5.0 out of 5 stars

One of the best books I have ever read

ByKarenon August 5, 2014

Format: Hardcover

One of the best books I have ever read. It is raw, true, and about life and suffering. This book will teach you so many lessons about life, it’s definitely worth a read. It is very difficult to read, because of how sad and painful the descriptions are and it will make you cry even if you are a tough man, but it is so educational, and will give you a complete visual of what the Armenian Genocide was like. The book was written with all of the authors soul I can tell just by reading the book, this book should definitely be recommended to children in schools who are learning about genocides.

BOOK REVIEW: A HAIR’S BREADTH FROM DEATH

Armenian News Network / Groong

August 8, 2005

  A Hair’s Breadth From Death: The Memoirs of Hampartzoum Mardiros Chitjian.

  Taderon Press London and Reading, 2003, 433 pages.

  ISBN: 1-903656-30-3

  Distributed by Garod books.

By Narini Badalian

WATERTOWN, MASSACHUSSETS

As 2005 marks the 90th anniversary of the Genocide, Armenians around

the world have mobilized with greater intensity to commemorate what

their ancestors were subjected to in the Ottoman Empire. At the same

time, they condemn and combat the cruel and pervasive denial of the

Genocide, which claimed the lives of over a million innocent victims.

Most of us can understand the theoretical and conceptual frameworks of

genocide. But what is it that was lost? One of the most indispensable

sources of information for the experience of the victims and the life

that existed for Armenians in the Ottoman Empire is survivor memoirs.

Hampartzoum Mardiros Chitjian’s memoir “A Hair’s Breadth from Death”

embodies the true pain and suffering of those dark years.  Knowing

statistics is one thing, but how such injustices, harsh deportations

and senseless murders manifest, is what Hampartzoum provides us with a

high sense of responsibility to detail and accuracy.  But more than

his years in the `inferno’, as he describes his six year struggle to

live in Turkey between 1915 to 1921, he writes with care and passion

about his pre-genocide life, providing a deeper glimpse into the

Armenian family, community and culture which had thrived for centuries

and was suddenly uprooted in 1915.

After fleeing his yergeer (country) via Iran, where he also met

hardship, Hampartzoum found himself in Mexico and finally in Los

Angeles where he led a more than modest life as a successful business

man.  He made trips to Soviet Armenia, Istanbul and around the United

States to visit with other survivors, attending every Genocide

commemoration his health allowed him to. In 1975, his daughter

initiated an Armenian history and culture program in L.A.’s public

schools.  She asked her father to participate. Inspired by his

daughter and her inquisitive elementary school children, he began the

emotionally drenching process of digging into his memory and bringing

to paper his life story.

Hampartzoum Mardiros Chtijian provides what we expect and need from a

survivor’s account. His detailed description of his home, town,

school, land resources and chores are impeccable. By the time you are

through with Part I of the three-part tome, you can rebuild Perri,

Hampartouzm’s hometown in Kharpert.

But more than the colossal wealth of information, whether it be the

dimensions of the tools he used, like the logh to flatten the roof of

his home before snowfall, the mesmerizing ouri (willow) trees across

the landscape, or the way they used lamb ankle bones, as children, to

play street games; you become so acquainted with Hampartzoum, his five

brothers, three sisters, father, mother, paternal grandfather and

paternal aunt, that you forget you are sitting in your living room in

Watertown MA in 2005. You look around, searching for the 150 shops

that studded the center of Perri. But the worst part about forgetting

you’re not in Perri is that there is no toneer, to bake lavash bread,

in your home.

Hampartzoum was 14 in 1915 and well aware of the precarious conditions

Armenians subsisted in. His maternal grandfather had been beheaded in

the 1894-1896 Sultan Abdul Hamid massacres. His two older brothers had

been sent to America before 1915, as a precaution. One day, the

school, which Hampartzoum attended and cherished, had been notified

that it would be searched for revolutionary materials. The teachers

were rounded up and told to warn the community to turn in all the

weapons to the Turkish officials. A committee of teachers, priests and

influential community members was formed. One priest was adamant to

appease the Turks, and he went so far as to convert from an Armenian

priest to an Islamic Mullah. I tried not to imagine other Armenians

who might have converted with such ease. Some Armenians secretly

bought guns in order to turn them in, thinking that this would spare

them, unfortunately, it turned out they were wrong. The teachers and

priests were the first to be beaten to death.

Perri was a town with 800 Armenian, 100 Turkish and a few Kurdish

families. Most of the shops in the center of town, owned by Armenians,

were confiscated by the government and turned into make-shift jails

where the Armenian males, including Hampartzoum’s father, were brought

and tortured. After days of torment he returned home, covered in dry

blood stains. Advised by an Armenian who had converted to Islam during

the 1894-1896 massacres, he took his four remaining sons to a Turkish

orphanage where their names, language and religion were changed. These

orphaned Armenian children were stripped of their identities by

Turkish officials, their lives as they knew it were forever abducted.

Hampartzoum’s youngest brother was killed, as they had no use for him

and the younger boys who constantly cried for their mothers. The older

boys were forced to plunder the homes of Armenians (which by now had

official Turkish governmental seals on them) and bring back the

confiscated goods to the Armenian church, which was also stolen from

the Armenians. After there were no homes left to pillage, the older

boys were to be killed. Lucky boys, like Hampartzoum managed to escape.

The rest of his family, who stayed in Perri as Armenians, were forced

on a death march. When they reached a river, his father advised

Hampartzoum’s sister, because of her physical handicap, to throw

herself in the river, knowing the Turks would take great pleasure

torturing the helpless girl.  I had to stop here and wonder what

extremely dire circumstances a father would have to be in to direct

his daughter to commit suicide.

Hampartzoum, continuously resisting death, worked as a slave for Turks

and Kurds, on farms, as a shepherd, sleeping in the stables, keeping

warm from the animal manure, laboring hard torturous hours just for

something to keep his stomach from collapsing. He saw one gruesome

murder after another, corpses filling the gorges and rivers, people

tied up to be scorched by the sun, and even children and babies who

were not spared. Hampartzoum’s heroism is evident through his

chronicles. The chores and life he had been exposed to before the

`inferno’ proved quite valuable in his six year struggle escaping from

Turkey. He saved countless lives, by stealing from a bakery where he

worked to feed hungry orphans, caring for his tuberculosis stricken

cousin, finding places for his brother and others to sleep and

work. `I felt every Armenian that crossed my path was mine and I was

theirs,’ says Hampartzoum. In a devastatingly antagonistic

environment, he put his life second to others.

The extent of his sacrifice is evident through the following story.

Hampartzoum was a slave in a predominantly Turkish village, Parchanj,

where a gendarme lived across the street from him.  This was in

1918-1919, when `ethnic cleansing should have subsided in accord with

the new [Ataturk’s] government decree. Instead it worsened.

…Throughout each and every day, the moonehdeegs (Turkish town

criers) carried posters, chanting, `Anyone harboring an Armenian will

be fined and jailed for five years with a chain around their neck.”

These words haunted him then and through the rest of his life. The

gendarme who detested Armenians was, ironically enough, married to

one. The gendarme’s wife beleaguered Hampartzoum, perhaps more than

anyone had in his life, harassing him by shouting “gavour boghee”

(infidel s..t). A year later Hampartzoum was living in safer

conditions in Kharpert where he found out that another government

decree stated that Armenian slaves were to be freed from their Turkish

and Kurdish masters.  Hampartzoum, without anyone having asked him,

set off back to Parchanj to save the Armenian girl who was a slave for

the gendarme and his Armenian wife. It just so happened that the wife,

who nearly got Hampartzoum caught and killed in order to save herself,

needed his assistance to escape. Without a word he rescued her. Some

time after this incident he was apprehended for no legal reason by

Turkish officials and brought to a jail, where he was to be killed

with 50 or so other Armenian boys.  A gendarme was staring straight at

him, and when Hampartzoum recognized that he was the gendarme from

Parchanj, he knew he was too be tortured. By chance, the gendarme was

ignorant as to how his Armenian wife had escaped and asked Hampartzoum

to find her and bring her back, and Hampartzoum again escaped from

death.

As someone born in the early 1980’s to a safe and secure environment,

I found it admirable and inspiring to read of the courage of

Hampartzoum in the face of overwhelming adversity. I found myself

staring out my front door, imagining what it must have been like to

live in constant terror. Society was no longer functional; not only

economically, but more so psychologically.

Hampartzoum, who came from a very devout family, writes: `you never

survive from a genocide’, although he did survive in one sense, the

tragic years of his life tormented him forever, as is apparent from

his own words that he suffered from survivors guilt: `We were

completely defenseless!….My survival must have been a miracle, an

act of God!  But why weren’t all of the other martyrs saved by the

same means? I have never stopped questioning this dilemma… Did I

escape only to relate my experiences as a living witness.”

He relates his experiences in this 433-page book, with over a hundred

maps, photos and illustrations. The book, translated from Armenian

under the supervision of Hampartzoum, meticulously supplied with

details, was written with a purposefully `simplistic style’ as Zaruhy,

his daughter, has noted in her preface. With his straightforward

style, you will have no difficulties in feeling Hampartzoum’s honesty,

passion for the Armenian people, his fears for the future generations

and his quest for justice.

I recommend this memoir, which is perhaps the last published by a

living witness of the great calamity, especially to the younger

generations. While this review stresses his years in Turkey during the

Genocide, it must be noted that this is just part of the book, – a

part that we are eternally grateful to the author for sharing with us.

Yet, he does not by any means begin and end with the Genocide. The

reader will find Hampartzoum’s life before and after the `inferno’

captivating. One can physically survive trauma, but how does one

conquer the mental aspect, how does one go on and create one’s own

family? His determination, – not just to go on living, – but having

endured inhumane acts, to go on struggling for humanity stimulated me

to keep reading to try and understand this phenomenon. With a

tremendous desire to see the Armenian nation unified, Hampartzoum

reminds us that the Turks did not differentiate Armenians based on

their chosen political affiliation, nor the church they attended (if

they attended at all). He recalls the most memorable words of his

father, which were true then and conceivably still true now: `They are

going to eat our heads if we do not unite in our actions!’

Hampartzoum is no longer with us, and will not see the day when the

perpetrators of this vicious crime will face their past. But as the

intensity of the 90th anniversary of the Genocide around the world

attests, we will see the day.

—

Narini Badalian, a native of Watertown, Massachusetts is a major in

history at the American University of Paris, France. She graduated

from the Genocide and Human Rights Studies program provided by the

Zoryan Institute. She’s a graduate of Melkonian Education Institute

in Nicosia, Cyprus.

Narini’s articles have been published in various Armenian newspapers

and she’s currently working on publishing her memoirs about a trip she

took through eastern Turkey.

Memoirs of Hampartzoum Chitjian

Genocide eyewitness Hampartzoum Chitjian’s first-person accounts of the Armenian genocide and its aftermath tell of his life of suffering–survival by living as a slave in Turkish and Kurdish households–his escape–via Persia to Mexico–and subsequently Los Angeles–where a sense of loss and injustice pervade his being. His raison d’etre becomes to ensure the Genocide is not forgotten. A very familiar face to the old-time LA community–Chitjian attended each and every April 24 demonstration held in the in the 1960s–70s–80s and even through part of the 90s.

He died last year before his memoirs were ready for publication. His faithful daughter finished them–however; the two editions that compilation–one in English and one in Armenian– be released next month.

LOS ANGELES–On November 15–the Armenian Film Foundation will host a reception and book signing for A Hair’s Breadth from Death–the memoirs of Hampartzoum Chitjian.

Speakers include scholar Hilmar Kaiser–a German historian who has authored two publications on the Armenian genocide–Publisher Ara Sarafian of Taderon Press in London–and Chitjian’s daughter–Sara.

“Chitjian’s memoirs are a unique contribution to the field of genocide studies–immigration studies–and the social-economic history of the Ottoman Empire and Armenia,” says Kaiser. “His encounters with other shattered Armenian survivors offer a panorama of Armenian survival strategies and the appalling conditions and choices these few had to make. Students of immigration to the United States will find the account of the author’s journey to the US most interesting.”

J. Michael Hagopian–founder and chairman of the Armenian Film Foundation–will present a short film on Chitjian–who appears in the AFF’s “Witnesses” trilogy of documentary films–and will offer some personal reflections. Chitjian–who was born in Perri–Kharpert–was J. Michael Hagopian’s babysitter. His daughter will speak about helping her father with his memoirs–which Seda Maronyan transcribed in Armenian over the course of several years. Sara translated the memoirs to English–finishing the work after her father passed away last year at the age of 102. Sarafian says–”Chitjian’s life story is remarkable for the amount of detail that is included–and that is why these memoirs are one of the most important first-person accounts of the genocide and survival.”

The book signing is at 7 p.m. at the United Armenian Congregational Church hall–3480 Cahuenga Boulevard West. Admission is free and light refreshmen’s will be served. For further information–please contact 805-495-0717.

About the Book:

A Hair’s Breadth from Death represents one of the key memoirs of the Armenian genocide to date. Hampartzoum Chitjian (1901-2003) fleshes out–in great detail–the fate of Armenian women and children who were not “deported” in 1915–but separated from their parents for assimilation into Turkish and Kurdish households. According to some estimates–close to 200,000 Armenia’s were targeted for such assimilation during the genocide process–and only a fraction of them managed to revert back to their Armenian identity after the defeat of Ottoman Turkey in 1918. Chitjian survived the genocide in the Kharpert plain–until 1921–when he escaped to Mexico–and later moved to Los Angeles.

On the eve of the 1915 Armenian deportations–Chitjian’s father took his four sons to a Turkish orphanage in Perri–with the hope that they would somehow survive. The remaining Armenian population of Perri was soon deported and killed. Those fateful days became a turning point in Chitjian’s life–as the world he knew collapsed around him–and he embarked on an Odyssey of survival–picking up the pieces of his lost world wherever possible. The bulk of his memoirs are a detailed–blow-by-blow account of his survival in Turkish and Kurdish families–and his escape to the new world. During this period he found surviving relatives–got married–set up his own family–and become a contributing member of Armenian communities in Mexico City and Los Angeles.

Yet the Armenian genocide remained an ever-present element in his life–as he observed new generations of Armenia’s who were denied knowledge of their roots–their ancestral homeland (their yergeer)–and who assimilated as a matter of course. His experience of the genocide never ended; it just entered new phases over the decades–until his own death in 2003. Perhaps it is for this reason that–like many other survivors of the genocide–he felt compelled to write down his thoughts and memories as a debt to his family–the people of Perri–and the quest for justice he felt compelled to champion.

His memoirs are accordingly written in a passionate–forthright–and unabashed style. With his unconventional style–use of vernacular Armenian–Turkish–and Kurdish terms–Chitjian expresses his fury as a survivor of the Armenian genocide in the modern world. How could the world forget the crime that was committed against the Armenian people? How can Turkish governmen’s today continue to deny the genocide of Armenia’s? And how can Armenian communty leaders and political parties fail to unite against this injustice.

Chitjian’s work makes compelling reading–and can often be extremely disturbing. It is over 400 pages long and includes over 150 maps–diagrams and photographs–as well as a glossary of terms. It is a true landmark of a primary account of the Armenian genocide.

Written as an autobiography in Armenian and translated into English–the book is available in both languages through Garod Books: books@garodbooks.com and at the Abril bookstore in Glendale.

EXCERPTS:

Left at the Turkish Orphanage by his father ?Without hesitating a moment my father took his four sons and walked towards the small [m]agtab (Turkish school)–leaving the women behind in the house. As we walked–my father did not utter a word. He was completely speechless. I thought he was mute from the cruel beatings and torture he suffered in jail.

No one uttered a word–not a sound was made. We all walked with fear and dismay in our hearts–not knowing what was going to happen to us or what was going to happen to the rest of our family–my sisters–my aunts–and stepmother. Why were we separating? In times of crisis the family should stay together. Instead we were splitting up and going in different directions. I did not want to part from my father. Why was he taking us to that school? I was so afraid. Custom prevailed–then as always. We were taught not to question my father’s command. We obediently obliged.

My father walked in front–clasping tightly onto Kaspar’s hand. It was in our later years when I found out from Kaspar that my father had spoken as we were walking. My father’s last words were that the Turks were going to send him and the women to America to unite with our brothers. At that point Kaspar asked why the boys were going to the Turkish school and not to America with the family. His final reply was–”America for us is the river.” Kaspar confessed that he didn’t understand his father’s last response–and at that point he was more confused than ever. Unfortunately–we were to find out the true meaning of that statement when we heard it repeated so many times in the subsequent months?

We were all too young to fully comprehend what was transpiring. Splitting up the family when all of the Armenia’s in Perri were picked up–imprisoned and tortured without cause or explanation was more than we could comprehend or bear.

We continued to walk silently. My father’s tortured posture showed no emotion or tears. Had his blood turned into stone? I could tell from his eyes he was smoldering from within. His mind and soul were completely devastated. I am sure he didn’t know what to tell us. He feared if he said anything unknowingly it might jeopardize what we might later say or do–and thereby be harmful for us. He was a devout believer in God. He did what he thought was best and left us in the hands of God.”

Separating the Older Armenian Boys in the Orphanage for Execution

Three weeks later without warning–about ten o’clock in the morning–three gendarmes entered the Protestant Church before we were taken out to pillage for the day. Without a word they promptly started to separate boys according to their physical size and age. They grouped me with the older and larger boys aged fourteen to seventeen and kept Kaspar–my twin–with the younger boys. Not knowing why we were being separated–I immediately yelled out–protesting that I did not want to be separated from my younger brothers or my twin. “I’m his twin–we are the same age!” I felt I had to protect them–and I was desperate.

Suddenly–I felt a strong grasp on my arm. Immediately–I recognized the voice of Mihran Mirakian–my older brother’s classmate. Mihran was also older and larger than I was. He quietly whispered into my ear–”Let him go–he might survive. . .”

Witnessing the Kurdish Rebellion of Dersim–1916

The following spring–the Kurds–another subjugated minority under Ottoman rule–rebelled against the Turks. They were advancing towards Medzgerd from the mountains of the Derseem–looting and burning the houses as they headed towards Perri. The Turkish soldiers weren’t able to stop them.

There were a number of Armenian fedayees fighting with the Kurds. Together they had become a strong force.

As the Kurds got closer to Perri–Turkish soldiers were sent to help the Turkish civilians escape–many of them used their kaylahgs (river rafts) to cross the Perri River over to Hoshay.

One morning I had gone to the Gahmarr Fountain to fetch water. Suddenly Doodaughsooz (cut-lipped) Khehder–Ehmeenehm’s brother–approached me. He had acquired that nickname when his upper lip was cut away as punishment for a crime he had committed. The prosecuting lawyer who found him guilty was an Armenian. Thereafter–he despised all Armenia’s. He knew me as Korr-Mamoe’s slave and was unaware that I was Armenian. He rushed up to me and told me to forget the water–to run home quickly and tell Korr-Mamoe to get on his horse and rush down to the river.

I hurried home without the water and told Korr-Mamoe the news. “The avenging Kurds have advanced as far as Bahsue. The Gavours (infidels) were among them. They are burning and looting everything along the way!” Alarmed and without further questioning–he grabbed his horse and we rushed towards the river.

Winters usually began in early October in Perri and lasted through the middle of March. There were always heavy–bitter snowstorms. The rivers froze three to four feet deep. Anyone traveling with a horse or donkey with a heavy load could safely walk across the river with relative ease during the peak of the coldest season.

In no time we reached the bank of the Perri River. Because it was early spring–thick blocks of ice were still breaking loose and floating in the water. The large chunks of ice made it difficult for the fleeing people to cross over to Hoshay with their small kaylahgs. Many were thrown off as their kaylahgs collided with a boulder of ice. Once thrown into the frigid water–it was very difficult for them to swim ashore or to get back on their kaylahg. Many people drowned in their desperate attempt to escape.

Suddenly–I saw my twin brother–Kaspar. Almost a year had passed since our last encounter. I desperately wanted to embrace him. At best–it was a relief just to know he was still alive and well. He was also escaping with his Turkish master–Meudayee Oomoomee–and his family. As they were getting on their kaylahg–I quickly approached Kaspar and whispered to him to ask his Effendi if he would take me too. I felt it would be safer going with them. At the same time–there might have been a chance we would be reunited again.

Saving Armenian Women in the Kharpert Plain at the End of WWI

While I was still living at the Armenian orphanage–we began to feel less intimidated because the Americans were still there–a false sense of calm prevailed. Both the American missionaries and soldiers encouraged Armenian boys to assist Kude Archbishop Mekhitarian to carry out his mission to rescue Armenia’s still held in bondage by Turks and Kurds.

Many Armenian women who had been forced to become Turkish and Kurdish wives left their children fathered by Turks or Kurds and fled to the Armenian Protestant orphanage. Others refused to give up their children and made the choice to remain–just as my Aunt Aghavni refused to give up her children and remained in Perri. I tried to convince her many times but to no avail. While I realized what a difficult decision that must have been–I greatly admired the women who left their children and fled when they found the opportunity.

With this opportunity in mind–I remembered the slave who worked in the gendarme’s house in Parchanj. She always treated me well–while her Khanum–Fahtmah–always taunted me by calling me Gavour Boghee. One day when I had the opportunity–I decided to go to Parchanj and rescue the slave. I knew I was risking my life if the gendarme caught me. Nevertheless–I went. First–I dropped by to say hello to Khanum–the kind–elderly woman who had always treated me well. It felt good to know she was very happy to see me. She inquired about my problem with the ghosts. After a short pleasant visit–I told her I had come just to see her. Then I left.

I quickly went across the street and went up to the second level of their three-story house where the slave had her living quarters–above the stable. The Armenian slave came out as soon as she saw me. Quickly and quietly–I told her why I had come. I was surprised by her response. Apparently–she and Khanum had anticipated my intentions when they saw me in the area and had made their own arrangemen’s.

The slave assured me that she could escape whenever she saw fit–and that it would be better for me to take Fahtmah Khanum herself. For some time–she was preparing to escape. Khanum had previously sent her daughter away to safety. Now–she was waiting for the opportunity to escape herself and was willing to part from her sons. So now she was relying on me to take her away–that day!

I was struck by the sudden realization that the person who had been so cruel and hostile towards me–shouting Gavour Boghee at me every chance she had–now wanted me to risk my life to help her escape from her Turkish gendarme husband who terrified everyone just with his barbaric presence. I knew the gendarme or his mother could enter that room at any moment. So–we had to escape immediately.

Without giving her suggestion a second thought–I agreed and quietly followed the Armenian slave up to the third floor. Fahtmah Khanum was ready and waiting for me to take her away. Silently–without a word–she motioned for us to go down the back stairs. She was dressed in her white charshaff (sheet). Her body and face were concealed. I had never seen her face before–nor did I see it then. Only her eyes were visible.

“Gee dehk” she said in Turkish. “Let’s go!” Bidding us farewell–the slave whispered–”Be careful–don’t get caught!”

When we got downstairs–I peered from behind the house to make sure no one was in sight. The coast was clear–so we fled–walking as fast as we could–making sure we did not attract anyone’s attention. Fahtmah Khanum walked briskly by my side and never uttered a word.

The walk from Parchanj to Kharpert was about two hours. After walking for some time on the road through Kehsereeg–I decided it would be safer to change our route–even though it would be much longer. By taking the new route–I avoided passing by the police station that usually had at least sixty policemen milling around.

I was greatly relieved when we finally arrived in Mezreh. I took Fahtmah Khanum directly to the Armenian Protestant orphanage. Without a word–I quickly left. All the Armenian women and girls were housed there. Reverend Yeghoyan had converted his zhoghovahran–meeting hall–into an orphanage.

Discovering the Fate of His Beloved Family Members

One day while I was walking alone towards the Hokey Doon–a woman recognized me. Waving her hand–she called out my name–”Hampartzoum! Hampartzoum!” A warm feeling went up and down my spine. It was a nostalgic sound to hear my Armenian name called out by a familiar voice from Perri. As she got closer–I recognized her. It was a pleasant surprise and realization to know there were other survivors from Perri!

After a few words–her mood changed and her eyes filled up with tears. She proceeded to tell me she had seen my sister–Zaruhy–in the Hokey Doon on one occasion several years earlier and hadn’t seen her since. Nor had she heard what happened to her. That encounter took place when Zaruhy reached Haleb. She was very exhausted and weak when she began to tell the woman what had happened to her father and family. As Zaruhy began to relate her story to the woman–it was obvious she was unable to endure the agony of recalling the painful ordeal before completing her story. Zaruhy felt faint and collapsed to the ground. Medical attendants from the Hokey Doon rushed to her assistance and carried her away. Thus–the woman was able to tell me only what little Zaruhy managed to convey to her and no more:

“After returning home from the Turkish orphanage where my father had taken my three brothers and me–he went home to pick up my stepmother–his sister Marinos–and my three sisters Zaruhy–Sultahn and Yeranuhi. They joined the other neighbors from Perri who were being forcibly deported–leaving behind their personal belongings and their homes. They were not given time to make preparations for the ordeals of deportation. As soon as they reached the banks of the Perri River–my father advised my sister Sultahn–who was only sixteen at the time–to throw herself into the river for a more peaceful death. Because of her crippled arm–he felt the Turks would only abuse and torture her–then inevitably they would kill her. Even though she was a pretty girl–no one would take her as a wife. Aware of what they had already done to my father–as evidenced by the dry bloodstains on his coat–Sultahn promptly threw herself into the rushing waters of the Perri River.

“After a mournful prayer–the family resumed walking with the others. As they drew nearer Hoshay–a Turk attempted to grab my stepmother. At that point–my father tried to stop him–but the Turk reacted swiftly by slicing off my father’s ears…

“As much as we know–those were Zaruhy’s last words–and with tears streaming down her face–she collapsed. Apparently her exhausted body and devastated soul couldn’t endure any more. We will never know how she managed to escape from the demise of the others or how she managed to trudge across the horrible Der Zor Desert on her own.”

Hampartzoum Mardiros Chitjian–A Hair’s Breadth from Death: The Memoirs of Hampartzoum Mardiros Chitjian–(London and Reading: Taderon Press–2004)–xx + 434 pp.–ISBN 1903656303–maps–photos.–illust.–gloss.–hb.–US$35.00. To order contact books@garodbooks.com

Spanish Book Review

reseña de libro

68 •

revista de la Universidad aUtónoma de YUcatán

A CIEN AÑOS DEL GENOCIDIO ARMENIO

Al lo de la muerte.
Las memorias de Hampartzoum Mardiros Chitjian

Hampartzoum Mardiros Chitjian México, Air-Pen-Kim Ediciones, 2014.

Reseña de Luis Alfonso Ramírez Carrillo

Este largo texto, de 500 páginas, debería comenzar con una frase lapidaria di- cha por un hombre que llegó a los 103 años de edad en plena lucidez y que después de tantos años de vida alcanzó una conclusión de nitiva: la de que Dios si existe, pero hace mucho tiempo trabaja para los malvados. En realidad Hampartzoum dijo “Este es mi juicio, basado en lo que he oído y visto en mi vida. Quizá Dios ya no escucha a sus verdaderos seguidores, desde que no lo- gró reformarlos. Él también se ha unido a los malvados. Se han ido mis amados días de infancia. ¡Como los añoro!” (p. 80). La palabra genocidio fue acuñada por Raphael Lemkin en 1945 re riéndose primero a la campaña organizada para eliminar a los armenios de sus ciudades y tierras. Este libro es un texto extraordinario que documenta el genocidio desde los ojos de un niño, día a día, hasta que ese niño se volvió hombre y milagrosamente escapó de la muerte. En el Caso Armenio, la sistemática eliminación de su pueblo por el gobierno Turco es más dolorosa por que se le escatima esta cali cación.

A lo largo del siglo XX existió una callada conspiración, o más bien contuber- nio internacional, para no aceptar públicamente que la represión que inició el Sultán Abdul Hamid II, a la cabeza del imperio Otomano hasta 1909, se volvió una movilización forzosa y un genocidio a partir de 1915 desarrollado por su sucesor el Sultán Mehmet VI y por los “Jovenes Turcos” a través de los gobier- nos del triunvirato de Talat, Enver y Cemal Pasa, que disminuyó, pero no des- apareció cuando Mustafá Kemal Atartuk fundó la República Turca en 1923. El

Al filo de lA muerte. lAs memoriAs de HAmpArtzoum mArdiros CHitjiAn

de los Armenios fue efectivamente uno de los primeros genocidios del siglo XX que llevó a la eliminación sistemática, a lo largo de una década, de un millón y medio de cristianos armenios matándolos y desplazándolos de sus tierras y pueblos para establecer una frontera musulmana en la Armenia que sirviera de muralla de contención entre Turquía y Rusia. El inicio de esta gran matanza fue el 24 de abril de 1915, por lo aunque después de un siglo, el gobierno Turco no acepta o cialmente el genocidio Armenio.

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¿Pero que puede entender o que le importa a un niño campesino viviendo en el pequeño pueblo Armenio de Perri de los intereses de las grandes potencias? Nada, ese niño sólo sabía de su vida familiar, de sus juegos, de sus deberes es- colares, del mítico monte Ararat y del trabajo en el campo. Ese niño, que idola- traba a su padre y su familia, tuvo que observar cómo era vejada y masacrada ante sus ojos, y luego pasó una década de sufrimiento en virtual esclavitud o huyendo de un pueblo a otro, atestiguando de pueblo en pueblo las matanzas y saqueos de las tropas y la población Turca y Kurda sobre los armenios.

Este libro es, en sus primeras dos partes (hasta la página 348), un avispado recuento de los dramas vividos en esos años, en que pasó de la niñez a la ado- lescencia y de ésta a la edad adulta. El niño Hampartzoum observa, narra y sufre, mientras el adulto, a sus 74 años, que es cuando comienza a escribir sus memorias que termina un cuarto de siglo después, convoca a los demonios de su pasado y, afortunadamente para los demás —quizás no para él— no los disfraza ni suaviza. Narra lo que observó y vivió: ¿Qué fue esto? Una infancia idílica en medio de la pobreza, y luego la muerte y la persecución de todo su pueblo. La narración es contundente y las descripciones vívidas. Cárcel para hombres, robo de bienes y propiedades y luego la muerte en matanzas colec- tivas para todos, hombres niños y mujeres. Ya fuera en la ciudad de Kharpert, en los desiertos que circundan Der Zor, en los ríos de Perri, o en las cavernas donde fueron quemados vivos para deshacerse de sus cuerpos. Desde que ini- cia su itinerario, la mitad del tiempo prisionero y la otra mitad libre, saliendo de su pueblo natal, Perri, en 1915, hasta que logra abandonar Armenia en 1923, Hampartzoum fue testigo de toda la gama de ataques que los seres humanos pueden hacerse unos a otros. Robos, traiciones, violaciones, hambre, golpes, torturas, esclavitud, indignidad, discriminación, racismo, burla y nalmente la muerte y el asesinato. Y de sus consecuencias entre los que no murieron: pobreza, hambre crónica, degradación, sufrimiento físico y psicológico, enfer- medad, discapacidad y locura. Pasaron cinco años desde que salió de Perri hasta lograr escapar de Turquía y llegar a Irán cruzando el río Arax. Cinco años en que fue sucesivamente sirviente, esclavo o fugitivo. Fue testigo presencial de no menos de medio centenar de crímenes, individuales o colectivos en los caminos y pueblos por los que anduvo, qué narra con pasmoso detalle, y sus vicisitudes personales fueron innumerables, con el hambre como compañera constante, pero su fortaleza física y sobre todo emocional, le permitieron so- brevivir, a lo que por supuesto siempre hay que añadir algo de suerte y azar, que la acompaña. Finalmente ya en Irán pasó a Tabríz y por último a Bagdad.

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Trasladándose después a Beirut, para de allí intentar y nalmente lograr em- barcarse para América. Aunque antes que a Los Ángeles llegó a México. Pero esa es la historia de la tercera parte del libro.

De las dos primeras partes hay que resaltar el valor del texto como documen- to personal, como etnografía y también como catarsis. Se encuentra cerca de los textos del viejo etnopsicoanálisis, emprendido por autores como George Devereux, recordemos aquella “Autobiografía de un indio de las llanuras”, por ejemplo, al menos en un primer nivel discursivo, como documento de vida, aunque por supuesto sin las interpretaciones de nadie, más que las que hace a nivel re exivo el propio autor, que se pregunta constantemente las cau- sas de su desgracia y se responde a sí mismo. En ese mismo sentido también recuerda una vieja técnica clínica de pedir a los pacientes que escriban su autobiografía para discutir con el terapeuta. Escribir esta biografía debió sig- ni car una tremenda catarsis para el autor, que literalmente llora en el libro. Sin embargo las semejanzas terminan allí. Porque las explicaciones del autor no son personales, no se limitan al ámbito de su intimidad, sino que son fun- damentalmente colectivas y tiene muy claras las dimensiones políticas y reli- giosas de su desgracia. El sí sabe las causas de sus males y tiene muy presente quienes son los culpables: el gobierno turco de la época, desde el Sultán hasta los “Nuevos Turcos” y su política de eliminar a una minoría étnica cristiana para apoderarse de su territorio. Es decir se trata ante todo de un documento escrito por un individuo que se ve como representante de un colectivo. Las desgracias del autor son las desgracias de un pueblo entero y como tal las narra, las enfrenta y las explica.

Hay otros documentos similares escritos por inmigrantes forzosos que ahon- dan más por el lado de la nostalgia cuando ven hacia atrás o bien se enfrentan a la otredad cuando explican esa sensación de haberse asimilado a un nuevo contexto y al mismo tiempo sentirse un permanente extranjero en su nueva patria. Pienso en uno en particular que se asemeja por provenir de una región vecina y emigrar por causas parecidas a las de los armenios: los testimonios de los migrantes libaneses cristianos maronitas que escaparon de las manos del imperio otomano durante la Primera Guerra mundial y en especial a partir de 1915. Un libro en particular se asemeja a este: el de T. Duoun “Con soes e indiscricoes” editado en Brasil en 1943, que es un extensísimo relato de su infancia en Medio Oriente, de las vejaciones de los turcos a partir de 1915 y de su propia odisea para escapar a América. Pero el libro de Hampartzoum es

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superior porque está construido desde un nosotros y no desde un yo, es menos re exivo, menos intimista, mucho más analítico de su contexto y ubicado en el exterior de sí mismo. Por último, y ya para terminar las similitudes, es impo- sible no recordar el libro de Jersy Kosinski “El pájaro pintado”, mitad novela, mitad biografía, sobre la discriminación y el maltrato por razones étnicas hacia los gitanos y judíos, no sólo del ejército nazi, sino en especial de los propios campesinos pobres de Polonia, que vejaban y cometían toda clase de maldades entre aquellos que huían de la guerra por sus campos, presenciadas a través de los ojos de un niño. Las similitudes entre las vejaciones sufridas por Hampart- zoum y las que el protagonista narra en la novela son impresionantes, aunque en cuanto a maldad la vida supera al arte: el autor sufrió más.

La tercera parte del libro es ya un testimonio mucho más clásico en la literatu- ra sobre migraciones. La biografía del inmigrante pobre que llega a México y luego a Estados Unidos en los años veinte, que nos narra su pobreza, sus visi- citudes y poco a poco su ascenso social y éxito económico. Es también un texto esplendido, aunque por otras razones que las del genocidio Armenio. Es un retrato claro del proceso de integración cultural de los migrantes de primera generación, que suman y no substituyen elementos culturales, que desarrollan una doble personalidad o mejor dicho una personalidad bicultural con la que pueden sobrevivir. Son especialmente emotivos sus recuerdos sobre su llegada a México, en donde el mismo a rma “que pasó los diez años más felices de su vida”. Resulta del mayor interés en estas páginas observar como un inmigrante pobre de medio oriente, con escasos conocimientos del español desarrolla es- trategias de carácter comercial que van de la venta ambulante de algún género con pequeña demanda, al establecimiento como vendedor jo en puestos de mercado y luego a tiendas formales. Resalta la importancia del parentesco y la familia, y se observa cómo se construyen los endogrupos étnicos, que resultan las dos formas de organización fundamentales para poder ascender socialmen- te. Testimonios complementarios, que con rman su propia historia con la de descendientes de los armenios que lo acompañaron, se pueden encontrar en el documental “Los armenios en la Merced” elaborado por Carlos Antaramián en 2012. En esta tercera parte queda también clara la agridulce relación con la comunidad armenia en el exilio y como, a cien años de distancia, la búsqueda del reconocimiento del holocausto y de que el Estado Turco contemporáneo acepte que realizó un genocidio armenio, ha vuelto a unir a la comunidad in- ternacional de ese origen.

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Dear Miss Sara,

I ::finish reading your father’s merooirs that could well become a roovie.

I believe that it’s one of the roost powerful books that I read about the Armenian Genocide. Your :father’s book gives a perspective from a man who saw directly the sufferings of the people. Many stories on the genocide had concentrated on political figures, religious or diplomatic perspectives, but those who had suffered roost seemed to be left out of these macro-explanations.

In this case I found a book that is profound and generates a significant contnbution to the Armenian genocide.

First I was struck by the detailed way in which your father describes his childhood and the characteristics of armenian people and their values. It is difficult to find in the books on the Armenian Genocide, stories that focus on the daily life of the Armenians before the genocide. The entire description of the educational system in Pery to the children’s games turned me :fascinating. The work ethic and the various activities of the Armenians are very well descnbed too. I think that’s the story I heard also by my grandparents. I was also touched reading the children’s games, such as playing with Easter eggs that recalled my own childhood.

The description of the genocide shows a dimension that that official reports ( from embassies or consulates) do not describe, I also heard that kind of painful histories when I lead in 2004 interviews to the last survivors in Buenos Aires. I believe that the image of the mutilated bodies of Armenians has reminiscences which Dante himself could not have imagined. I was also shocked with the description of the soldiers asking to buy bones of Armenians.

I think there is something deeply human in the story of your father and the re-encounter in the United States with his brothers. It shows the power of human will and the will of the Armenian people. I was interested also with the passage on Mexico and the encounter with the first Armenian in that country.

I think there’s a strong argument by the book that the Armenians must be united. We should have roore books like these advocating for our common desire for justice, meroory and truth.

Regarding the translation the style is all right, however I detected a number of typing mistakes, I guess that was corrected later.

I am deeply grateful that you have sent me this book that touched me. I hope I can call you by phone to thank you personally and talk a bit with you Please let me know if you have received this e-mail I hope that we stay in touch!

Best wishes!

Juan Pablo Artinian

Ph.D. (State University ofN ew York at Stony Brook)

PS: I would like to inform you that with another professor, Greta Kalaidjian we are going to teach courses through the Department of Education of the City of Buenos Aires to High schools teachers on the Armenian genocide. This is the first time that the Armenian Genocide enters in the curricula for these official courses for non-Armenian teachers. We are delivering a booklet that I wrote as reading material among other stuff like Vahakn Dadrian

BOOK REVIEW

A Hair’s Breadth from Death

The Memoirs of Hampartzoum Mardiros Chitjian

Taderon Press. $35 US.

By Leon Fermanian

Hampartzoum Chitjian’s (1901-2003) memoir is an invaluable document that brings clear illumination to one of the darkest and most brutal periods in the history of mankind. Hampartzoum was a boy of 14 in the town of Perri, in the Slaughterhouse Province of Kharpert, when in the spring of 1915 the tsunami wave of the Armenian Genocide shattered his psyche, dispersed and destroyed his family, eradicated his nation, and fractured his faith. His lucid testimony of all that he saw, heard and experienced in the Province of Kharpert, seamlessly fuses with similar memoirs of eye­witnesses such as Henry Riggs, Maria Jacobsen, Leslie Davis, and others, and fortifies the large body of primary data, which proves without a shadow of a doubt, that what happened in 1915 was indeed a Genocide in the true definition of the word.

Written in a clear and matter of fact style, and packed with hundreds of illustrations, poems, maps and photographs, Hampartzoum sheds light upon three aspects of Genocide. In the first part Chitjian paints a vivid portrait of the traditional life style of the Armenians that had roots going back centuries. In the second part, Chitjian recounts his experiences as a witness to the wholesale massacre and scorched earth policy of the Turks. And in part three, this survivor, consumed with his memories and nightmares, a condition that modem psychiatry labels “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder”, remembers, commemorates, and agitates for retributive justice. Though this book is the detailed account of the author’s personal experiences, the story he weaves rises above the personal and speaks to the collective psyche of mankind. After all, it is not only history that can reveal what actually happened. Often, personal memoirs can do more to change minds than historical books that paint the larger picture of the political strategies of key actors who trigger calamitous wars.

In the period before the Genocide of 1915, the Armenians in the Ottoman Empire were living in relative peace – although every decade or sosmall scale massacres were the norm. To make the best of a worst situation, the Armenians found comfort in their Christian faith and a rigid, hierarchical family lifestyle. Chitjian recalls a typical day in their household thus: “Traditionally, we woke up before sunrise, because that was considered Godly. Likewise, it was considered a sin to wake up after the sun had risen. Each person would then begin tending to their respective chores. When my grandfather and father were ready to wash their hands and face, the eldest son prepared to pour water from a pitcher and hand each of them a towel. Consecutively he kissed their hands and took them to his forehead as a sign of respect. Then each of us stood in a row while the next son was ready to pour water for his elder brother. That procession continued until all the boys were washed and ready for breakfast. .. In the mean time my father and grandfather were in light prayer: “May God bless us and give us a fruitful d ay … ”

But their prayers were not answered. Suddenly one morning, all the adult males of the town, among them Mardiros Chitjian, Hampartzoum’s father, were thrown into jail and then flogged mercilessly. Upon release from jail, Mardiros briefly returns home. _But “He didn’t let us touch him,” Hampartzoum recalls. “His work cloth’ was splattered with dry blood, his face was gaunt, and his eyes were consumed with despair … In front of me was a thin, gaunt, haggard looking man, an image of my father that would haunt me for the rest of my life. . . The pain was eternal – it could never leave my soul. I am now 102 years old and yet I still relive that very moment . every night in my nightmares. It is reflected in all my thoughts during the day. How could anyone forget that image? Could you?”

But that traumatic episode was only the beginning of the gauntlet of life and death situations that Hampartzoum and his generation of orphaned Armenian teenagers endured. Most readers know the broad outlines of how the Armenian leaders were rounded up, tortured, exiled into certain death in the desert, or murdered outright just outside of their villages. What is less well known however, is the fate of a whole generation of boys and girls who were thrown into the four winds to fend for themselves. Some chose suicide, others were forced to convert, while others planned day and night, to escape from the nightmare. During this chaotic period, Hampartzoum and Kerop, his twin brother, like tens of thousands of others, were forced into slavery, their names were changed into Turkish ones, they were ordered to speak nothing but Turkish and to pray only like a Muslim. “But no matter how hard they tried,” Chitjian writes, “they did not succeed in changing our faith. What we kept and felt in our minds, hearts, and souls was ours to keep. No one was able to alter what I believed in, no matter what they made me say or do, no matter what terrifying experiences I yet had to encounter.”

And encounter he did. Time and time again. Chitjian devotes seventeen chapters to his ordeals between 1915 and 1921. During this period, he could have lost his life at any moment. He lived in constant fear. He was forced to work as a slave, slept in barns, mingled with Kurdish shepherds, wandered from village to village, till he finally escaped and crossed the border into Persia. “We were now in Iran!” he writes. “I will never forget that moment! I rushed to a nearby fountain and drank their water. I took a handful of mud and rubbed it across my forehead. I felt I was wiping away the fear of the barbaric Turk out of my soul!” But his problems and disappointments were not over yet. Upon arrival in Tavriz, he was shocked to hear thousands of starving Armenian soldiers screaming, “Mayrig, Mayrig, here is my military certificate given to me by {General} Antranig. Please give me just one bite to eat.”

Yet despite misfortune that would shatter the foundations of anybody’s sanity, Chitjian forged ahead in his efforts to break free of hell and to reunite with his brothers who had gone to America before the Genocide. After a long trek that took him to Baghdad, Mosul, Aleppo, Marseille and Mexico, he finally made it to Los Angeles and reunited with his brothers in 19 3 5.

Hampartzoum Chitjian devotes part three of his autobiography. to his attempts to build a decent life and to find a remedy for his nightmares. Hundreds of violent, life-threatening events are always vividly active in his psyche. He survived the Genocide, “But never survived from the scars afflicted by the Turkish atrocities and their attempt to annihilate a nation,” he writes. Yet despite the heavy burden that he carried within, during his life in M?xico and Los Angeles, Chitjian formed a family, sired children and pursued a career in real estate.

But as the years passed on, Chitjian became increasingly alarmed, because it seemed to him that the issue of the Armenian Genocide was fading from the minds of Armenians – especially the young generation. But when in 1975 his schoolteacher daughter Zarouhie initiated an Armenian Culture class in the Los Angeles Unified School District, he found a new zest for living. Excited that he had found individual? who showed an interest and wanted to know what had happen to him during his six years of slavery in turkey, he finally set down and started writing his memoirs. “Little did I know then,” he writes, “That it would take over a quarter of a century to complete.” On this 90th Anniversary of the Armenian Genocide, Hampartzoum Chitjian’s memoir offers the reader the opportunity to get to intimately learn about the miter’story and inner turmoil of a man who survived hell and came back to telrus all about it. His is a cautionary tale for all who believe in Human Rights, and the Just Cause of the Armenian Genocide. Chitjian’s testimony in “A Hair’s Breadth from Death,” is yet one more reminder to all, especially to European intellectuals and policy makers who are negotiating to bring Turkey into the European Union, to do their research, and to search their souls, before they make their final decision.

“A Hair’s Breadth from Death” can be purchased from Armenian hook?torP.? ?no from the 1nternet at: htto://www.srnrodbooks.com/

Mardiros Hampartzoum c;it?iyan’,n Beige Yay1nlar1’ndan ?1kan ‘Oliime KIi Pay1’ k1tab1, Ermeni soylar1m1yla ilgili en onemli tan1khg1 giiniimiize aktar1yor. Mardiros <;;itciyan'1n yay1na haz1rhk s1ras1nda olmesi Ozerine, vefah k1z1 bu an1lar1 tamamlama gorevini Ozerine ald1. ingilizce ve Ermenice bask1lardan sonra, simdi de TOrkc;e bask, okur kars1s1na c;1kt1. Alman tarihc;i Hilmar Kaiser, "<;;itc;iyan'1n an1lan soyk1nm arast1rmalan alan1na, goc;menlerle ilgili arast1rmalara ve Osmanh tmparatorlugu ve Ermenistan',n sosyo­ekonomik tarihine essiz bir katk1d1r" diye degerlendirmis ve soyle devam etmisti: "Onun soyk1nm kurban1 diger Ermenilerle kars1lasmas1, Ermenilerin nastl hayatta kald191n1n ve yasad1klan dehset vericl kosullann ve s?eneklerin bir panoramas1n1 sunmas1n1 saglad1". Seda Maronyan, y1llarca an1lann Ermenice transkripsiyonu Ozerinde c;ahsm1st1r. 102 yas1nda aram1zdan ayr,lan <;;itciyan'1n antlann1n tngilizce c;evlrisi, c;;1tc;iyan'1n olOmOnden sonra k1z1 Sara taraftndan tamamland1. Gomidas EnstitiOnden Ara Saraflanase su degerlendirmeyi yapt,: "ic;erdlgl aynnt1lanyla one c;1kan c;;1tc;lyan'1n yasam oykOsO, ayn1 zamanda bu an1lann soyk1nm ve hayatta kalman,n ilk ag1zdan tantkhklanndan biri olmas1 nedeniyle onemli". 'Olilme Kil Pay1*', gilnOmOze kadar Ermeni soyk1nm1yla ilgili en onemli tan1khklardan birini temsil ediyor. Mardiros Hampartzoum <;itc;iyan (1901-2003), 1915'te 'tehcir' edilmeyen, ama asimllasyon amac1yla allelerinden kopanhp TOrk ve KOrt allelertne verllen Ermenl kadtnlan ve c;ocuklann1n yasad1klann1 da en ince aynnt,lanna vanncaya kadar anlatmaktad1r. Baz1 tahminlere gore, bu sOrec;te yaklas1k 200 bin ·erment boyle bir asimilasyona maruz kalm1s, 1918'de Osmanh tmparatorlugu'nun yenilglsinden sonra, bu kisilerin c;ok az, Ermeni klmligini tekrar kazanabilmisti. Hampartzoum <;ltc;iyan, Harput'ta 1921'e kadar hayatta kalmay, basard1ktan sonra, iran yolu'yla Meksika'ya ve oradan da Los Angeles'a gec;misti. 1915 Ermeni tehcirinin arifesinde, <;;itclyan'1n babas1, sag kalabilecekleri umuduyla dort oglunu da Peri'deki bir TOrk yetimhanesine birakir. <;ok g?meden, Peri Ermenileri tehcir edilip oldOrOIOr. <;;itc;iyan, yasad191 hayat1n c;at1rday1p c;okmesi Ozerine, her ftrsatta bu dOnyay1 bir araya toplay,p yeniden kurmay1 dener. Kitab1n daha sonraki bolOmlerini ise blr Yenl DOnya'ya goc; hlkayesi olusturmaktad1r. Tum dOnyaya Peri halk1n1n, yasad1klann1 hayk1rmak yeni yasam1n1n ana dOrtusO olur. Antlar yerel Ermenice, Kilrtc;e ve TOrkc;e deyimlerin kullan1ld191, tutkulu, dogrudan, zaman zaman yakas, ac;1lmad1k ifadelerle dolu kendine ozgO bir Oslupla kaleme ahnm1st1r. Ve her yeri geldiginde, modern dilnyaya sorulann, pes pese stralar. DOnya Ermenl halk1na kars1 islenen bu suc;u nas1I unutabilir? GOnOmOze kadar Turk hOkOmetleri Ermeni soyk1nm1n1 nas1I inkar edebilir? Ve Ermeni cemaat liderleri ile siyasi partiler bu adaletsizlige kars1 nas,I birlesemezler? Kiirtlerin 1916 isyan, ' ... Ertesi ilkbahar, Osmanh yonetimindeki blr baska bag1mh az,nltk olan KOrtler de TOrklere kars1 ayakland,. Dersim daglanndan Mazgirt'e dogru Peri yoniinde ilerlerken, onlerine c;1kan evleri yagmalay1p atese veriyorlard1. Turk askerlerl onlan durduram,yordu. KOrtlerle blrlikte savasan c;ok say1da Ermeni fedaisi vard1. Birlesince ciddi bir gO? meydana getirmislerdi. KOrtler Peri kap1lanna dayand1klannda, kay1klar1yla Peri Suyu'ndan gec;erek Kars1konak yoluna yonelen Tiirk sivillerin kac;mas1na yard1m etmek ic;in Turk askerleri gi:>nderilmisti. Bir sabah, Gamar <;esmesi'ne, su doldurmaya gitmistim. Bir anda, Emlne'nln erkek kardesi, Dudaks1z Haydar yan,mda bitiverdi. Dudaks1z lakab, isledigi bir suc;un cezas1 olarak Ost dudag1n1n kesilmesinden geliyordu. Onu suc;lu bulan save, bir Ermeni'ymis. 0 gun bugundur, Ermenilerden nefret ediyormus. Beni Kor Memo'nun kolesi olarak bildiginden, Ermeni oldugumu umursam,yordu. Bana suyu bos vermemi, dogruca eve kosup Kor Memo'ya at1na atlay1p derhal nehre gelmesini soylememi tembihledi. Ben de, suyla oyalanmadan dogru eve yollandtm ve olan biteni Kor Memo'ya anlatt1m. "Kiirtler intikam almak ic;in, Bagosi'ye kadar ilerlemisler. Aralannda Gavurlar da varm1s. Onlerine c;tkan her yeri atese verip yagmahyorlarm1s!" Tek soru sormadan, telas ic;inde at,na atlad1g1 gibi, hemen nehre kostuk. Peri'de genelde ekim bas1nda baslayan k1slar Mart ortas,na dek siirerdi. Her zaman sert, yogun tipi olurdu. Donan nehirler seksen-doksan santim derinliginde buz tutard1. Mevsimin en soguk gOnlerinde, at ve esegi tepeleme yOklO bir yolcu buz tutmus nehrin Ozerinden rahathkla yOrOyerek gec;ebilirdi. Solugu Peri Suyu k1y1s1nda alm1st1k. Bahara yeni girdigimizden, hala k1nlan kalln buz tabakalan nehrin uzerinde yOzOyordu. Bu buz tabakalan, kac;anlann kOc;Ok kay1klanyla kars1 k1y1daki Kars1konak'a g?islerini giic;lestiriyordu. Buz parc;alanna c;arpan kay1klanndan suya dOsenler oluyordu. Buzlu suya dOsenlerin ne kars1 k1y1ya yuzmelerl ne de tekrar kay1klanna binebilmeleri c;ok zordu. <;;ogu insan kurtulabilmek ic;in umutsuzca c;1rp1n1rken boguldu. Birden, ikizim Kaspar', gordOm. Son kars1lasmam1zdan bu yana neredeyse bir y,I gec;misti. ic;imden onu hasretle kucaklamak gelmisti. Arna sag salim oldugunu gormek bile ic;imi rahatlatm1st1. 0 da TOrk efendisi, MOddeiumumi ve ailesiyle birlikte kac;1yordu. Kay1klanna binerlerken, usulca yan1na gidip, Efendisine beni de yanlanna ahp alamayacaklann1 sormas1n1 istedim. Onlarla birlikte gitmenin daha gOvenli olacag1n1 dOsOnmOsti.im. Bu sayede yeniden blr araya gelme ftrsat1m1z da olabilirdi ... " 'Sophie'nin Se?imi' gibi "Oc; hafta sonra, sabah1n onu gibi, gOnlilk yagma seferimize c;1kmak ic;in gotOri.ilmeden once, Oc; jandarma paldtr kOldOr Protestan Kilisesi'ne dald1. Hie; konusmadan, c;ocuklan iriliklerine ve yaslanna gore ayirmaya baslad1lar. Benion dort-on yedi yas grubuna, ikizim Kaspar'1ysa daha kOc;Oklerin aras1na koydular. Bizi neden ay1rd1klann1 bilmeden, durumu protesto ederek kOc;Ok kardeslerimden veya ikizimden aynlmak istemedigimi soyleyerek bag1rmaya baslad1m. 'Biz ikiziz, yas1tiz!' Onlan korumam gerektigini hissederken, elim kolum baglanm1?t1. Bir anda, biri kolumu mengene gibi s1kt1. Seslnden, agabeyimin okul arkadas1 Mihran Mirakyan oldugunu c;1kartt1m. Mihran benden hem bOyOk hem iriydi. Usulca kulag1ma f1s1lday1verdi, 'Birak gitsin, bakars1n sag b1rak1rlar. Sesini kes.' BOyOgOm otdugundan, vardir bir bildigi diye bag1rmay1 kestim ... " *Hampartzoum <;itc;iyan, 'Oliime Ktl Pay1' (Ermeni Soyk1rim1ndan Kurtulmus Birinin An,lan), Beige Yay1nlan, c;eviri; Ali <;;akiroglu

Ad,m Hampartsum c;:it:;;,yan. J 901 Isrnaitli do(ium!uyurn. Be,1, Enr,eni halk111a ybncl1k inezai1mde11 sag Ku1tulrnu,;, birisiyirn. Ege,· boyie bir zulme tan,k otmad1ysan1z, o zaman benim, yani yazar111 c,;ekcigi 0cilar, dli$t.indi.iklerim ve ilk ac:1klama!alarnn hakk1ncla y21zcJ1ktanrrn sab1rta okuyun, 5efkatle dinleyin. Lutfen sbztenme Kulak verin, sonra da ba;;1moan gec;enteri anlamaya c;a\51n. Ben, Osmanl1 Hi1kumecince 1915 yil1nda i?lenmi;; ve tc1rihe mal olmu?, akil olrna::. 1nsant1k d1′.], davran1;;lc1nndan mucize· eseri kurtulabi!mi? kurbanlardan b1ris1yirn. S0yk1n111c1a11 asta sag c;1kilamaz. FiziKi otarak krutuiabilir·sin,z. arna z1hnin:z ve ruhunuz sonsuz,1 dek i;;kence c;eker·. Cehenneme aci1m1n1Z1

att!ysan1z. bmur nyu yaras,ni ta?11·s:niz. Alt; yil boyunca ta11,kl1k ettigim mezalirn suresince, gozlenmie gcirduklerirn, kulakiarrma i?ittiklerimin

deh?etini ya)ad1m. Gec;mi?te ya?ananlarla yaral: ve yorgun yCrregim, bugun de IJl:’11:’cek i<;rn L1rpenvor "

A Hair’s Breadth from Death

Memoirs of Hampartzoum Chitjian 

(Sara Chitjian states “This reviewer of my fathers memoir had a keen sensitivity about Hampartzoum’s suffering.”)

ISBN 1903656303

Genocide eyewitness Hampartzoum Chitjian’s first-person accounts of the Armenian Genocide and its aftermath tell of his life of suffering, survival by living as a slave in Turkish and Kurdish households, his escape–via Persia toMexico–and subsequently Los Angeles, where a sense of loss and injustice pervade his being. His raison d’etre becomes to ensure the Genocide is not forgotten. A very familiar face to the old-time LA community, Chitjian attended each and every April 24 demonstration held in the in the 1960s, 70s, 80s and even through part of the 90s.

He died last year before his memoirs were ready for publication. His faithful daughter finished them, however; the two editions that compilation–one in English and one in Armenian– be released next month.

LOS ANGELES–On November 15, the Armenian Film Foundation will host a reception and book signing for A Hair’s Breadth from Death, the memoirs of Hampartzoum Chitjian.

Speakers include scholar Hilmar Kaiser, a German historian who has authored two publications on the Armenian genocide, Publisher Ara Sarafian of Taderon Press in London, and Chitjian’s daughter, Sara.

“Chitjian’s memoirs are a unique contribution to the field of genocide studies, immigration studies, and the social-economic history of the Ottoman Empire and Armenia,” says Kaiser. “His encounters with other shattered Armenian survivors offer a panorama of Armenian survival strategies and the appalling conditions and choices these few had to make. Students of immigration to the United States will find the account of the author’s journey to the US most interesting.” J. Michael Hagopian, founder and chairman of the Armenian Film Foundation, will present a short film on Chitjian, who appears in the AFF’s “Witnesses” trilogy of documentary films, and will offer some personal reflections. Chitjian, who was born in Perri, Kharpert, was J. Michael Hagopian’s babysitter. His daughter will speak about helping her father with his memoirs, which Seda Maronyan transcribed in Armenian over the course of several years. Sara translated the memoirs to English, finishing the work after her father passed away last year at the age of 102. Sarafian says, “Chitjian’s life story is remarkable for the amount of detail that is included, and that is why these memoirs are one of the most important first-person accounts of the genocide and survival.”

The book signing is at 7 p.m. at the United Armenian Congregational Church hall, 3480 Cahuenga Boulevard West. Admission is free and light refreshments will be served. For further information, please contact 805-495-0717.

About the Book:

A Hair’s Breadth from Death represents one of the key memoirs of the Armenian genocide to date. Hampartzoum Chitjian (1901-2003) fleshes out, in great detail, the fate of Armenian women and children who were not “deported” in 1915, but separated from their parents for assimilation into Turkish and Kurdish households. According to some estimates, close to 200,000 Armenians were targeted for such assimilation during the genocide process, and only a fraction of them managed to revert back to their Armenian identity after the defeat of Ottoman Turkey in 1918. Chitjian survived the genocide in the Kharpert plain, until 1921, when he escaped to Mexico, and later moved to Los Angeles.

On the eve of the 1915 Armenian deportations, Chitjian’s father took his four sons to a Turkish orphanage in Perri, with the hope that they would somehow survive. The remaining Armenian population of Perri was soon deported and killed. Those fateful days became a turning point in Chitjian’s life, as the world he knew collapsed around him, and he embarked on an Odyssey of survival–picking up the pieces of his lost world wherever possible. The bulk of his memoirs are a detailed, blow-by-blow account of his survival in Turkish and Kurdish families, and his escape to the new world. During this period he found surviving relatives, got married, set up his own family, and become a contributing member of Armenian communities in Mexico City and Los Angeles.

Yet the Armenian genocide remained an ever-present element in his life, as he observed new generations of Armenians who were denied knowledge of their roots, their ancestral homeland (their yergeer), and who assimilated as a matter of course. His experience of the genocide never ended; it just entered new phases over the decades, until his own death in 2003. Perhaps it is for this reason that, like many other survivors of the genocide, he felt compelled to write down his thoughts and memories as a debt to his family, the people of Perri, and the quest for justice he felt compelled to champion.

His memoirs are accordingly written in a passionate, forthright, and unabashed style. With his unconventional style, use of vernacular Armenian, Turkish, and Kurdish terms, Chitjian expresses his fury as a survivor of the Armenian genocide in the modern world. How could the world forget the crime that was committed against the Armenian people? How can Turkish governments today continue to deny the genocide of Armenians? And how can Armenian communty leaders and political parties fail to unite against this injustice.

Chitjian’s work makes compelling reading, and can often be extremely disturbing. It is over 400 pages long and includes over 150 maps, diagrams and photographs, as well as a glossary of terms. It is a true landmark of a primary account of the Armenian genocide.

Written as an autobiography in Armenian and translated into English, the book is available in both languages through Garod Books: books@garodbooks.com and at the Abril bookstore in Glendale.

EXCERPTS:

Left at the Turkish Orphanage by his father …Without hesitating a moment my father took his four sons and walked towards the small [m]agtab (Turkish school), leaving the women behind in the house. As we walked, my father did not utter a word. He was completely speechless. I thought he was mute from the cruel beatings and torture he suffered in jail.

No one uttered a word–not a sound was made. We all walked with fear and dismay in our hearts, not knowing what was going to happen to us or what was going to happen to the rest of our family–my sisters, my aunts, and stepmother. Why were we separating? In times of crisis the family should stay together. Instead we were splitting up and going in different directions. I did not want to part from my father. Why was he taking us to that school? I was so afraid. Custom prevailed, then as always. We were taught not to question my father’s command. We obediently obliged.

My father walked in front, clasping tightly onto Kaspar’s hand. It was in our later years when I found out from Kaspar that my father had spoken as we were walking. My father’s last words were that the Turks were going to send him and the women to America to unite with our brothers. At that point Kaspar asked why the boys were going to the Turkish school and not to America with the family. His final reply was, “America for us is the river.” Kaspar confessed that he didn’t understand his father’s last response, and at that point he was more confused than ever. Unfortunately, we were to find out the true meaning of that statement when we heard it repeated so many times in the subsequent months…

We were all too young to fully comprehend what was transpiring. Splitting up the family when all of the Armenians in Perri were picked up, imprisoned and tortured without cause or explanation was more than we could comprehend or bear.

We continued to walk silently. My father’s tortured posture showed no emotion or tears. Had his blood turned into stone? I could tell from his eyes he was smoldering from within. His mind and soul were completely devastated. I am sure he didn’t know what to tell us. He feared if he said anything unknowingly it might jeopardize what we might later say or do, and thereby be harmful for us. He was a devout believer in God. He did what he thought was best and left us in the hands of God.”

Separating the Older Armenian Boys in the Orphanage for Execution

Three weeks later without warning, about ten o’clock in the morning, three gendarmes entered the Protestant Church before we were taken out to pillage for the day. Without a word they promptly started to separate boys according to their physical size and age. They grouped me with the older and larger boys aged fourteen to seventeen and kept Kaspar, my twin, with the younger boys. Not knowing why we were being separated, I immediately yelled out, protesting that I did not want to be separated from my younger brothers or my twin. “I’m his twin, we are the same age!” I felt I had to protect them, and I was desperate.

Suddenly, I felt a strong grasp on my arm. Immediately, I recognized the voice of Mihran Mirakian, my older brother’s classmate. Mihran was also older and larger than I was. He quietly whispered into my ear, “Let him go, he might survive. . .”

Witnessing the Kurdish Rebellion of Dersim, 1916

The following spring, the Kurds, another subjugated minority under Ottoman rule, rebelled against the Turks. They were advancing towards Medzgerd from the mountains of the Derseem, looting and burning the houses as they headed towards Perri. The Turkish soldiers weren’t able to stop them.

There were a number of Armenian fedayees fighting with the Kurds. Together they had become a strong force.

As the Kurds got closer to Perri, Turkish soldiers were sent to help the Turkish civilians escapemany of them used their kaylahgs (river rafts) to cross the Perri River over to Hoshay.

One morning I had gone to the Gahmarr Fountain to fetch water. Suddenly Doodaughsooz (cut-lipped) Khehder, Ehmeenehm’s brother, approached me. He had acquired that nickname when his upper lip was cut away as punishment for a crime he had committed. The prosecuting lawyer who found him guilty was an Armenian. Thereafter, he despised all Armenians. He knew me as Korr-Mamoe’s slave and was unaware that I was Armenian. He rushed up to me and told me to forget the water, to run home quickly and tell Korr-Mamoe to get on his horse and rush down to the river.

I hurried home without the water and told Korr-Mamoe the news. “The avenging Kurds have advanced as far as Bahsue. The Gavours (infidels) were among them. They are burning and looting everything along the way!” Alarmed and without further questioning, he grabbed his horse and we rushed towards the river.

Winters usually began in early October in Perri and lasted through the middle of March. There were always heavy, bitter snowstorms. The rivers froze three to four feet deep. Anyone traveling with a horse or donkey with a heavy load could safely walk across the river with relative ease during the peak of the coldest season.

In no time we reached the bank of the Perri River. Because it was early spring, thick blocks of ice were still breaking loose and floating in the water. The large chunks of ice made it difficult for the fleeing people to cross over to Hoshay with their small kaylahgs. Many were thrown off as their kaylahgs collided with a boulder of ice. Once thrown into the frigid water, it was very difficult for them to swim ashore or to get back on their kaylahg. Many people drowned in their desperate attempt to escape.

Suddenly, I saw my twin brother, Kaspar. Almost a year had passed since our last encounter. I desperately wanted to embrace him. At best, it was a relief just to know he was still alive and well. He was also escaping with his Turkish master, Meudayee Oomoomee, and his family. As they were getting on their kaylahg, I quickly approached Kaspar and whispered to him to ask his Effendi if he would take me too. I felt it would be safer going with them. At the same time, there might have been a chance we would be reunited again.

Saving Armenian Women in the Kharpert Plain at the End of WWI

While I was still living at the Armenian orphanage, we began to feel less intimidated because the Americans were still there–a false sense of calm prevailed. Both the American missionaries and soldiers encouraged Armenian boys to assist Kude Archbishop Mekhitarian to carry out his mission to rescue Armenians still held in bondage by Turks and Kurds.

Many Armenian women who had been forced to become Turkish and Kurdish wives left their children fathered by Turks or Kurds and fled to the Armenian Protestant orphanage. Others refused to give up their children and made the choice to remain, just as my Aunt Aghavni refused to give up her children and remained in Perri. I tried to convince her many times but to no avail. While I realized what a difficult decision that must have been, I greatly admired the women who left their children and fled when they found the opportunity.

With this opportunity in mind, I remembered the slave who worked in the gendarme’s house in Parchanj. She always treated me well, while her Khanum, Fahtmah, always taunted me by calling me Gavour Boghee. One day when I had the opportunity, I decided to go to Parchanj and rescue the slave. I knew I was risking my life if the gendarme caught me. Nevertheless, I went. First, I dropped by to say hello to Khanum, the kind, elderly woman who had always treated me well. It felt good to know she was very happy to see me. She inquired about my problem with the ghosts. After a short pleasant visit, I told her I had come just to see her. Then I left.

I quickly went across the street and went up to the second level of their three-story house where the slave had her living quarters, above the stable. The Armenian slave came out as soon as she saw me. Quickly and quietly, I told her why I had come. I was surprised by her response. Apparently, she and Khanum had anticipated my intentions when they saw me in the area and had made their own arrangements. The slave assured me that she could escape whenever she saw fit, and that it would be better for me to take Fahtmah Khanum herself. For some time, she was preparing to escape. Khanum had previously sent her daughter away to safety. Now, she was waiting for the opportunity to escape herself and was willing to part from her sons. So now she was relying on me to take her away–that day!

I was struck by the sudden realization that the person who had been so cruel and hostile towards me, shouting Gavour Boghee at me every chance she had, now wanted me to risk my life to help her escape from her Turkish gendarme husband who terrified everyone just with his barbaric presence.

I knew the gendarme or his mother could enter that room at any moment. So, we had to escape immediately. Without giving her suggestion a second thought, I agreed and quietly followed the Armenian slave up to the third floor. Fahtmah Khanum was ready and waiting for me to take her away. Silently, without a word, she motioned for us to go down the back stairs. She was dressed in her white charshaff (sheet). Her body and face were concealed. I had never seen her face before, nor did I see it then. Only her eyes were visible.

“Gee dehk” she said in Turkish. “Let’s go!” Bidding us farewell, the slave whispered, “Be careful–don’t get caught!”

When we got downstairs, I peered from behind the house to make sure no one was in sight. The coast was clear, so we fled, walking as fast as we could, making sure we did not attract anyone’s attention. Fahtmah Khanum walked briskly by my side and never uttered a word.

The walk from Parchanj to Kharpert was about two hours. After walking for some time on the road through Kehsereeg, I decided it would be safer to change our route, even though it would be much longer. By taking the new route, I avoided passing by the police station that usually had at least sixty policemen milling around.

I was greatly relieved when we finally arrived in Mezreh. I took Fahtmah Khanum directly to the Armenian Protestant orphanage. Without a word, I quickly left. All the Armenian women and girls were housed there. Reverend Yeghoyan had converted his zhoghovahran, meeting hall, into an orphanage.

Discovering the Fate of His Beloved Family Members

One day while I was walking alone towards the Hokey Doon, a woman recognized me. Waving her hand, she called out my name, “Hampartzoum! Hampartzoum!” A warm feeling went up and down my spine. It was a nostalgic sound to hear my Armenian name called out by a familiar voice from Perri. As she got closer, I recognized her. It was a pleasant surprise and realization to know there were other survivors from Perri! After a few words, her mood changed and her eyes filled up with tears. She proceeded to tell me she had seen my sister, Zaruhy, in the Hokey Doon on one occasion several years earlier and hadn’t seen her since. Nor had she heard what happened to her. That encounter took place when Zaruhy reached Haleb. She was very exhausted and weak when she began to tell the woman what had happened to her father and family. As Zaruhy began to relate her story to the woman, it was obvious she was unable to endure the agony of recalling the painful ordeal before completing her story. Zaruhy felt faint and collapsed to the ground. Medical attendants from the Hokey Doon rushed to her assistance and carried her away. Thus, the woman was able to tell me only what little Zaruhy managed to convey to her and no more:

“After returning home from the Turkish orphanage where my father had taken my three brothers and me, he went home to pick up my stepmother, his sister Marinos, and my three sisters Zaruhy, Sultahn and Yeranuhi. They joined the other neighbors from Perri who were being forcibly deported, leaving behind their personal belongings and their homes. They were not given time to make preparations for the ordeals of deportation. As soon as they reached the banks of the Perri River, my father advised my sister Sultahn, who was only sixteen at the time, to throw herself into the river for a more peaceful death. Because of her crippled arm, he felt the Turks would only abuse and torture her, then inevitably they would kill her. Even though she was a pretty girl, no one would take her as a wife. Aware of what they had already done to my father, as evidenced by the dry bloodstains on his coat, Sultahn promptly threw herself into the rushing waters of the Perri River.

“After a mournful prayer, the family resumed walking with the others. As they drew nearer Hoshay, a Turk attempted to grab my stepmother. At that point, my father tried to stop him, but the Turk reacted swiftly by slicing off my father’s ears…

“As much as we know, those were Zaruhy’s last words, and with tears streaming down her face, she collapsed. Apparently her exhausted body and devastated soul couldn’t endure any more. We will never know how she managed to escape from the demise of the others or how she managed to trudge across the horrible Der Zor Desert on her own.”

Hampartzoum Mardiros Chitjian, A Hair’s Breadth from Death: The Memoirs of Hampartzoum Mardiros Chitjian, (London and Reading: Taderon Press, 2004), xx + 434 pp., ISBN 1903656303, maps, photos., illust., gloss., hb., US$35.00. To order contact books @ garodbooks.com