Aghtamar in Lake Van, with Providence, Rhode Island, I am left with the impression that your middle names Alexis and Yaghout were deliberately chosen to chart the journey for survival. Well done and congratulations.