Below is the press release of the Gulbenkian Foundation, which circulated on September 10:
The entire oeuvre of Hagop Oshagan, one of the giants of Western Armenian Literature, is now online and easily accessible to all, free of charge. The digitized materials can be found on the website of the Digital Library of Classical Armenian Literature (Digilib) of the American University of Armenia. The project was supported by the Armenian Communities Department of the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation.
Thanks to this initiative, some 30 books from the author, including all the volumes of the Panorama of Western Armenian Literature, The Humble Ones, Remnants, and many more difficult to find texts have been fully digitized and are available in a searchable format.
Vahe Oshagan once said, “Be careful and ready! You enter Hagop Oshagan’s word as one kind of person and you come out another person.” Those who have entered that world know, I think, the import of these words. And now, it is possible to go there, to that world–terrifying, dangerous, and complete.
The AUA Digilib has done a marvelous job in bringing to the Armenian reading world literary criticism, novels, plays and other writings of one of the most prolific writers of the past century.
Some years ago, an excerpt from Oshagan’s “Remnants” (Englished by the translator extraordinaire G.M. Goshgarian) was published on Words Without Borders, the website of international writing in translation. At the time I wrote in the introduction:
Oshagan poses huge challenges for his Armenian-language reader as well as his translator. This is one reason why Oshagan’s novels, which are in the tradition of Stendhal, Dostoyevsky, Proust and Joyce, are not more widely known. In addition to his formal complexity, Oshagan often seems deliberately ambiguous, the sequence of words pointing in several, often contradictory directions at the same time. The translator is tempted to make Oshagan accessible by standardizing his language, making it seem natural, in short, by domesticating its semantic multiplicities and harnessing its torrential energy.
In G. M. Goshgarian’s groundbreaking English rendition of Mnastortats, Oshagan’s novel has found its translator. Goshgarian has translated into English more Oshagan than anyone else, most of it as yet unpublished. He says: “Oshagan’s Armenian is not at all natural but barbarously beautiful.” Being faithful to Oshagan, therefore, can appear to be bad translation until the reader begins to understand the author’s logic, deliberate puzzlers, and snares. The meanings begin to multiply, and, to paraphrase Oshagan, the reader is home—in literature.
Now that the entirety of Oshagan’s known work is available, the challenge is real: The work must be read. It must be read against its difficulties, its snares, twists and turns, and equally important, its sometimes horrifying and horrific content (at least in the novels and the plays) and its always laser-sharp critical spirit. As Goshgarian says, the task is difficult and full of pitfalls which the translator knows well. But so does the reader, who is also a translator of sorts, from the conventional to the innovative, to a language that burns and lacerates and renews–barbarous and beautiful.
Arpi Dadoyan has died.In the unwritten annals of the culture of the Armenian diaspora, Arpi holds a place which is as unique as it is legendary.
No one who has been fortunate to have seen her in Varoujan Khedeshian’s 1971 production of Theatre 67’s “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” can forget her ferociously intense performance of Martha. Martha is at least twice Arpi’s age as Edward Albee, the playwright, had written her. Martha is also a foul-mouthed drunk, a character of immense physical presence, in body, voice, and speech–a life force turned against itself, as it were.
Arpi was 23 when she performed this role, dominating the stage with an unbridled energy and audacity which no Armenian actress had shown before, at least not on the stages of the Armenian community of Beirut. I was in the audience, as a theater critic for “Ahegan,” the short-lived, groundbreaking review of literature and culture.
Beyond the understanding that Arpi displayed in that role, what was also significant was that she was a completely home-grown talent (taking her first theatrical steps on the tiny stage of Nshan Palandjian College (Djemaran) as an elementary school student), but lots of daring at a time of great creative energy, innovation, and freedom in pre-civil war Beirut. Arpi’s presence on the stage in “Virginia Woolf” and later in other productions of Theatre 67, was a testament to that collective spirit, which, alas, was as fragile as it was incendiary. If for no other reason, Arpi’s gesture was for the generations.
Arpi belonged to that generation of talented young men and women who by choice or force of circumstance had to leave Beirut. That passage, too, had neither been written nor acknowledged. Arpi continued her theatrical work in the US, performing with community groups, doing stand-up comedy, writing songs, but, truth be told, for many of us, our memory of her is seared in that fiery Martha who spoke Armenian in a voice as clear today as it was then, enriching the culture, yes, but also our native language.
To get to Jerusalem from Amman, you would have to get to the Jordanian security checkpoint at King Husseyn (Allenby) Bridge, cross the bridge itself (a mere few minutes of a bus ride the last time I did it!), pass the Israeli security which is as detailed a process as it is humiliating, and then walk onto a clearing of taxis and more buses. You’re in the desert now; the air is thick and the sun is shameless. The negotiation is fast, and you’re on your way, a bit relieved and ready to talk to the driver in the Arabic you thought you had forgotten. He is jovial, and nicotine-voiced, and the surroundings are as sallow and lusterless, the desert cradling you as it were, time suspended almost, and not a living creature around you except you, the driver, and the anticipation. And on like this for half and hour through winding roads and hazy skies.
It takes a split second. The taxi swerves; the silence breaks;and in the distance, far from the noise and the hustle and bustle of life is a beautiful sight. The day is warm, the sky is clear, and in the distance is Qubbat al-Sakhra, known as the Dome of the Rock. It is a majestic site towering over the Old City, the dome itself a deep gold, which takes on an intense, other-worldly shine under the mid-day sun.
Set against the intense blue of Jerusalem’s sky, the dome looks as if it did actually descend from heaven, that it is of this wretched world but also of another. And beneath it, the Old City itself, village-town of faith and madness, its cobblestone streets sites of beauty and zeal, tension and tenderness—a place like no other, even now.
That’s the entrance to Jerusalem that I know, have known all the times I have been in the city. Things may have changed from the time I was there a decade ago, but that’s not important. Jerusalem is also of the imagination. And the news that snow is falling in the Old City today is as unsettling as it is exciting, exciting to imagine my Jerusalem transformed like that, the dome holding layers of snow on its radiant curve, from the distance of the taxi , the brick roofs carpets of white, and the religious sites–the mosques, the synagogues, the churches—made small and modest, all part of climate and geography.
And because Jerusalem is also of the imagination, in my mind’s eye this snow-clad Jerusalem finds a place near the sun-soaked one, as its double, or other, or prodigal variant, the two living together not so much in harmony (that would be boring for a mad place like Jerusalem) but in some arrangement yet-undefined. But for today, nothing seems more joyful than the sight of people making snow figures in the open expanse of the Dome of the Rock, joyful and so unexpected.
Oh, Jerusalem, chart and destination, golden and white, pious and mercurial, heavenly and profane, place of birth and of longing—for all.
Glenda Jackson: I watched her again this weekend, this time as the very old, mentally and physically depleted Maud in the Masterpiece Theatre production of “Elizabeth is Missing.” Her voice and her face filled the screen again– that combination of determination and vulnerability, frailty and tenacity. As a victim of dementia, Maud is a character that eviscerates the heart, and a remarkable creation that only Jackson could have pulled off at the age of 85.
But what was more exhilarating was to see in Maud the young Glenda Jackson, in Ken Russell’s 1969 production of “Women in Love.” There, she plays Gudrun, the woman made eternally memorable for her intelligence, erotic energy, and her forthrightness. It was that year–1969–the floodgates were about to open, and there was Gudrun taunting us, challenging us. She was guide and icon, destination and chart, and she was like no other character we had seen on the screen
Between Gudrun and Maud, between the promise of youth and the twilight of old age, is the tumble of the decades, experiences, twists and turns of living. And it is all on Glenda Jackson’s face, the wrinkles and cracks, and in her unsteady gait and limping shuffle. All the things that make up Maud, but not quite, not quite. Because old age always whispers (or weeps) its youth, longs for it but also is freed by it. And Glenda Jackson –in life and in her magisterial acting career– holds all these truths tight, holds both Gudrun and Maud in equal measure. To grow old this well…
Over more than a quarter century, all those politicians, armchair analysts, academics, party hacks, activists, and celebrities who spoke only when the truth was self-evident and did not need the courage of one’s convictions are now standing in line to say their word–in language at once melodramatic and preachy. Their words often sound hollow, disingenuous, and opportunistic.
After such defeat, perhaps it is better to stand back in self-imposed restraint for a while, turn inward in reflection, ask the honest questions: How did we get here? What are the imperatives of the moment? What kind of future can we imagine for Armenia and also for the diaspora, together and separate from each other? “They became what they beheld,” wrote William Blake. The present moment also demands an act of the imagination.
A new vocabulary is necessary for this moment, and a new way of telling this narrative, one which is modern, critical, and realistic; one which does not fall back on the hackneyed verbiage of Hay Thad and genocide recognition; one which imposes the grid of the present and future over the burden of the past (and not the other way around as we have done for so long, so long).
But first, some quiet, introspection, and tenderness, so that we can mourn the ones who died so valiantly on the battlefield, those who left home and hearth, for their bravery and dignity. A wise friend once wrote: “To be remembered is to die; to be thought of is to be born.”
None of this, though, is meant to suggest that Pashinyan or his foreign minister was a victim of anti-Armenian bias, or that “Hard Talk” is in the pocket of the Azerbaijanis. The program approaches all its guests with a Thatcher-like swagger, and it offers equal opportunity in the small mounds of rubble it leaves behind. From Pashinyan to Lavrov to Gwyneth Paltrow, “Hard Talk” is just that—hard and talk, rather, hardly talk and more interruption! If by some miracle, “Hard Talk” managed to get Ilham Aliyev on the show, the end result would be the same–Azerbaijanis would claim that Sackur is pro-Armenian.
Spike Lee’s “Da 5 Bloods” is film about a neglected subject–the experiences of African Americans in the Viet Nam war. And as such it is a corrective and timely.
Beyond that, the film has a beautiful surface which spans the ink dark of the jungle to the vibrant buzz of Ho Chi Minh City; an unusual film score which integrates Marvin Gaye, R and B, with big orchestral score, and solo laments bordering on New Age. The story, too, has a strong synthesizing impulse: to integrate several genres– the heist genre, the war movie, the documentary, even the tourist postcard. The result is a unusual work, expertly edited I thought, into which Lee has thrown a dozen characters, three related stories, a historic perspective, at least two psychological themes, and a lot of blood and gore and body parts.
Lee goes for excess here, and tries to couple that with the narrow confines of the heist as narrative. In the first half– the better half, actually the first half is riveting–I was seized by awe and deep emotion as the nascent theme began to take shape. In the second half he changes course, expands the story with digressions, and tries to turn the film into something huge, all-encompassing which is meant to assault the senses from all directions in a macabre dance of beauty and extreme violence. Sometimes that assault achieves its intent, at other times it confuses and alienates, so much so that all the emotional buildup of the first half slowly begin to slip away. The first half asks: What did the Viet Nam war mean for the Bloods who fought under the slogan of freedom but were themselves and their ancestors denied such freedom in their home county? The second half returns to this questions only sporadically; it is distracted by other things.
I think this is a movie primarily for younger audiences who are nurtured on big Hollywood productions, and abundance of technological wizardry and lots of sound and fury. But the story is a throwback to “our time,” the sixties and the early seventies. I am curious what younger viewers will think of it because Lee seems to have an educational and moral intent in mind, which is the only way to explain the rather quaint and positive ending. After so much violence and horror, what is the place of love and collective action and charity–virtues on which the film comes to its conclusion and silence.
HR 296 and the Politicization of the Armenian Genocide: Assumptions, Questions, Pitfalls
Asbed Kotchikian and I wrote this op-ed on HR296. It is posted on Hetq, November 18.
By Asbed Kotchikian and Taline Voskeritchian
The passage of Resolution 296 by the US House of Representatives (HR 296) on October 29 recognizing the Armenian Genocide has been welcomed and cheered by Armenians as a historic event. However, the timing of the passage raises some questions that seem to pale, and often disappear, in the world-wide Armenian reaction to recognition. The congratulatory discourse is often carried out as if this event had happened in a vacuum, outside the sphere of international, Armenia, and diaspora politics.
The euphoria over the passing of HR 296 can certainly give temporary
solace and renewed vigor to most Armenians in the US in their push to
find new points of leverage with Turkey. But several assumptions
surrounding the issue of genocide recognition in the overall strategy
and tactics of making Turkey accept and admit responsibility for a crime
it committed and that it has denied for more than a century need to be
challenged. In the last few days, the euphoria has been laced with
outrage at the action of of Senator Lindsey Graham to block a Senate
resolution acknowledging the Armenian Genocide.
For decades Armenians have argued that the Genocide is a historic
fact and should not be politicized. This position is advanced to counter
Turkish claims that no such thing as genocide ever happened and that
the Armenians are trying to politicize the genocide.
The argument that the failure of previous attempts to have the
Genocide recognized in the US—be that in Congress by both Republicans
and Democrats or in the State Department—resulted from the policy of not
harming US relations with Turkey makes the timing of this resolution at
best expedient and at worst hypocritical. Had the recent Turkish
invasion of Northern Syria and the ensuing political outrage among US
policy makers not occurred, it is highly doubtful that this resolution
would have passed with such an overwhelming support.
HR 296 is nothing more than political maneuvering by a House of
Representatives intent on “punishing” Turkey for its actions in northern
Syria. The passing of the resolution was as politicized an act as the
successive and well-documented failures in the past decades.
Politicizing historical events, especially calamitous ones, is not a
sin nor is it blasphemous. Many nations and states have used national
tragedies for political gains. There is nothing wrong with that as long
as there is a clear strategy and a follow-up to reap those political
gains. From this perspective, Armenians—in diaspora community
organizations worldwide and in The Republic of Armenia–can also
politicize the Genocide issue not just for the sake of forcing Turkey
into recognition, but also to create a platform on whose basis direct
contacts with Turkish society and government can lead to the eventual
achievement of justice and recognition in the form of reparations both
financial and territorial.
In the general discussions about the politicization of the genocide,
one key factor is often omitted. It is a factor that has to do with the
internal dynamics and modus operandi of diaspora organizations. Over the
decades, the Genocide—its history, its victims, and its on-going
denial—has come to function as an internal oath of survival and renewal,
a ritual, if you will, that community organizations, the church, and
individuals claiming a public platform can’t live without. Let’s say it
for what it is: The stranglehold that the Genocide has over Armenian
public life often instrumentalizes the national tragedy, reducing
everything to a mixture of moral absolutism, therapeutic jargon, and
public relations copy.
Resorting to such absolutism—non-recognition is “bad” and recognition
is “good”—is naïve at best. The world, especially the political one, is
seldom governed by morality. While in some cases policy makers have the
easy task to adopt policies that are both “right” and “good”, seldom do
the “right” and “good” choices converge. In the case of HR 296, the
moral choice (advocated by Armenians) converged with the right choice
(as calculated by a political motivated and savvy legislators in the US
House of Representatives). However, this is the exception and not the
norm. As such, it is as important to acknowledge the congruence of
events as it is to celebrate moral victories.
History is full of instance of criminals who would seldom recognize a
crime they committed if the admission is not forced on them. The
Nuremberg trials, the military coup in Rwanda and the NATO intervention
in Kosovo are just some examples of accountability being forced upon the
perpetrators of crimes with the threat or the actual use of force. Over
30 countries around the world have partly or completely recognized that
the Ottoman Empire—and by extension modern Turkey—was responsible for
the extermination of most of Armenian population residing in the Empire
and for the denial of that crime. Yet, today, Turkey is no closer to
accepting that responsibility than it was three decades ago.
The euphoria surrounding HR 296 is sustained by the belief that
genocide recognition will lead to a concerted effort by the
international community to put pressure on Turkey itself to admit its
crime of genocide. The more countries recognize the Genocide, the
stronger will the pressure be on Turkey—so goes the working assumption
of Armenian lobbying organizations, activists and celebrities who work
for genocide recognition, as well as large sectors of the Armenian
public. In the implementation of this view, one important fact is often
minimized or completely disregarded: For all its internal problems and
its external policy challenges, Turkey is a geopolitical heavyweight in
the Middle East and South-Eastern Europe. It has an economy that ranks
in the world’s top 20. Turkish policy is far from being influenced by
political statements made and resolutions passed in foreign countries,
even when those countries—the US, for example—may have a temporary bone
to pick with Turkey. Not only that, but Turkey is also headed by an
ultra-nationalist who seems to have little regard for minority
populations in his country.
Recognition of the Genocide by various countries has created
solidarity among large segments of Turkish society, in what they
perceive as foreign countries trying to marginalize Turkey (in perhaps a
neo-colonial analogy). It is, therefore, not implausible that the
Armenian euphoria and outrage may be fodder for the leaders of the
Turkish state as they rally their citizens against the common enemy.
The absence of long- and short-term strategies is also evident in
another sphere of Armenian life. The reaction surrounding HR 296
highlights the near-total disregard for the Armenian population of
Turkey. The welfare of this community–its institutions and
culture–seems to be minimized at best and ignored completely at worst.
Such a huge chasm between the pronouncements of Armenians in the US and
Europe and the anxieties of the Armenians in Turkey does not bode well
for the future of the Armenian nation and its communities worldwide. If
we want to think in a pan-Armenian (a term that has become so popular
in Armenia and the diaspora of late) way, we must think beyond interests
of one sector of the Armenian world though this sector may be the
loudest and the most prosperous. The “Star Trek” dictum that “the needs
of the many far outweigh the needs of the few” is an apt description of
the present approach that views the Armenians of Turkey unimportant,
even expendable for the higher cause.
Over a century and a half ago, a socially conservative yet
politically savvy Armenian clergyman urged Armenians to rely on
themselves in the pursuit of their rights and demands. The “iron ladle”
directive was later re-articulated by Armenian intellectuals across the
political spectrum, especially during the months and years preceding
Armenia’s independence in 1991. These ideas were most clearly
articulated by one such manifesto known as “The Law to Exclude Third
Force,” which, among other things, criticizes Armenians for seeking the
help of outside powers in the pursuit of their national agenda, and,
like the clergyman a century ago, put forth once more the challenge of
Unfortunately, it seems that seeking the “support” of outside powers
in Armenians’ search for justice has become the norm rather than the
exception. This state of affairs shows that Armenian political and
strategic thought over the last decades has been reverting to “classic”
reliance on foreign powers in the pursuit of justice.
In the late 1980s as the Karabakh movement was igniting, one
prescient intellectual, warning about the dangers of relying on foreign
assistance, argued that those outside powers—primarily in the West—to
whom Armenians look for support in fighting oppression and injustice
were themselves involved in oppressing Armenians in the past and
neglecting their demands. He wrote: “The [Armenian] people continue to
be exploited. The chains, once on their hands and feet, continue to make
their weight felt. The chains weigh on the tongues and brains.”
Asbed Kotchikian teaches at Bentley University’s Global Studies
department. His areas of research include socio-political change in the
Middle East and the former Soviet space.
Taline Voskeritchian teaches at Boston University’s College of Communication. Her work has appeared in The Nation, London Review of Books, Journal of Palestine Studies and other on-line and print publications.
Lisbon was recently the site of two important events related to the literature of the Armenian diaspora.
The first was a panel that convened at the International Symposium of the Modern Language Association (MLA), the major professional association for scholars and teachers of language and literature, including comparative literature. This year’s theme was Remembering Voices Lost. According to the organizers, the conference, which took place between July 23 and 25 in the Portuguese capital, aimed to “recuperate the ‘lost voices’ of humanity: those that have been buried or forgotten and those that have been marginalized or othered on the grounds of their perceived foreignness.”
The panel, titled “Empire, Nation, Diaspora: A Look from the Armenian Experience,” examined the work of Hagop Oshagan and Vahé Oshagan, whose biological lives stretched over the entire twentieth century and whose output inscribed the limits of the imperial, national and diasporic projects. The panel explored the respective literary critical trajectories of the two writers, as well as the complex literary links between them. In his opening remarks, Karen Jallatyan (Armenian Studies Postdoctoral fellow at U. of Michigan, Ann Arbor), chair of the panel, stressed the singularity of the event. “This is the first time that an MLA panel is held on Hagop and Vahé Oshagan,” he said. “We are hoping that it will contribute to the advancement of Oshagan studies, which in turn will lead to new perspectives on Armenian-Turkish relations in the Ottoman Empire, the peculiarities and possibilities of Diaspora literature, and the themes of loss, survival and remembrance.”
The Oshagan panel: L to R: Karen Jallatyan, Nanor Kebranian, Hagop Kouloujian, Taline Voskeritchian
The first panelist was Nanor Kebranian (Queen Mary, University of London) who began by noting the invisibility — prior even to the possibility of being remembered — to which Diaspora Armenian literature is condemned by academia since it falls outside the purview of post-colonial, post-Ottoman, Middle Eastern as well as Ethnic and Area Studies. Kebranian then offered a reading of Hagop Oshagan’s oeuvre as a refusal to conform to any exclusionary nationalist identity politics in rise particularly at the end of the Ottoman Empire. Following this, Karen Jallatyan offered a reading of Vahé Oshagan’s incomplete and unpublished historical novel Promontory, including the ways it rewrites Hagop Oshagan’s Remnants from the diasporic ground and thus offers a rare perspective of the Armenian transition from empire to nation to diaspora. Hagop Kouloujian (UCLA) gave the third presentation by attempting a comparative reading between Nigoghos Sarafian and Vahé Oshagan’s poetics, drawing attention to their deliberate openness towards non-binary diasporic becoming. Taline Voskeritchian (Boston University) made closing remarks by discussing the emergence of Vahé Oshagan’s diasporic literature in Armenian in the context of a statement he made in 1962 at the beginning of his literary career: “You must play poker on your grandfathers’ grave if you want to be a writer.” She drew attention to the complexities of literary risk-taking that characterizes what Vahé Oshagan has called a “diaspora sensibility.”
The panel was made possible through a travel grant from the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation.
On July 26, and in conjunction with the MLA panel, the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation hosted the screening of Hrayr Anmahouni Eulmessekian’s experimental documentary “Vahé Oshagan: Between Acts” at the Foundation’s headquarters in Lisbon. The film has been screened at the American University of Armenia, and the Mirzoyan Library in Yerevan; at UCLA and Abril Bookstore in Los Angeles; at Institut National des Langues et Civilizations Orientales (INALCO) in Paris; and by the Montreal chapter of Hamazkayin Cultural Association.
The film brings together extracts from Oshagan’s poetry; Ohannes Salibian’s electronic sound-texts of Oshagan’s poems; analysis by Nichanian, Krikor Beledian, Krikor Shahinian and Oshagan himself; and biographical information about the Oshagans. The result is an arresting and informative film — an intense conversation between language, image, sound, commentary and biographical narrative. “Here, too, we have several significant qualities,” said Voskeritchian, who translated the film, including the poetic extracts. “The film is entirely in Western Armenian, about a modern Armenian writer who wrote in Armenian. This is rare in our diaspora culture. What is even more rare is that it is an experimental documentary — in image and sound — but its home, if you will, is the Western Armenian language.”
A Q and A with Anmahouni and Voskeritchian followed, moderated by Hagop Kouloujian.
Marc Nichanian, philosopher, writer, and translator, who has written extensively about Hagop and Vahé Oshagan, offered final remarks both on the MLA panel the day before and the screening of the film. Regarding the first, he noted, “This panel was the first of its kind devoted entirely to writers writing in Armenian, not to mention the fact that they are father and son. There is here the possibility of opening some elements of Armenian literature to an international context and beginning a conversation with the world.” Nichanian further noted that on the one hand the experience of dispersion marking the diasporic experience suggests the impossibility of transmission from one generation to another, from father to son. On the other hand, Nichanian suggested that with the Oshagans, we have a complex situation that inscribes the challenges of cultural transmission in the diaspora. Kebranian in a commentary drew attention to an inverse phenomenon of expecting excessive transmission from Armenians living in the Diaspora. Both Nichanian and Kebranian agreed that the Diaspora Armenian experience is marked by a difficulty of transgenerational cultural transmission.
“Vahé Oshagan: Between Acts” was originally commissioned in 1994 by Hamazkayin Cultural Association, Western Region, and up-resed and translated with English subtitles in 2016 with a generous grant from the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation.
Anahid Ter Minassian (1929-2019): By way of a tribute
Some deaths are trascendant; they point to something larger beyond the individual life.
The death of Anahide Ter Minassian–in whom the historian, the person of action, and the tender nurturer cohabited a common psychological space–on February 11 is one such event. It spans the decades of Armenian life after the genocide, and with her passing, an entire period in the diaspora of Europe comes to an end, a period anchored in Paris and sustained by the work–material and cultural– of the refugees, exiles, displaced persons, all remnants of the genocide: the Missakians, the Ter Minassians, the Samuelians, and less directly the Aznavourians; the factory workers, the skilled laborers, the seamstresses, among others.
Almost all were survivors of some kind, refugees, displaced persons, exiles carrying the horrors of the genocide and the indignities of resettlement, people who tried to rebuild their lives and their communities–clubs, newspapers, bookstores, theater groups and choirs.
The grief for her passing is also a collective mourning for the end of that era and its substantial achievements. Anahide Ter Minassian was one of the most vocal and original figures of that generation, and the one with the most energetic life. Till the very end, her heart and mind were generous, her laughter sharp and voluminous, and her spirit buoyant and utterly free of sentimentality.
Anahide belonged to another age, and it is that age over whose eclipse we weep now.~