‘Such a wonderful people’
‘Such a wonderful people’ –
This is a tanslation of a short story by Lebanese-Armenian writer Philip Zakarian, extracted from his book “The Orphan Built A Home”, Volume A (Antelias, 1985).
After The Genocide, Armenian refugees in Lebanon had to start from scratch, and several international organizations assisted, including the League of Nations’ High Commissioner for Refugees, the International Committee of the Red Cross, the Near East Relief, as well as the Lebanese government. The AGBU and other Armenian organizations were active in gathering funds to finance the building of residential areas, and the transfer of the refugees to more permanent structures. They also assisted in the construction of schools, and churches, and gave the refugees food, clothes, and medical care in the camps.
From 1922 to 1924, four Armenian refugee camps existed in Beirut, after which all the residents were transferred to the Greater Beirut camp. Here the Armenians regrouped in quarters “according to their geographical origin”-Adanatzis in the Adana quarter, Marashtzis in the Marash quarter, etc.
In 1930, a special Office for the League of Nations Office for Refugees (the Nansen Office) focused its efforts in a swampy and marshy area northeast of Beirut called Bourj Hammoud. The aim was to build an Armenian city of 20,000 with its own municipality, and transfer the Armenians from the Beirut camps. A new electoral district next to Beirut would be created where the Armenians would be the majority. The Armenians were allowed to build wooden shacks which were followed by concrete buildings that exist until today. Still in their geographical quarters, they created compatriotic associations.
* * *
It was a quiet June evening at our shed, and me and my two classmates were preparing our studies for the next day. Suddenly, there was a turmoil in our camp. The old and the young, men and women, were running around the camp roads, all following the same direction. Many held water cans and buckets. A panicky haste was evident all over.
Worried, we went downstairs.
“What’s wrong? Where are you heading?” we asked those running in a hurry.
“The camp is on fire!” they replied, “The big camp!”
We also started running. The roads were full of people. All the inhabitants of the neighboring camps, young and old, were also running. There was a strange pant to reach the destination. The tins were hitting against each other, heels confronting with obstacles, stumbling, rising again and running. Old women were leaping some steps, stopping, taking a breath or two and continuing once again. There were also people holding water-full tin buckets. That short road seemed extended and endless… Far ahead, the sky was covered by the exhaust and a thick cloud was stifling over the streets nearby. The smell of burning tatters and wood filled the space. The nearer they approached towards the big camp, the faster they ran. The smoke was becoming thicker and thicker and we started hearing the crackling sound of fire.
We stopped as we reached the spacious field confronting the big camp. Thousands of people were standing there, watching the fire burn. Hundreds of houses had already burnt, and minutes after another, tens of sheds started catching fire. In an instance, the dried-out woods of the sheds started burning fiercely and tongues of fire were rising and immediately falling back from the sky. The wind took pieces of burning tatters with it, whirling around haphazardly; starting out newer flames over different streets. The hundreds of houses inside the camp, spread over the two sides of the railway station, were destined to being burnt. The flames, astonishingly rapid, were progressing in all directions. Barrels full of oil were flaring, expanding and bursting; and a fiery rain was soaring all over the neighboring houses. The wind was halting the progress of the firemen.
There was no place to move inside the field. It was full of an uncountable mass of people, of diverse origins, who were interested to witness the incident.
The inhabitants of the big camp, stood next to the piles of belongings that they could save and were watching the burning fire, with passive expressions on their faces. As if their houses were not burning…as if they were just some spectators…None of them was crying, none was cursing and none dropping to their knees. Reconciled with fate, they were still laughing.
The local inhabitants were occasionally drifting their eyes away from the fire and were watching, with astonishment, the men and women who stood by their household items. Tomorrow, they shall become homeless and shelter less, and shall start a new campaign – to build a new life from absolutely nothing. How could they watch the destruction of their houses, with such bravery and silence!
The crackling sound of fire was heard all over. Yet, people were as if experiencing some mystic feelings and were speaking with each other. “The Turks”, said the man standing beside me to his friend, “have made this people so invulnerable. These people are neither afraid of sufferings nor of death, and when someone is not afraid of suffering, he does not kneel over. You shall see, these people will build newer and more beautiful houses tomorrow”.
The flames eased gradually.
Inside that vast field, there stood not one cabin, except those around the electricity company. There, the firemen had done their job more courageously.
The view after the fire was more shocking than the destruction the fire caused. The inhabitants of the big camp were watching the pieces of awry black tin plates that covered all over the field.
The foreigners started departing in slow paces, one after the other. Among them ministers, some senior government officials, the governor’s representative, consuls and many reporters.
No single Armenian departed from the field. When the Armenians were left alone, they watched each other in silence, gradually approached towards one another, grasped each other’s hands and all the inhabitants of the big camp were welcomed inside the houses of the other camps and inside the Armenian homes of the city.
A few hours later, there was a complete desolation in the field. Only the half-burnt woods were still igniting.
The big camp was dead.
The following morning, the Armenians, with infinite satisfaction, read the editorial of the most renowned French magazine, the “L’orient” that started as such:
“Such a wonderful people!”
Philip Zakarian