BY ASSADOUR TERTERIAN
Tuesday, March 28. The initial fifteen-mile stretch road from Tripoli to the Syrian border seems to be endless. It gives an experience of traffic that can only be seen in a third-world country. The congestion of cars, steep bumps, and random appearances of pedestrians contribute to the persistent feeling of emptiness that is hard to explain; however, you still get a clear idea of your surroundings.
After the initial stretch, the chaos disappears. Countless cows and sheep graze on the left-hand shore of the Mediterranean. There is a sense of peace, and the tempo of grazing on random plants is mesmerizing. At the same time, the few Palestinians present make me wonder about their challenging lives as they are remnants of the initial migrants that left their homes in the mid-20th century.
I am heading out to empty my mind, to feel the blissful nothingness of existence. This place is Kessab, my dad’s birthplace, where we own a house built in 2000 on top of his elementary school, right in front of his first house—a remnant of the old with the new.
After crossing Latakia, we make a right turn and end on a three-lane highway. It is not very clean, but it is fast and empty.
After the highway, the road converts to a one-lane, curling road that climbs the mountains. We randomly stop at several soldier barricades. The guard just looks at us—our driver, Ovsia, my first cousin—and lets us pass.
I sleep at Ovsia’s house, and the following morning, after breakfast, my cousins drive me to our house.
It is rainy, and the road that leads to the house is battered to the extent that the cars slide repeatedly, but we manage to reach our destination. Hagop and Kerry greet us and help us take the luggage to the balcony and then hug us with traditional kisses—one on one cheek and many on the other.
We sit in the living room as the visitors come to welcome me in the house. The topic of conversation revolves around the status of Kessab, the never ending civil war, the earthquakes, and the impacts of encountering a huge number of migrants from Kessab.
As the guests leave and only Hagop and Kerry are left, I tell Hagop, “Please, bring me two butagases, one for the heater and another one for the portable stove. Also, I want some Nescafe, eggs, salt, and don’t forget to remind your mom about the books!”
There is a saying that a good programmer thinks of coding while working in a garden.
In Zen, you meditate by emptying your mind. However, I think that this is almost impossible, because emptying your mind requires a lot of effort and practice. It is difficult to calm a constantly working brain.
I completed my master’s degree in Applied Data Science at Syracuse. It has been a long journey of ups and down, but I have overcome all of the obstacles. I would like to refer to that period as critical for analyzing my professional development path and ensuring that it corresponds to my end goal. It is a good idea to start a new chapter more confident than ever about all forthcoming challenges that will make me stronger.
The first week is extremely cold—full of rain. The second week is full of sun, and the third one is mixed like my emotions—half rainy and half warm/cold.
I have 52 packs of Quaker Maple & Brown Sugar Instant Oatmeal and two bags of Lebanese pita bread. Hagop brings me the required accessories and every day I get three boiled eggs, a string of cheese, and salt.
And there is the book—one of my favorite novels, “Zartonk”—that lies on the living room table.
I pick it up and start to read.
During the three weeks I read the three books that I asked for and some excerpts, multiple times. I walked 24 miles in the third week in 19.5 hours. I ate a gradually increasing quantity of oatmeal, boiled eggs, and several servings of Nescafe throughout the day, in addition to delicious shawerma sandwiches during the last week.
And, in between, I slept in my parents’ bedroom, hearing the wind and all its awkward bumps, surrounded by spiders and lizards—my constant companions.
During the last night of my stay in Kessab, I had dinner at Ovsia’s. Afterward, he took me to Khatoon’s restaurant to play pinnacle and say goodbye to Khatoon. We played two parties—I lost both. Before leaving, I went to the restroom and, as I came out, Khatoon and a young girl stood right in front of me. I hugged Khatoon, and, while looking at the girl, she told me, “This is my daughter. She will go to Armenia after she graduates from the university.”
I shook her hand and said that if I were her, I would rather not leave, but if I were to leave, Armenia is the best alternative.
Hagop had just arrived, and we both went to the car to take me to my place.
April 17
During my last night in Kessab, I slept at my family’s house. I woke up around 7:15 a.m. At the same time, I heard Hagop entering the house from the kitchen side. The weather was warm and created a cozy, happy feeling, which gave me a good sense of belonging. I went to the bathroom, washed my face, and walked to the kitchen where Hagop was making Nescafe. We drank it in silence; I also drank some water to rehydrate.
A bit later, Ovsia appeared, and we loaded the luggage, said our goodbyes, and left. At Douzaghaz, I turned back and looked at Gasios mountain, which had semi-merged into a cloud. Different flowers at the sides of the road bloomed in a myriad of colors. It was odd, but I started to miss this place. It seemed that it was my last time.
Kessab, with its prominent problems, is a mini replica of our homeland and our nation.
They all face catastrophes as a whole and need urgent solutions to resolve them.
And there is a lot that could be said, but will be out of context for our topic. They are the known silence of the majority. One thing to be noted though is the mask of politics—especially that of the current ARF leadership, and it is the gameplay that has been used following the first Artsakh War.
Politics is a leeway, such as the ANC. It is not and cannot be one’s emblem, one’s identity.
And that contradicts its essence. Throughout history, the concept of rebellion has acquired different meanings and nuances. One needs to decide whether to assassinate tyrants, fight and win against all odds, or do whatever is needed to free and sanitate their country.
The fidayee wars and army battles were the reasons we had Sardarapad, our republic, the initial force that instigated taking up arms to challenge the status quo. It had a battalion that fought the hardest fights and sacrificed the most. Even though it was done in silence, it did what it was meant to do, in every aspect.
It is easy to blame the opposition when ones’ primary critic is to be themselves.
I remember that, at an ARF event, youth from Shant Gomideh sold a number of T-shirts.
The emblem in the back was an ARF logo accompanied by text of a poem from Vahe Oshagan:
“This Spirit To be an Armenian, or be nothing To be a Homeland, or be nothing Tashnagsutoun."
I wonder if his poem would be relevant at these uncertain times.
If we believe in what we are, and what we are apt to be, then we have no other choice.
