Panian Karnig, Goodbye, Antoura. A Memoir of the Armenian Genocide, 2015

Armenian dialects, so at first it was difficult to pinpoint exactly how much we knew and how much we needed to learn.

They gave each of us an Armenian primer, which we were supposed to read in our free time. We stared at the letters and the pictures, understanding very little. I remembered my similar book when I’d gone to school in Gurin. My mother had brought that primer with us all the way to Hama, hoping I’d resume my interrupted education. God knows what happened to that book. But now I had a new one, and although I still didn’t recognize the letters, they felt relatively familiar to me.

It took us only a few months to begin reading entire words. We were young, and our minds were receptive to lessons that we cared about.

They also started teaching us Armenian hymns, poems, and songs, which we sang in our classes, during recesses, and even to ourselves in our dormitories. We could now recite the Hayr Mer and poems such as Azad Asdvadz correctly, and we could sing the Armenian national anthem, as well as hymns like Aravod Louso.

In history class, we learned the story of Hayg killing Pel, the creation myth of the Armenian nation. We learned that Armenia had once been a powerful nation, and that it would rise up once again from the ashes.

Before our meals, we recited the Hayr Mer and crossed ourselves. Only then did we eat. The bowls and the plates were always full. A mound of bread rose from each table. We no longer rushed to eat, no longer grabbed food out of each other’s grasp.

On New Year’s Eve, the staff organized a celebration.There were delicacies, songs, a beautiful dance performed by one of the teachers, and even a visit from Santa Claus. He gave us all stockings full of confections, raisins, walnuts, almonds, and dried fruit.There was no limit to the orphans’ joy. We remembered how back home, on New Year’s Day, we would go from home to home, gathering gifts. Those old, happy days seemed to be coming back.

One day, several trucks stopped right outside the gate, and troops poured out of them. These were all Armenian soldiers* and they ran into

*These were soldiers of the Armenian Legion, a unit of Armenian soldiers armed and trained by the French military.

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the courtyard, embracing the orphans and lifting them into the air. They acted as if they had found their own long-lost sons. They were dressed in impeccably clean uniforms and boots and wore long, pointy hats. A few had medals on their chests, and some even had one, two, or three yellow stripes sewn on the arms of their uniforms, depending on their rank. They were young and healthy, and their presence was a cause for celebration in the orphanage. They couldn’t be any more different from the Turkish troops they had replaced.

Soldiers visited us on a weekly basis. One Sunday, more than five hundred of them came! And they came just to see us, the orphans of their crucified nation.They stayed all day, and at noon they ate with us in the mess hall. It was an intriguing experience for the boys, breaking bread with these Armenian troops in gleaming uniforms and medals.

After lunch, some soldiers gave speeches. They said we would all go to Cilicia and rebuild Armenia. There was no end to the cheers and the applause.

Some of the teachers and staff members gave speeches, too. The whole day was spent in high spirits, amid speeches, songs, and good wishes. At night, the soldiers kissed us, promised to meet us again in Cilicia, and left us in a dreamy, euphoric state.

For days after the troops’ departure, the boys didn’t speak of anything else. Everyone talked of Cilicia, of the new Armenia, and of finding the soldiers once we got there.

The happiest among the boys, of course, were those who were natives of Cilicia—those who had been deported from cities and towns like Adana, Hajin, Zeytun, Marash, and Aintab. These boys knew that they would return to their old homelands.

One Saturday, the chapel was finally opened. Some of the staff members washed and cleaned the interior, and with the help of some local villagers they raised the statue and put it back on its plinth. Fortunately, the altar and stained glass windows were intact.

That Sunday, all the orphans, regardless of age, were led to the chapel. Near the altar, some of the teachers, alongside some of the teenage orphans,

had formed a choir and sang otherworldly hymns. We listened in reverence, occasionally crossing ourselves. The choir reminded me of the church we used to attend in Gurin, bringing tears to my eyes.

Winter came, and we spent it mostly studying. We learned how to read, how to write, how to add and subtract. We learned Armenian history, which was probably our favorite class, mostly because we learned about the heroic deeds of brave kings and queens, stories that excited our imagination and filled us with an awareness of what Armenia had been and could once again become.

We were proud of our accomplishments, achieved in such a short time. By spring, the older boys were already learning poetry. It was a miraculous transformation—we were becoming educated young men.

The school year concluded with a large celebration in the chapel. Our teachers gave passionate speeches, promising us again that we would soon all be back in Armenia. The older boys recited poetry and sang patriotic songs. Afterward, when we poured out into the courtyard, the celebrations continued. An almost hysterical intoxication had overwhelmed the orphans.

“We’re going back home! We’re going back to Armenia!” we shouted. “I’ll go straight back to Adana!” exclaimed Yusuf.

“We’ll be going back to Sepastia!” said the three brothers Hovhannes, Boghos, and Kalust.

“We’ll be returning to Sis!” proclaimed Nishan and Kevork.

“I’ll soon be in Gurin!” I thought. I wondered whether I would find Krikor there.

We orphans were remnants of a vast nation. We constituted the new generation of Armenians. We didn’t know what had happened to our families­. Most of our homes probably had been razed to the ground or taken over by Turks or Kurds.

Many of my family members had died in the concentration camp. What had happened to the rest? Where were they now? I wondered, too, about my fate and my old home. Would I ever get back to Gurin? Would our house still be standing? Would the door be open or locked?

I forced myself out of these daydreams. My friends were playing nearby. I joined their games, but my mind kept drifting back into the past and forward into the future. Would I really be back home soon, in the bosom of what remained of my family?

That evening’s dinner was sumptuous. We were served delicious rice pudding and warm loaves of bread. For the first time in years, I couldn’t finish a meal.

After dinner, we were taken into the gymnasium. It was our first time in this hall. Although covered, it was well-illuminated, with windows that opened to the west. Abu Nasif climbed onto the stage, alongside a teacher named Mr. Melkon. Abu Nasif spoke in a fatherly tone, the Arabic words flowing from his mouth, while Mr. Melkon translated for the orphans. “Boys, in two weeks you will leave the orphanage and will make your way to Cilicia. You will not be alone. We will accompany you along the way, and when we finally get there, your life as orphans will come to an end. You now have your own government, which will take care of you. You will go to school, and when you’re done you will go to university to study. You will become doctors, chemists, and engineers. Some of you may even become veterinarians!”

After his speech, Abu Nasif closed his eyes and said a short prayer, asking God to watch over us orphans and protect us from evil.

The orphans exchanged awed glances as they left the gymnasium. We had been in an orphanage that didn’t even have a doctor on its staff. Many had died simply because there had been no medical help, no medicine, no adequate nurses. And now we learned that there were future doctors in our ranks!

“Abu Nasif said we’d become doctors, engineers, and veterinarians, but he said nothing about us becoming soldiers! We’ll be soldiers, too, even generals!” said Nishan. Many of the boys agreed with him. For years, they had nurtured a deadly hatred of the Turks, and they thought the best way to exact revenge was to become soldiers and fight the enemy on the battlefield.

“Once we get to Cilicia, we won’t leave a single Turk alive!” added

Murad. Others, too, thundered and stormed against the Turks, listing all the things they’d do if they caught a Turk alive back home.

Two weeks passed like two years. Every morning, the boys woke up with new dreams. There was an extraordinary desire to get to Cilicia as quickly as possible.

One morning, some local priests came to the orphanage. They held a meeting with Abu Nasif and then went all around the institution, examining various rooms, and praying in the chapel. When they left the chapel, their eyes immediately went to the roof, where the statues of saints had once stood. The priests spoke in hushed tones and shook their heads in dismay. When we left, these priests would turn the orphanage back into a monastery.

Finally, the day of departure came. The orphans lined up quietly and were led down into the courtyard by the teachers. Almost four years earlier we had entered through those gates, and since then we had been prisoners. For four years we had suffered from beatings and hunger. A few hundred of us had died.

Now we left through those same gates. We mounted trucks, and within minutes, without any unnecessary farewells, we were moving, leaving the orphanage behind. After a few bends in the road, Antoura was no longer visible. We cursed the place under our breath.

On the way, each truckload of boys was given some bread, which we shared equitably and ate happily. The locals had come outside, greeting us, waving to us, and wishing us the best. Some of the older men appeared with baskets of apples, which they distributed to the boys. These were the same villagers whose gardens we had robbed mercilessly, but these kind people had forgiven us. Old women lined the way, crossing themselves and blessing us with tears in their eyes.

We came to the village of Zouk. It seemed like its entire population had poured out into the streets to see our passage.They gave us apples and pears and wished us a safe trip.

The winding road led us down to the coast. More people waved and wished us well from the side of the road. I was moved by the kindness of

the locals, who themselves were Christians and had suffered under the rule of the Turks.

Finally, we spotted the sea—the endless, blue sea. We had reached Beirut, from where we would depart for Cilicia.

Goodbye Antoura! We were headed back home! Back to our towns and our families!

Karnig Panian with his family, (left to right) daughter Chaghik, Karnig, wife Araxie, daughter Houry, 1954.

Karnig Panian (standing second from left) with teacher Karnig Guzelian (seated in center) and the first students admitted to the newly opened Hamazkayin Djemaran (High School) in Beirut, early 1930s.

Karnig Panian (second row, seated fourth from right) with colleagues and students of the Hamazkayin Djemaran (High School) in Beirut, 1951. Levon Shant, principal of the school and founder of the Hamazkayin Educational and Cultural Society, is at the center of the group (standing ninth from the left).

(Left to right) Karnig Panian, with leading Armenian public figures Garo Sassouni, Simon Vratsian (prime minister of Armenia during the First Republic), and Vahan Papazian, late 1950s.