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Memoirs


ara baliozian

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READERS

************************

As long as I have only one reader

and even if that reader insults and curses me,

I will continue to write.

It has happened more than once that

after insulting me for years

some readers have apologized.

If one brainwashed dupe can be deprogrammed

two may follow.

To those who accuse me of entertaining messianic ambitions,

I say: A messiah promises a kingdom in heaven.

I promise nothing but the recovery

of one’s powers of independent thought.

A messiah speaks of Truth with a capital t.

I speak only of common sense in lower case.

As for those eager to dismiss my sentiments as unpatriotic,

I say: Patriotism also consists in being loyal

to a set of principles that recognize

no tribal or national or cultural barriers.

A patriotism that is based on propaganda and lies

is bound to collapse in a confrontation with,

if not the enemy than, with reality.

*

WHAT IS DEMOCRACY?

****************************

Democracy could also be defined as

ceaseless resistance to fascism.

Because fascism, in addition to being a constant temptation,

is also easy. What’s hard is recognizing its signs and symptoms,

such as: censorship in the name

of some noble-sounding abstraction;

ascribing one’s failures on foreign powers (xenophobia);

exaggerating one’s tribal or national uniqueness

or superiority by re-writing history.

*

MEMOIRS

********************

The ghetto in Athens were I was born and raised

has been torn down and paved over.

The school in Venice where I was educated

has been converted to a hotel.

Even so, they continue to live in my memory and dreams.

Canada, where I have spent most of my life,

has so far failed to enter my dream world.

From my days in Venice

I remember Garo Basmajian,

a pale sickly boy of fifteen from Marseilles

who knew the PETIT LAROUSSE by heart

and could identify a Rossini overture

as surely as a Mozart symphony

and a Beethoven sonata.

What happened to him?

I have made several attempts to reestablish contact

without any results.

I remember Padre Elia Pechikian, (Elia the Good),

a Mekhitarist monk and headmaster of the Moorat-Raphael

who loved to reminisce about his childhood

in a tiny village in some forgotten corner of the Ottoman Empire.

"When I asked my dad about the size of the moon,"

he once said, "he replied: ‘Same as our backyard.’

The poor fellow – he was just an uneducated farmer."

I remember Padre Elia (the Bad)

another Mekhitarist headmaster and a notorious sadist

who believed and practiced corporal punishment.

He ended his career by defrocking himself and

running away to Argentina with a young mistress from Beirut.

*

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