My School… 

The Karen Jeppe Jemaran in Aleppo in ruins
A bus belonging to the Sahagian elementary school in Aleppo
Another view of the Jemaran


They burned our homes, churches, hospitals and schools…

Words I have heard for most of my life from my grandparents, their friends, the survivors I had interviewed, read about them in history books, memoires and seen plenty of black and white photographs. I have heard many first hand accounts how people were killed and how they were orphaned, my grandparents among them. Stories of starvation, hunger, desperations and most of all miraculous tales of survival and revival were the stories in place of our children’s books, which we did not have to start with. But all that referred to a century ago, it related to my grandmothers and grandfathers who had lost their parents, homes, schools and everything else in historical Armenia and had started a new life in Aleppo out of Der El-Zor Syrian desert sands.

A century later a new war in Syria unfolded hurriedly from small uprisings to a civil war to an international conflict with no end in sight, 2011 and five years on and still counting, witnessing the demolition of our homes, hospitals, schools and cities in Syria this time. Our fellow countrymen who hosted my grandparents a century ago have themselves now become stateless, orphans, refugees and flotsam corpses washing up on the beaches stretched between Greece and Turkey on their way to sometimes welcoming and at times hostile countries, lives caught between barbwires and misleading open roads running into swiftly erected borders of a free Europe.

How ironic it was when on a recent trip to Toronto I, a grandson of Armenian refuges who found shelter and home in Syria, was humbled by helping a group of thirty Syrians emigrating to Canada after three years of living in hell of a tent camp in Jordan as refugees. When we finally landed in Toronto’s Airport, the most elderly thanked me countless times and wished to invite to his home but regrettably he did not know where his Canadian home would be. We parted after hugging each and every one of them and when shaking hands for the last time with the elderly he said “You are Armenian you understand us better than anyone else, we have become the you of our times”. I wanted to say something but could not gather any words in any of the languages I know, my senses were spread on many thoughts imagining my grandparents left alone as orphaned children in the Syrian wasteland while being with survivors of the Syrian war in an airport.

The mindless conflict in Syria moved from the rural areas into the cities and eventually Aleppo, I knew this first hand when old classmates called to inform me that my home, my neighborhood, my childhood streets were bombed and totally destroyed. There was no “home” to go back to they said, it will from now on exist only in my memory, “You are lucky you visited just before the sheer human madness” the voice said over the mobile phone. “We will tell our grand children about all that was and all that’s being gone like our grandparents told us about what they lost and how they survived and built a new life somewhere on earth near and far.”

Men with insurmountable egos, megalomaniacs leveling down their appetite to control, dominate, expand and be the winning gods of wealth negotiate the turfs and come to an agreement costing millions of humans to become homeless refugees, countless of lives annihilated, homes, neighborhoods and cities of hundreds of years turn into dust and debris. What good serves the pride of sending a fire engine, an ambulance, a police squad and reporters to rescue one or two from a misfortune as a show of valuing human life when with single bomb dumped from a machine worth millions of taxpayers money can kill hundreds in a second and wipe out a neighborhood, cities and schools? Why do we have schools if we were to lean and behave otherwise?

The school I went to was not the learning institution that I loved, but it was the place where I learned what to like and dislike. There, I learned that I was not made to like grammar, enjoy a lesson in chemistry, physics, math and logarithm were not my cup of tea although I enjoyed sipping it. There I learned that what I loved were not found in the curriculum, art, theatre, cinema and literature were not in our textbooks. Further I did not like the establishment where patriotism, pride and elitism we were fed spoon after spoon as means of preserving our refuged Armenian heritage in that tiny oasis of ours in mighty Syria that self entitled as the champion of Arabism.

As the Syrian conflict escalates, Aleppo is being crushed by the aerial bombs of the world powers that kill people on the ground who seem to be tiny flies from the sky and remembering the tiny fly who had entered my grandmother’s leaving room and gave her a run when she could not bring herself to killing it, and stayed outside until I arrived home from school which she helped me attend with her saved pennies hoping that one day I would become a learned man.

I had no attachments to the prison—my school—that locked my free spirit and splendid imagination and propelled my mind’s eye beyond the limestone walls, yet the few recent images of my bombed school planted seeds of anger in me, and precipitously discovering a deeply set affection to the institute I ran away as many times as possible.

The road on which we walked to be edified is now desolate and in ruins. The gate through which thousands passed to learn and hundreds to teach over many years now stand as verification of man’s assault upon himself. Schools were meant to teach us and advance our humanity, but evidently learning can soar us to the outer space and hear the sounds of converging black holes or with the sounds of bombs plummet into our dark inner depths and wipe ourselves out clearly manifested in fully colored photographs that were black and white a century ago.

They have bombed our school…
Nigol Bezjian is an award-winning documentarian and filmmaker living in Beirut.

Source: Asbarez
Link: My School… 

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