Agos, October 18th, 1996

Our elders used to tell me that my grandfather was an avid reader. He used to devour everything he set his eyes on. In moments he could get away from the summer sun, he would sit at his straw stool in the shadow of the grapevine by the wall in the courtyard and begin, one-by-one, to turn the pages of his books. Reading the pages stuck to one another because of the humidity in the air, turning them over one-by-one with a thumb he had licked with his tongue, he would be disturbed by the noise of his grandchildren playing around him, and vent his spleen on the sandflies, swatting them with the dust jackets of the books.

When he could not stand the whining babies any more, calling out “Take these floorwalkers in,” to my grandmother inside, one would know that he was very angry with something he had read.

The roach of the tobacco roll-up he was never seen without would seem to stick to the tip of his lower lip. He always used to scorch his lip.

He could read in Armenian, my grandfather, and in English too.

His father was the same.

And they say that when my grandfathers, sandflies flying around their heads, devoured books on the straw stool in the shadow by the wall-side, we had more than 4 thousand schools across all Anatolia.

The report on Egin in last week’s Agos was the most vivid example of the recent past history of Anatolia. The traces of the culture left in all quarters by Armenians who lived almost everywhere across Anatolia cannot be erased despite all the efforts still senselessly perpetuated even today; and these traces continue to shine brightly even though they may remain between the lines. What did our forefathers who were driven out from the land they lived on leave behind, and what did they take with them? An inventory could not be kept, and perhaps never will be.

Again, the elders used to tell the stories…

After they had been told, “Off now, you are leaving this place,” whilst bundling up as much as they could carry, they did perhaps bury vats of gold in the ground, but they shouldered as many books as they could.

And took them as far as they could take.

“My son,” the elders used to tell me, “Our grandfathers left the gold, but they took the books.”

Young friends from Mıhitaryan have created a sweet new tradition in the last few years. They are organizing a book fair at the association. How many writers do we have anyway? Their number probably does not exceed the fingers on two hands.

But those few people disregard their age, shoulder their books and run to be at the fair. They spread their books out on the tables. They are not bothered either by book sales or the few pennies they will get for them.

Shouldering those books and spreading them out on the table. Sitting and observing book lovers who come to visit. Every now and then, signing their books for them. And then bundling them back up, and then shouldering them again…

I salute… “my grandfathers who abandoned vats of gold and shouldered their books.”

I salute… those who brought those books to the present day without leaving them behind.

And I salute… the ones of the future.