Aksel Bakunts

[Nané]

Wow. This is wonderful. And she's in Armenia

[Arpa]

YEA!!

NAIRI IS BACK!!!

:clap:

Drum roll or two

Տարոսը մեր բոլոր այլ մտաւորականներին:

Welcome back. How was your sojourn in Yerevan? You may wish to initiate a separate thread about it.

Also see this by Eddie

http://hyeforum.com/index.php?showtopic=25916&pid=268530&st=0entry268530

Edited March 19, 2010 by Arpa

[nairi]

Hm, seems like Eddie is not too happy with my flawful translation.

 

Anyway, hi Arpa!! How've you been? Loving every bit of Armenia so far, despite the water cuts, the blackouts, and the cockroaches. I'm still in my honeymoon phase, I suppose.. Hope I stay there for a long time to come.

[Louise Kiffer]

Yes, I am now pretty sure that she is our own friend Nairi. The book is widely advertised by bookstores, even Amazon.

Look;

http://www.azad-hye.net/news/viewnews.asp?newsId=471aafd26

Is this why we have not seen her since Aug. 2009??

------------------------------------------------

The book "short stories " from Aksel Bagounts has been translated in French by M. Besnilian, published by Editor "Parentheses" in Marseille 1990.

[Arpa]

Hm, seems like Eddie is not too happy with my flawful translation.

 

Anyway, hi Arpa!! How've you been? Loving every bit of Armenia so far, despite the water cuts, the blackouts, and the cockroaches. I'm still in my honeymoon phase, I suppose.. Hope I stay there for a long time to come.

Do you mean "cockroaches" like in "communist comissars"?

Dear Nairi, good to see you again. We miss your highly balanced intellectual, thoughtful and thought provoking posts.

One of the above says you are in Yerevan, and you confirm it.

Please tell us. Are you there on business or pleasure? How long have you been there?

The last time we saw here was Aug. 2009. How long will you stay there, or is it permanent?

Have you seen the so called “archives” of the “dark” soviet era?

Have you learned more about the lives and fate of the likes of Bakunts, Charents,Mahari and Sevak?

Do they allow one to delve into those so called archives of the dark days*?

*Is the “valley of archives” in Yerevan even darker than Mtnadzor-Dark Valley?

Idoubt if there are any left alive to remember Bakunts' fate, but there must be some who remember about Sevak's so called "auto accident". I saw where that "accident" had happened. Of all the hills and valleyes, twisting roads itc was the most ezxpansively open and flat segment of the road.Why were Bakunts and Sevak murdered? What had they said? Was Charents murdered because of his poem Patkam?

Edited March 22, 2010 by Arpa

[nairi]

------------------------------------------------

The book "short stories " from Aksel Bagounts has been translated in French by M. Besnilian, published by Editor "Parentheses" in Marseille 1990.

 

Yes, I'm aware of that one. I was missing an English version, hence...

[nairi]

Do you mean "cockroaches" like in "communist comissars"?

 

I've been trying to avoid those, though having to deal with the people at OVIR comes very close, it seems.

 

Dear Nairi, good to see you again. We miss your highly balanced intellectual, thoughtful and thought provoking posts.

 

I'm flattered, as always, but no need to exaggerate.

 

One of the above says you are in Yerevan, and you confirm it.

Please tell us. Are you there on business or pleasure? How long have you been there?

The last time we saw here was Aug. 2009. How long will you stay there, or is it permanent?

Have you seen the so called “archives” of the “dark” soviet era?

Have you learned more about the lives and fate of the likes of Bakunts, Charents,Mahari and Sevak?

Do they allow one to delve into those so called archives of the dark days*?

*Is the “valley of archives” in Yerevan even darker than Mtnadzor-Dark Valley?

Idoubt if there are any left alive to remember Bakunts' fate, but there must be some who remember about Sevak's so called "auto accident". I saw where that "accident" had happened. Of all the hills and valleyes, twisting roads itc was the most ezxpansively open and flat segment of the road.Why were Bakunts and Sevak murdered? What had they said? Was Charents murdered because of his poem Patkam?

 

I'm here on business and pleasure. I've been here for almost five months now and I'm not planning on uprooting myself until I get in trouble with the authorities or someone wants to kick me out.

 

Am trying to stay out of trouble for now, so, no, I haven't been digging my nose into our classified archives yet, but I thought the fate of Bakunts was pretty much known: he was arrested on grounds of nationalism (I think his story "Ծիրանի Փողը" was used as evidence) and executed by firing squad days after his sentence. Pretty morbid, considering he wrote about a young man being executed in a similar fashion in his short story "Վանդունց Բադի." Or maybe you're asking for details, like court transcripts and such.

 

I actually went to Charents's house-museum just recently. The story one of the museum guides told was the same we've all heard: he was sentenced to Siberia and executed.

 

I also went to Abovian's house-museum (in Kanaker) a few weeks ago. The same story we already know was told there, too; that no one really knows what happened to him. But anyway, that was before the Stalinist era and might have had more to do with our church, which is now gradually colonizing Yerevan, than mental instability (which is another argument that is often used).

Edited March 22, 2010 by nairi

[Arpa]

I've been trying to avoid those, though having to deal with the people at OVIR comes very close, it seems.

===

he was arrested on grounds of nationalism (I think his story "Ծիրանի Փողը" was used as evidence) and executed by firing squad days after his sentence. Pretty morbid, considering he wrote about a young man being executed in a similar fashion in his short story "Վանդունց Բադի." Or maybe you're asking for details, like court transcripts and such.

=====

I actually went to Charents's house-museum just recently. The story one of the museum guides told was the same we've all heard: he was sentenced to Siberia and executed.

====

than mental instability (which is another argument that is often used).

Yes we know, anyone who challenged the system was judged mentally unstable, just like Charents was condemned and jailed at the "criminally insane asylum", even if with some justification, as he at times went into alcoholic oblivion.

-----

Please elaborate how his Ծիրանի Փող used.

I can see where he ever so subtly, speaking to the little girl Azno mocks the Red Army, anti-theism, heaven etc.

– Կարմիր Բանակ լսե՞լ ես։

– Կարմիր Բանակ շուր է, քցեր են դրոշակի վրա։

– Ազնո, աստված կա՞։

– Հաբա, Աստված կանաչ ճնճղուկ է։

– Հապա երկի՞նքը։

– Երկինքը զինջիլով[6] կապուկ է եզան կոտոշին։

– Ազնո, որ մեծանաս ի՞նչ ես դառնալու։

– Կեղնիմ օրիորդ[/quote

And here he invokes Lenin.;

Ախ ու փախ, գիշեր ցերեկ չփլախ[8], սոված ռութ[9]։ Լենինի լույս մեզ ազատության տվեց։ Մենակ մըր սահման նեղ է, շնորհիվ սահմանի նեղության, ժողովուրդ կնեղվի։ Մըր հողերի սահման ղըռ քար է։**

**Alluding to ceding territory and reducing Armenia to a virtual "heap of rock"?

[nairi]

Please elaborate how his Ծիրանի Փող used.

 

I'm not sure how it was used exactly, but here's a rough analysis.

 

First of all, the story is about two Ottoman Armenian villages that were displaced during World War I and find themselves on the same plot of land in Armenia. Although some of the members of the older generation still struggle to put aside their differences, the youth no longer consider themselves as peoples from two separate villages.

 

So where does nationalism come in? The whole story is arguably about nationalism and nation-building. The two villages in the story do what Armenians in Armenia were doing all along: building a new homeland from scratch by people who had lost their hostlands and parts of their historical homeland elsewhere. Moreover, instead of depriving his characters of their traditional ethnic backgrounds, Bakunts shone the floodlights on them. The duduk, as you know, is characteristically seen as a symbol of Armenian musical culture. By calling his short story “Tsirani Poghe” (undoubtedly in reference to the duduk) and by making the pogh player the central character in his story, Bakunts pushes to the forefront the concept of nationalities, which the Soviet Union was initially built on, and implicitly rejects the new Soviet order which dismissed it. The story also ends on a hopeful note: the new inhabitants of Armenia may have lost their homes elsewhere, but there is a bright future for them and their culture in this new land.

 

Both the themes of nationalism and nation-building would have provoked especially those who had an internationalist view of communism and the Soviet Union. I think Bakunts believed in the most ideal, if you will, form of communism, but he seems to have disagreed with the way the Soviets executed it. One example of Bakunts's almost utopian communist society is in "Ayu Sari Lanjin," but there are issues there as well, because although Peti seems to be a happy cowherd, his living standard is below the bare minimum.

Edited March 23, 2010 by nairi

[Arpa]

Nairi, how about give us a taste of your opus, not the whole thing but a teaser, your favorite passage.

Nairi;-I'm not sure how it was used exactly, but here's a rough analysis.

---

First of all, the story is about two Ottoman Armenian villages that were displaced during World War I and find themselves on the same plot of land in Armenia. Although some of the members of the older generation still struggle to put aside their differences, the youth no longer consider themselves as peoples from two separate villages.

Yes, I could see that the senior characters were expatriates from the lush orchards of Van, Mush and Sassun that “lenin papik” bartered away, were trying to eke a sustenance at the barren rocks and inaccessible slopes of Siunik all the while playing lamentatious nostalgic tunes on their “duduks”.

====

Nairi;-Both the themes of nationalism and nation-building would have provoked especially those who had an internationalist view of communism and the Soviet Union. I think Bakunts believed in the most ideal, if you will, form of communism, but he seems to have disagreed with the way the Soviets executed it.

He may have been alluding to the “punjunis’s , the likes of Shahumian* who was preaching communism in Baku. When did baku become part of Armenia? He met his demise in that very hellhole.

* We need new and improved Otians to ridicule the likes of (comissar) Shahumian “punjunis”, a Lenin clone, (see below). What business did he have in baku? Did he speak russky, gruzindky. turksky/azersky, or Aramazt forbid armiansky**? My wish is that the name “shahumian” be permanently removed from our national “pantheon”,. Fortunately the British did the dirty job for us.. How does the fact that his surname ended in “ian” make him any better Armenian than Johann “sebastIAN” Bach or “guderIAN“?

**It is not unlike the present when we are teaching the furks how to be behave "democratically" instead of MINDING our own business.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stepan_Shahumyan

Edited March 24, 2010 by Arpa

[nairi]

Nairi, how about give us a taste of your opus, not the whole thing but a teaser, your favorite passage.

 

I'll think of a passage in a few days.

 

He may have been alluding to the “punjunis’s , the likes of Shahumian* who was preaching communism in Baku.

 

**It is not unlike the present when we are teaching the furks how to be behave "democratically" instead of MINDING our own business.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stepan_Shahumyan

 

He's a very good-looking man, though... (Sorry, my corrupted mind got the better of me again.)

[Arpa]

===

He's a very good-looking man, though... (Sorry, my corrupted mind got the better of me again.)

Ah!! A woman's eye

I had never looked at it in that view. Now that you say it, yes, he is a good looking man. Too bad, he had to martyr himself for a bankrupt ideology.

[Arpa]

Please note Bakounts’ ARF life and the eventual disillusionment.

-----

By Eddie Arnavoudian

March 11, 2002

1

AKSEL BAKOONTZ'S `INHERITANCE'

Aksel Bakoontz (1899-1937), the most accomplished of the Soviet era

Armenian short story writers, made a huge impression on his

contemporaries. Some of the reasons can be gleaned from Tavit

Kasparian's introduction to 'Inheritance', a collection of Bakoontz's

unpublished political writings. Despite some questionable evaluations

Kasparian illuminates significant aspects of Bakoontz's life and work

and stimulates thought about the nature of the literary and aesthetic

conflicts of the early Soviet Armenian era.

Bakoontz was an archetypal representative of the late l9th and early

20th century Armenian national revival - a committed intellectual born

of the people and dedicated to the welfare of the people. From an

extremely poor family, the population of his home village Koris raised

the money to school him. In return, by 16, he commenced teaching and

writing as a conscious contribution to the project of national

enlightenment. Like many of his generation he joined the Armenian

Revolutionary Federation at a very young age and also enlisted as a

volunteer soldier.

Following the establishment of Bolshevik power in Armenia, Bakoontz's

transition from an ARF member to a social and literary activist in

Soviet Armenia was seamless and without major ideological turmoil. He

wasn't an ideologue and was not primarily concerned with the

realisation of any grand theoretical enterprise. For him the ARF was

fundamentally an organisational means for securing progressive change

in Armenia. Once it ceased to be effective Bakoontz saw no moral

reason to retain membership or to leave the country after the ARF's

prohibition.

Many of the writings collected here reflect on the movement away from

the ARF by Bakoontz and thousands of rank and file ARF activists.

Bakoontz explicitly rejects suggestions of a forced conversion. The

tone and style of his commentaries confirm explicit assertions that

his action was conscious and voluntary. He is also at pains to mark

himself off from ARF members who fled the country. He would remain to

serve the people in the new conditions that, from the material here

reproduced, he considered to be positive. So during the first years of

Soviet power Bakoontz headed the Armenian Relief society, worked

energetically as economist and agriculturist in remote mountainous

Armenian villages educating and enlightening, arbitrating in land

disputes and translating huge amounts of educational literature.

But Bakoontz's main ambition was to become a writer. So in 1924 he

moved to Yerevan where two years later he joined the Bolshevik

Party. Putting to use his immense knowledge of rural Armenia he

secured rapid literary recognition. But he was also immediately

embroiled in the bitter intellectual war that marked the revival of

Armenian life in the first years of Soviet power. From 1923 to the

great purges of 1937 that silenced more than a decade of creative

upsurge two literary trends had crystallised in Armenian cultural

life. Bakoontz was part of the grouping initially named 'November'

that included Yeghishe Charents, Mkrtich Armen, and Gourgen

Mahari. Nairi Zarian (not to be confused with Gostan Zarian) headed

the opposition.

Nairi Zarian's grouping endured, but not primarily on account of its

literary talent. Sponsored by an increasingly powerful, centralist and

anti-democratic faction of the Soviet political elite, Nairi Zarian's

allies were mobilised to counter literary expressions of an emergent

Armenian centrifugal, independent socialist political formation.

Within the terms of a progressive socialist outlook the November

writers attempted to focus their internationalist concerns through a

reflection of the national history and the contemporary culture,

traditions and mores of the society in which they lived. They argued

that genuine, progressive art could be produced only through grasping

and grappling with life as it expressed itself in Armenia. As a part

of the enterprise Bakoontz urged Armenian, and non-Armenian writers in

the Soviet Union as a whole, to 're-evaluate their huge (national)

cultural inheritance' and 'use it to map out new highways'. The result

is a body of outstanding work - Mkrtich Armen's 'Heghnar's Fountain',

Gourgen Mahari's 'My Life', Charent's vast poetic output and of course

Bakoontz's masterly short stories.

Against this vital artistic ambition, the party apparatus demanded the

impossible: a literature that presented as authentic life the lifeless

ideological mirage constructed by central party hacks to legitimise

their usurpation of power. Creative and talented artists could not of

course undertake the task without surrendering their integrity. So the

lesser writers or those happy to exchange talent for status grouped

themselves round Zarian. Setting about the persecution of Bakoontz and

his allies they displayed ruthlessness, an absence of any moral

decency and a total lack of aesthetic judgement. Nairi Zarian

commented that Bakoontz's stories 'contain neither living characters

nor a sparkle of genuine life'. He went on to denounce Bakoontz's work

as 'poisonous nationalist and Trotskyist meddling in Soviet literary

life'. Equally gross was Vagharshag Norentz's claim that Bakoontz was

'the most provincial and limited author in our literature'. The

killing, imprisonment and exile of Charents and his allies was not of

course a direct result of such vicious and fraudulent polemic. But for

whatever reason, in becoming instruments of a party elite many writers

contributed to the isolation and to the tragic fate of talented

colleagues.

The destiny of the lesser writers was also not free of its own

burdens. Many, however loyal to the party, fell victim to its constant

twists and turn and ended up on the gallows or in camps. Others,

talented or just honest aspirants must have felt the terrible shame

and humiliation of betraying artistic integrity for status. Nairi

Zarian himself is a case in point. Any reading of his novels and plays

reveals a talent disastrously vitiated by adherence to the worst

aspects of the artistically fatal theory of 'socialist realism' - in

effect a call to tailor art to the demands of a bureaucratic and

privileged party elite. As Soviet political life underwent its

innumerable zigzags many of these writers managed to release

themselves from total subservience to an ossified ideology and went on

to play a more positive role. Norentz for example made what was surely

an immense contribution in editing and publishing volumes of Western

Armenian poets and novelists.

Kasparian's introduction ends with a stimulating discussion of

Bakoontz's artistic achievement. He notes the close bond between human

beings and nature that marks Bakoontz's brilliant short stories. Human

life here in the backward Armenian provinces appears as an almost

elemental component of the world of nature. It is as if human beings

here lived by instinct in a world unchanged for centuries, albeit

marked by periods of harmony and a brutal conflict with nature. Yet at

its vibrant core Bakoontz's stories reveal a sharp contrast between

men and women's harsh social and natural lives and their dreams,

expectations and hopes for a more generous and gentle existence.

2.

HOVNATAN MARCH - THE ENGER PANCHOONIE OF THE DIASPORA

There is a category of literary work that has particular cultural-

national significance. To be appreciated, they require an audience

sharing a common cultural/historical tradition. Translate them into

another language and they run the risk of falling as flat as the

proverbial medieval earth. But read in the context of their historical

and traditional roots they can be evocative and illuminating. Aksel

Bakoontz's 'Hovnatan March' is this order of work.

Written in 1927 this is definitely a book with a relevance for the

Armenian Diaspora today. A satirical work, it destroys with a powerful

comic punch and a sharp sarcastic jab the glittering reputations

enjoyed by millionaire Diaspora benefactors and their agents. By

donning the cloak of a generous patriotic benefactor a millionaire's

ego is flattered. But more importantly it enables him to secure

business advantage in the homeland. It also enables him to recruit

starry-eyed patriots who believing they are carrying out a hallowed

national duty but then unwittingly do the millionaire's bidding. These

common and well known types are dissected by Bakoontz with a

perceptive intelligence combined with the sharpest of literary

talents.

Behind glowing facades Bakoontz reveals people driven either by greed

for profit or by a ridiculously empty and parochial nationalism. In

their actions such people are indifferent to or fail to see the real

trials and tribulations of the homeland and its population. Hovnatan

March is an agent for Buenos Aires based millionaire Antreas Balikian

whose only genuine interest is the price of carpet and the state of

commercial markets. To grease the wheels of his business ambitions he

willingly lends his name, but not his money, to an adventure planned

by March. March is a leading light in a bizarre venture to secure a

plot of land in Armenia on which he hopes to build a 'New Ethiopia'

township incorporating all the most advanced features of American

industry and life.

March is your quintessential Diaspora activist: conceited, vain,

bombastic, presumptuous and a bit of a buffoon. He is also

ridiculously unreal. His conceptions of Armenia, of Armenians and of

patriotic duty are fashioned by a manufactured and mythical history of

an ancient Armenia marked by an exaggerated military heroism, cultural

achievement and national glory. Armed with a grandiose fantasy of the

past and a grandiose fantasy for the future, March manages to overlook

the actual, immediate needs of the mass of the people, needs which

take into account actual poverty, backwardness and misery.

Besides March, Bakoontz parades and ridicules a host of other

characters - cultural philistines, empty headed priests, discredited

soldiers and their likes. Those lampooned by him fall victim to a

remarkably inventive wit and sarcasm. Bakoontz has a talent for

conjuring a place, a mood, a character, a situation with a few strokes

of the pen. The dirty insect ridden hotel, the stinking heat blasted

streets, the dilapidated and abandoned ancient churches, the dry, arid

and stony country, the philistine literary circle, the backward rural

villages - each is etched in language so precise, fresh and vivid that

he essentially constructs it around you as you read him. The result is

an excellent contrast between the real and the bizarre, between

necessity and fantasy.

If Yervant Odian's Enger Panchooni is the Don Quichote of the Armenian

political world, then Hovnatan March is the Panchooni of the Armenian

Diaspora: possessed of amazingly grand plans which are expounded with

much zeal and bombast but which actually amount to 'much ado about

nothing'. Yet it is worth noting that while Panchooni has no redeeming

features, March does. He is not essentially evil, and unlike the

millionaire is not self seeking. Like hundreds if not thousands of

individuals in the Diaspora he feels his rootlessness and is searching

for some anchor and foundation for his life. The great merit of

Bakoontz's work is to demonstrate that this search cannot be

accomplished by adopting a false, romanticised patriotism so

widespread in the Diaspora.

Real patriotism which actually helps people requires rather more

humble and modest ventures and does not of course guarantee shiny

reputations and national fame. In this context one is reminded of

those who funded the construction of the massive and un-needed

multi-million dollar Cathedral in the centre of Yerevan while the

population as a whole lacks schools, medical care and other services

and - while rural churches, often of some cultural value are left to

rack and ruin.

Bakoontz's short stories have international significance and are a

valuable addition to world literature (a taste in English has been

offered by Rouben Rostamian's excellent translations). Hovnatan March

on the contrary has, I suspect, a more national, Armenian, significance.

But this does not detract from its value. It is a skilled

accomplishment and will be read, with profit and pleasure both in its

original or in translation.

Edited April 21, 2010 by Arpa

[Arpa]

A very short poem/ode “To A” by Charents that I suspect is addressed to Aksel Bakounts, see the opening “Mtnadzoroum/(in the)Dark Valley”.

---

Ա- ԻՆ

Մթնաձորում

Մութն է ծորում

Օճոռքից, _

Նա չի՞ արդեոք

Տալիս մորմոք

Քո երգին. _

Այնտեղ դեռ կան

Մռայլ խութեր ու հերկեր, _

Բայց այնտեղից, որ դուրս եկար_

Պայծառ երգեր դու կերգես:_

1927

Բառարան;

Ծորել= հոսիլ flow

Օճորք=Roof,s ceilings

Մորմոք= կսկիծ ցաւ anguish, agony

Մռայլ= fog, darkness

Խութ= խոչնդոտ, ապարաժ, ժայր,obstacle, hurdle, boulder, rock, protrusion as in rocky protrusion in a sea. Sometime also - խայթ

---

Let me se if I can translate it.

---

In (the) Dark Valley

Darkness flows

From roofs.

Is it perhaps

Causing agony

To your songs.?

Out there, there are still

Dark obstacles (rocks) and furrows.

But, once you came out of there**

You are singing clear shiny songs.

----

** Alluding to Aksel’s moving to “Sunshiny Valley-Yerevan”, as opposed to the “Dark Valleys” of Goris

[Arpa]

AH!!

Finally, after 6 months of wrangling I received my copy. A long and frustrating saga. I may get back to it at another time.

Hey Nairi! Is that hologram portrait on the cover background you or Aksel?

http://www.gomidas.org/TADERON_PRESS/Aksel%20Bakunts%20Further%20Information.htm

We will eventually get back with some vignettes. In the meantime see what she says in her Introduction and Acknowledgements. First and most lovingly she thanks her father, for not only piquing her appetite with his bedtime stories, just as his support in this endeavor. She also pays tribute to two others whom we know as on and off participants here, who helped understand and interpret words and expressions in other languages and regional dialects.

Too bad, we don't hear from the likes and Nairi as this forum has fast become a "tabouleh and shish kebab" forum.

Edited May 18, 2010 by Arpa

[nairi]

Oh no!

 

Okay, I give you free rein to post the best and worst passage...

[Arpa]

I had not seen this wonderful translation by our friend Nairi.

This is not part of her excellent masterpiece Mthadzor above.

------

http://hy.wikisource.org/wiki/%D4%BE%D5%AB%D6%80%D5%A1%D5%B6%D5%AB_%D6%83%D5%B8%D5%B2%D5%A8

 

http://groong.usc.edu/tlg/tlg-20110108.html

 

THE APRICOT FLUTE

By Aksel Bakunts

Translated by Nairi Hakhverdi

 

I am leafing through my travel notes and between the pages I find two

leaves of marjoram, dry and gray like extinguished ash. I lean over

the page and my nostrils flare at the scent of marjoram and I leaf the

journal tremblingly... Then I take the whip, which is tight as a

braid, off the wall. I stroke the whip and Tsolak looks at me with

sagacious eyes. It looks at me and reproaches me. Why did you flog me?

The whip turns into a black snake that lashed the smooth flank of the

horse.

I am leafing through my journal again and I feel a sense of serenity

drifting into my heart. Tsolak neighs cheerfully and flaps its ears.

We are continuously ascending, passing rocks and cliffs. The sweaty

horse digs its muzzle in the white froth of streams and sucks the icy

cold water through the metal bit of its bridle. The more we ascend,

the closer the sun is, and the sun burns face, clothes, and hands. The

streams are so cold, the air is crisp, and one can hear the soft

buzzing of dazzled bees in flowers.

Tsolak neighs and steps up its pace. The road widens. Here is a field

with a stone wall. The newly grown wheat rustles in the mountain

breeze. The village is close. The horse snorts through its nostrils

and vigorously bites its bridle.

Farther up the road, on the slope of the hill, someone is watering

dark green alfalfa. I listen to the way the heavy shovel clangs

against the sand in the stream. And whenever he raises his shovel, the

sun illuminates it and it looks as if there is a burning torch on the

waterer's shoulder.

Is this the road to Dzyanberd?'

The waterer neither lets out a `yes' nor a `no.' I repeat my

question. The man plants the shovel in the sand of the stream and

walks over to me. The closer he comes, the taller he looks. I look at

his bare chest: it looks as if his voice should boom mightily. The

waterer extends his broad and heavy hand toward me, says `bless you,'

and moves his hand to his forehead.

His voice is not at all mighty. On the contrary, it is light and

sweet. He is an old man: not only are his beard and eyebrows white,

but so is his chest hair, which reminds one of a tousled thicket.

I repeat my question.

`Yes,' he says, `it's our village... Turn over there...' and he takes

a tobacco pouch out of his pocket. I offer him a cigarette. He smiles,

as if to say that the thin cigarette is too fragile for him, but takes

it anyway and slides it behind his ear. Then he rolls a thick `smoke'

the size of his finger.

Is the alfalfa yours?'

He sucks on the smoke with relish and swells up his chest. His lungs

squeak like dry leather. As he lets out a stream of smoke through his

nostrils and mouth, he nods.

`A respectable chairman brought it last year. It's a sweet plant. Its

seed (wheat) is also ours,' and with his head he points to the rocky

mountain slope where tiny wheat fields give off a green color. I'm

having a hard time discerning his field, but I know that the waterer

can recognize even the red dots on his field from a distance.

`Our luck is tied to watering... Our fields are spread out. Ah,

instead of bread we ate a lot of blood. Now that we sow seeds, the

seeds grow, and we can live again.'

 

A sack with straws hangs from his shoulders. What does he need straw

for at this time of year? And why is the sack hanging from his

shoulders?

 

He tells me that he is the village waterer and that it is he who

distributes stream water to the small and dispersed strips of land at

night.

 

`What about the straw?'

 

The straw serves as a water meter. The waterer sprinkles the golden

straw on the stream to measure the speed of the current and the volume

of water.

 

`Muro-o! Mu-ro-o!' a shrill voice calls from above. `My water has run

out!'

 

`Okay, boy!'

 

The old man takes his shovel and runs up, probably to the water's dam.

 

And then Tsolak and I turn `over there,' descend into the dale, ascend

again, and see the mountain village appear on the plain, without any

trees, without any gardens, but enclosed in green meadows and open

streams whose waters flood at sunset, clamor in the deep valley at

night, and fall silent when the sun awakes - those streams that flow

down from the ice on the mountains.

* * *

We entered the courtyard with a white ox. The ox moved to the only

door, above which dirt was pasted and, on the dirt, a cross made of

painted eggshells. The ox went inside through the only door and we

followed it. We walked through the dark passageway. A door opened to

the left and the ox disappeared in the dark. Following the ox was my

exhausted horse, which longed for the clean air of the mountains, but

was unwillingly inhaling the pungent stench of the barn.

 

Then a door to the right of the passageway sang with the same tune

and, in the light, through the smoke, a girl with golden tresses

appeared: Azno, the daughter of my old acquaintance with whom my horse

and I were to stay the night.

 

Azno, Azniv...[1] When I now browse through my travel notes in my

journal, between whose pages I find dried flowers and marjoram leaves,

I take a long, long look at the wings of the field butterfly, whose

golden dust shines like that day when the butterfly sucked on the reed

flowers in the meadow. On the wing of the little butterfly I read

`Azno'... And I think that Azno goes to school now and no longer sings

with a high-pitched voice from the rooftops:

 

 

Like the moon from behind a cloud

You fetch water with a pair of jugs.

 

And no longer will she respond in the way that she did on that day

when we were sitting together on their high rooftop and the naïve girl

was answering my questions:

 

`Azno, have you ever seen a movie?'

 

`Sure I have. A cloth was hung on the wall and it showed a horse, a

girl, a miss, and a potato.'

 

`Have you heard of the Red Army?'

 

`The Red Army is a piece of cloth that has been put over the flag.'

 

`Azno, is there a god?'

 

`Of course. God is a green sparrow.'

 

`Then what about heaven?'

 

`Heaven is a chain tied around the horns of an ox.'

 

`Azno, what do you want to be when you grow up?'

 

`A teacher.'

 

Azno, Azniv...

 

Fire was rising from the deep fireplace, the air was wailing through

the chimney, and it seemed as if the ground was wailing under the

might of the fire, under the puffs of black smoke that twirled around

the fiery walls and stretched all the way toward the cold stars of the

mountainous sky.

 

My old acquaintance was sitting by the fire and telling about the

water and the waterer, about the rocky soil and the fields.

 

`What happened, happened, and passed. We turned into bulls and locked

horns with each other. Black rain poured down and blood flowed in

streams. We freed our steel collar from the land of Motkana, from our

Talvorik grounds. Pain and suffering, day and night, naked, hungry,

bare. Lenin gave us freedom. Only the border of our lands is too close

and that bothers the people. There are rocks and cliffs on the borders

of our lands. The rocks bother the people. Our souls belong to the

government, and so do our bodies...'

 

He hoped that the lands of the inhabitants of Dzyanberd would be

expanded, that the rocks and cliffs would be covered in green, and

that they would be able to build reservoirs and mountain lakes on the

mountaintop under the ice sheets so that the ice water would no longer

flow down at night through the valleys without fruit.

 

He said that the two sides in the village, `thin' and `thick,' were

reconciling little by little and a new generation was coming into

existence that neither considered itself from Motkana, nor Talvorik,

but from Dzyanberd. And when the elderly are by themselves, they

remember their valleys and plains, where grass grew so high that it

touched the cow's udders and so high that cows would give birth to

calves in the middle of the grass, and it was only by following the

trace of the cow that one could find the calf sitting in the grass.

 

`Yesterday was cloudy. Today is bright and sunny...'

 

My acquaintance told me such things about the highlanders that even

now, when I leaf through my journal, my heart fills with sorrow and

rancor. His generation has seen fire, war, massacre, migration. When

they were driven to the south, they were battered from both the south

and the north. A forest was ablaze, and they, like a flock of deer,

hewed their way with horns through burning trees. They were driven to

the west and then they turned the heads of their horses toward the

north and settled on this high mountain.

 

My acquaintance told me that some of the members of the older

generation refused to till the land of Dzyanberd, because Turks are

buried on its borders. For many years already they have descended to

the field villages from the mountains carrying their deceased on their

shoulders in order to bury them within the walls of the old

monastery. He told me that I would see a lot of crosses in Dzyanberd:

above doors, hanging from the horns of oxen, on clay jugs, around the

edge of fireplaces, and even on the chests of those mounted animals

that are set up in fields to scare away sparrows. He also told me

about mute Sevdon, who lives in Dzyanberd, puts on his fuzzy shoes, or

`kharuk' as they are called in the land of Motkana, and who `has

nailed a horseshoe over his mouth' and does not speak to those who are

not from Motkana.

 

There is only one man in Dzyanberd before whom Sevdon bows. That man

is Hazro, as my acquaintance called him, the best man of all the

mountain villages.

 

But our conversation was interrupted by the noise of bleating sheep.

Azno jumped up and went outside. The rest followed, and so did I.

 

The smell of goats and sheep came down over the village from the

mountains. What spirited noise it was! What gaiety! Calls, howling of

dogs, clanging of copper milking pails, lowing, bleating, whistling of

shepherds! It was as if war trophies were being brought to the

village. Women, girls, children, young men were driving goats, sheep,

and calves to the courtyards through the streets.

 

>From my acquaintance's high rooftop I was looking at Dzyanberd and at

the Ararat plain, where the verdant villages were slowly submersing in

the darkness of the evening as city lights became brighter.

 

Whenever I remember that evening, the city lights, and the descending

night on the plain, I see a man on a lower rooftop in Dzyanberd, his

back toward me, toward the summit of the mountain, facing the plain,

and I hear the best man-made music of the mountain villages.

* * *

His homeland had been rocky Sasun, that silent country's most silent

corner, where the valleys become gorges and the peaks of mountains,

cliffs. In the hot gorges, on the banks of mountain streams, the wild

grape grew and its vine crept over the copper-colored cliffs. Wild

cornel also grew, and sometimes even figs. And on the heights, where

their poor hovels were scattered over the cliffs, they sowed millet

and young wheat. When the millet had grown, beasts would ascend the

valleys. The people lit bonfires on the edge of the fields so that

bears would not destroy the millet.

 

He had played on those cliffs as a child. Like a faun, that young man

played a flute in the shade of those caves and his simple songs echoed

through the valleys. Sometimes it was hail that crushed him, sometimes

it was rocks that scratched his face, and it was the cold and the sun

that had scorched his chest like they had the mountain slope. He

fought against beasts and against those who drove cattle, sheep,

kidnapped women and children by firing guns.

 

It seemed as though he would live on those cliffs until he died and,

like his ancestors, sow millet, descend to the valley in the autumn,

gather fruit and firewood, and listen to old stories in the winter

about Vocal Ohan, Egyptian Melik, and Tongue-Tied Manuk.

 

But war broke out. There was conscription and violence. The field

villages were burned down and the arsonists ascended the valleys to

the peaks of mountains and to their poor hovels. Rifles rattled and

swords glistened. Instead of clouds, the smoke of blazing villages

perched on the cliffs. The fire reached the yellowed fields and

guzzled both seed and sower.

 

Hazro took his wife and daughter and walked from mountain to mountain

and cave to cave through crevices and over chamois tracks. He ate

legumes, haws, and rosehip. Then, exhausted, with terror in his eyes,

he turned south, acting sometimes as a Kurdish shepherd and sometimes

as a hungry wolf. Finally he reached an unfamiliar world where there

was neither mountain, nor clear mountain springs. It was a hot lowland

with yellow rivers in whose waters those blue streamlets that flow

down from the ice of mountains were not visible.

 

He took out his apricot flute - that reddish fife, on which the songs

of the blue mountains had been played - and his fingers started to

move over the apricot flute. Hazro enveloped the flute's mouthpiece

with his sunburned lips in the same way that people in the mountain

villages drink water from clay pitchers. His music, a song from the

highlands, gurgled like water on the hot lowland.

 

His wife cried. His young daughter fell asleep on her mother's knees,

and Hazro also cried. Then a sense of lightness drifted into his

heart, just like the blue cloud that perches on the high mountain of

Maruta. Then he wiped his tears, lifted the girl on his shoulders,

took his wife, and looked back. Dust had settled on the distant

mountains and their high mountains were not visible.

 

Hazro said to his wife:

 

`Today there is fog over our mountain. Tomorrow the sun will come out

again.'

 

They took a road, got lost in a thousand places, and then, when white

hairs had already grown out of his head, Hazro found his new home on

this high mountain.

* * *

The evening noise of the village was abating.

 

The white ice caps of the mountains reflected light. The meadows

diffused the scent of mint. The thin moon quavered and under its light

the snot of oxen oscillated like silver rings. The quiet oxen were

dozing and in the moonlight they looked like marble statues.

 

The tired farmers of the village have gathered on the rooftop below.

In the evening darkness they look sturdier, like fat oxen.

 

I go up the rooftop.

 

There are four little girls and one boy there. A tall man is keeping

them busy. The girls attack the small boy. The boy pushes them and

they mingle and roll about on the rooftop. The man laughs

boisterously. The conversation of the others quiets down and the fiery

eyes of the highlanders look at the children's fight. One of the girls

screams in pain and runs toward one of them sitting on the rooftop -

in this case, her father's lap. Her father laughs:

 

`But of course, my girl, it's fighting and beating.'

 

The tall man separates the others and picks up the boy who fought like

a cub against three girls his age.

 

`Dear me, enough,' the man says. But the boy continues to kick in the

man's grip as if he is about to jump on the dismayed girls.

 

Someone orders the girls to go home and they descend the wooden

staircase.

 

Silence falls. Only the tall man with the boisterous laugh soothes the

boy:

 

`Dear me, it wasn't only the girls' fault, was it?'

 

`I didn't hit her until she started hitting me,' the boy protests.

 

`Hazro,' someone sitting in the shade calls out, `play!'

 

So, this tall man is Hazro about whom my old acquaintance has told me

so much.

 

`Mother-in-law, Mother-in-law...'

 

`Beloved Hustle...'

 

The boy quickly jumps off his lap and runs down. Hazro approaches me

and extends his hand.

 

`Pleased to meet you.'

 

He has a broad forehead that has a copper shine in the moonlight,

white hair, and a curved aquiline nose. His eyes sparkle with youthful

vigor.

 

`Will you play?' He looks at the others.

 

I will never, never, forget that moonlit night in that mountain

village, Hazro's rooftop, his music, and the giants' old dance.

 

The boy brought the fife from home - that apricot flute that was only

a little longer than the usual fife of our shepherds. He stood on the

edge of the rooftop, turned the flute's mouthpiece toward the village,

and little by little, like sunrise in the mountains, `Beloved Hustle'

awoke. He began slowly and softly. Gradually the volume grew louder

and the beat hit faster. Then, with a savage yelp, the waterer jumped

up and stood in the middle of the rooftop. Another man followed suit

and so did a third. Soon two rows were formed that struck against each

other like colossal cliffs with hands, knees, and chests. The music

thuds louder. The beams of the rooftop shake. It's as if two armies

are crashing against each other. The strikes of their hands make the

sound of steel and their infuriated eyes spit out sparks.

 

Women and girls are watching the dance of the highlanders from

neighboring rooftops and courtyards. When one row pushes back the

other with slaps of the hand or a firm thump of the chest, those who

are pushed back charge with renewed force to avenge their disgrace and

defeat.

 

Hazro plays his apricot flute and with renewed vitality he plays that

song that the young faun had played in his native caves where clouds

drift lower than the hovels and valleys light up for a second when a

bolt of lightning strikes.

 

* * *

They left.

 

Hazro and I stayed on the rooftop. The little boy, his grandson, also

went home. I observed his reddish flute in the moonlight. It was heavy

and looked as if it had been forged from heavy metal. I held the flute

against the night breeze and it made a soft metallic sound.

 

And Hazro was telling that the biggest blow he had received in his

life was the death of his wife. His daughter got married in the field

village. The little boy, his first grandson, often stays with his

grandfather.

 

The Ararat plain had sprawled under the stars and the moon. The

reflections of the snowy white peaks of the Ararat cast their light

into the depth of the sky. In the distance, the Armenian mountain

range had stretched out like a camel caravan.

 

`Do you see that village on the left side of the fires?'

 

On the left side of the shepherds' fires, in the field, a black dot

was visible.

 

`My wife is buried there.'

 

Sometimes he goes down from the mountain village, takes dry firewood,

and lights a fire at the head of his wife's grave. He sits there until

the fire goes out and then dolefully, dolefully plays the apricot

flute and those songs that he played in their distant land where he

was a shepherd and his wife a village girl. And then with a relieved

mind, he goes to his daughter's house, listens to the noise in her

house, plays with his grandchildren, and takes the road back to the

mountain, to his bright hovel in the mountain village, alone.

 

`Hazro, did you live well in your village?'

 

`On our cliffs?' and he falls silent.

 

`Oh, dear youth, how you flew away...'

 

And again he picks up his flute.

 

This time he plays not the song of the highlanders' courage that makes

one's blood boil, but a distinct shepherd's song. There is both

melancholy in that song, as if someone has gotten lost in deep valleys

and is sobbing sadly, and spirited happiness, as when the sun shines

on the mountains, smoke rises, and the farmer goes to work. Finally,

it has strains of both homesickness and of return and final hopes.

 

`I would like to see our rocks, our valleys, our high Maruta mountain

again; to take my apricot flute, gather the people, sit on the sweet

grass, let the lamblike people sit around me, play those peaceful

songs of mine, for the good and loving people to embrace each other

like brothers, for there to be neither master, nor servant, nor sword,

nor violence; to blow in my apricot flute, for smoke to rise out of

chimneys again, to drink from our clear springs, for my sweat to drop

on our rocks, for our high mountain cloud to lick my white bones...'

 

`And, Hazro, to whom will you give your apricot flute?'

 

`I'll give my flute to my brave grandson.'

* * *

The street is quiet.

 

The exhausted people are sleeping and the city houses and their black

windows sway in the light of the street lanterns. A freshness descends

from the mountains onto the city and the night breeze brings with it

the fragrance of marjoram, the crisp air of the mountains, and the

sound of clear water.

 

I close my journal with its two marjoram leaves, dry and gray like

extinguished ash. My horse neighs on the mountains with unrestrained

bliss, like a white waterfall that falls from the heights, slashing

fields with a crash, merging with a turbid river, and flowing to a

shoreless sea with other waters.

 

Dzyanberd, Dzyanberd...

 

You become an indestructible fortress. The peaks of your high

mountains have awoken and the songs of victory reverberate on your

slopes.

 

A mighty apricot flute, without old fears and with new revelry, gives

voice to our fair songs.

 

1933

[1] Azniv is a person's first name, but it also means honest.

--

AKSEL BAKUNTS (Alexander Stepani Tevosyan), born in Goris in 1899, was a

writer, journalist, and agronomist. In the early days of the Soviet Union,

he traveled around Armenia as an agronomist and journalist writing short

stories that reflected the condition of the people at that time. One of the

greater themes that runs through much of his writings is that of the hapless

villager caught between powers beyond his or her control. Like many of his

contemporaries, Bakunts was arrested and executed by the Stalinist regime in

1937. His works were banned in Soviet Armenia until the 1960s.

--

NAIRI HAKHVERDI is a translator and lecturer. She teaches literary

translation at Yerevan State Linguistic University after V. Brusov.

We will continue reviewing her wonderful opus, the Dark Valley, Mthnadzor.

 

http://www.azad-hye.net/news/viewnews.asp?newsId=660aafd79

 

Why did Nairi choose Bakunts for her first translation?

Because (currently) her favourite authors are those who are forthright in their social commentary. "This is one of the reasons why I fell in love with Bakunts. He wrote about Armenia's villages, culture, and political life as he saw them and as they were. Instead of covering up the dirt by writing only about their beauty, he did not shy away from contrasting the beautiful mountains and rivers of Armenia with the corruption of the clergy, the oppression of the merchants, and the poverty of the villages."

[Arpa]

PS. Of course we know that the Tsirani Pogh/Apricot Flute is popularly known as Duduk.

---

Marjoram is often known as Oregano.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marjoram

is a somewhat cold-sensitive perennial herb or undershrub with sweet pine and citrus flavors. In some Middle-Eastern countries, marjoram is synonymous with oregano, and there the names sweet marjoram and knotted marjoram are used to distinguish it from other plants of the genus Origanum.

Edited May 23, 2013 by Arpa

[Armenak]

Reading not just the translation but also that she is teaching at Yerevan's Linguistic University makes me feel pretty useless. <_<

[Arpa]

I am rereading Nairi’s excellent book Dark Valley/Mtnadzor . This time I am reading slower and taking notes to show how history repeats and how even today we see the same joy of rural life, just as the rot of corruption , oppression and bribery (gift/graft. doggy bone, krtson?). Persecution and exploitation of the peasant by those city commissars still prevails . History repeats

Let us once again see what Nairi says about her choice. of the subject. The more things change, the more they stay the same. 100 years since, 3 regimes , the peasants today are not any better than Bakunts’days.. Don’ t go by the fabulously plastic pictures of Yerevan, see some of the stories of the outlying villages.

http://www.azad-hye.net/news/viewnews.asp?newsId=660aafd79

 

Why did Nairi choose Bakunts for her first translation?

Because (currently) her favourite authors are those who are forthright in their social commentary. "This is one of the reasons why I fell in love with Bakunts. He wrote about Armenia's villages, culture, and political life as he saw them and as they were. Instead of covering up the dirt by writing only about their beauty, he did not shy away from contrasting the beautiful mountains and rivers of Armenia with the corruption of the clergy, the oppression of the merchants, and the poverty of the villages."

But before I proceed to quote passages from each and every story, I have a little picayune nit picking with Nairi. In her excellent translation of the Alpine Violet/ Alpiakan Manoushak, where she falls in the trap only if in reverse.

http://hyeforum.com/index.php?showtopic=18299

She gets entangled in that linguistic debate that goes all the way to the time of Khorenstsi where he describes the color of the sea as Tsirani, carried all the way to Bakunts who describes the color of violet as Tsirani., meaning purple, violet color, and Nairi fell in the trap translating it as Apricot (color). Violets have never been Apricot color(orange if you will)..

See #7 here;

http://hyeforum.com/index.php?showtopic=20790&st=0

Here is the reason why the colo of Apricot is confused with the colo Purple., see # 27 here, Royal Colors;

http://hyeforum.com/index.php?showtopic=12093&hl=purple&st=20

Khorenatsi Tsov Tsirani? Apricot (colored) Sea?** How reliable is Khorenatsi the mythologist as Scientific

Historian?

http://hyeforum.com/index.php?showtopic=47752

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2a/Apricot_and_cross_section.jpg

 

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/42/Purpleflower_Violet_.JPG

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Viola_reichenbachiana_001.jpg

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5b/Viola_reichenbachiana_001.jpg

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5b/Viola_reichenbachiana_001.jpg

----

**When did the sea become Apricot color, except the Red Sea when at times it turns red with algae.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_Sea

Why is the Black Sea(Pontus, meaning bridge) called Black Sea?

 

PS. We will get back to each and every socio-political commentary by Bakunts, which may have caused his brutal murder. And see how it repeats even today.

[Arpa]

What was Bakunts-s sin? Do we know? Will we ever know?

Is the key to the archives in Yerevan still held by the Cheka?

From what little we know, he was a soul mate and a good friend of Charents who, shortly after met the same fate.

Where is our friendm the unabashed lover of Aksel Nairi of Mtnadzor-Dark Valley fame. Did she choke on overstuffed dolma?

======

 

http://www.yerakouyn.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/agsel-pagounts.jpg

 

 

http://www.yerakouyn.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/agsel-pagounts.jpg

 

 

http://www.yerakouyn.com/?p=59491

 

Յուլիս 1937. Խորհրդայինները Գնդակահարումով Մահուան Դատապարտեցին Ակսէլ Բակունցը

 

Հրապարակագիր Նազարէթ Պէրպէրեան կը գրէ.

 

Այսօր, հայոց յուշատետրին սլաքը կանգ կառնէ 1937 թուականի 8 Յուլիսին վրայ, որ սեւ էջերէն մէկը կը կազմէ Ստալինեան Արհաւիրքի ժամանակագրութեան։

Յուլիսի այս օրը, 77 տարի առաջ, Չեկայի** բանտերէն մէկուն մէջ, խորհրդայինները որոշեցին գնդա- կահարել հայ գրականութեան հսկաներէն Ակսէլ Բակունցը։

Հայկական Արձակի մեծագոյն վարպետներէն է Բակունց, որ իր սերնդակիցին՝ հայկական Բանաստեղծութեան հանճարեղ դէմքերէն Եղիշէ Չարենցի հետ միասին ու գործակցաբար, նոր դարաշրջան բացին հայ գրականութեան առջեւ, այսպէս կոչուած խորհրդահայ մշակոյթը ազգային հուն բերելու գործին մէջ պատմակշիռ ներդրում ունենալով։

Բայց ազգային ինքնահաստատման նոյն այդ ներդրումին համար միեւնոյն ողբերգական վախճանը ունեցան հայ ժողովուրդին Փառքին ու Հպարտութեան զոյգ կերտիչները։ Զոհ գացին պոլշեւիզմի ձեռնարկած մշակութասպան եղեռնին, որ իբրեւ անջնջելի Ամօթ յաւէտ խարանուած պիտի մնայ պոլշեւիզմի ճակտին։

Այսօր սնանկացած, դատապարտուած ու պատմութեան փոսը նետուած է պոլշեւիզմը, իսկ Չարենցն ու Բակունցը՝ ամբողջ սերունդ մը շնչաւորած իրենց անմահ գրականութեամբ, ոչ միայն կը շարունակեն լուսաւորել մեր սերունդներու ոգեղէն աշխարհը, այլեւ՝ իբրեւ յաւէտ ճառագայթող աստղեր, կը պսպղան հայ մշակոյթի բազմադարեան հարստութեան երկնակամարին վրայ։

Հայոց բնաշխարհի եւ յուզաշխարհի գեղեցկութիւններուն ու խորհուրդներուն, երազներուն եւ տենչերուն, աւանդութեանց ու նորարար երկունքին մեծ նկարիչն ու երգիչը եղաւ Ակսէլ Բակունց։ Հայկական Արձակը յատկապէս Բակունցի գրչով նուաճեց պարզութեան եւ խտութեան, պատկերաւոր գեղեցկութեան եւ խոհական ընդգրկումի եզակի բարձունք մը՝ ժամանակներէն վեր բարձրացող եւ յաւերժի ուղին լուսաւորող ինքնատիպ գագաթ մը դառնալով ոչ միայն արեւելահայ, այլեւ ամբողջ հայ արձակագրութեան անեզր աշխարհին մէջ։

 

Թէեւ Զանգեզուրի զաւակ էր, բայց արմատներով Ալեքսանդրապոլէն մինչեւ Սասուն կþերկարէին աւազանի անունով Ալեքսանդր Ստեփանի Թեւոսեանի ոգեղէն ակունքները։ Հանրագիտական տեղեկութեանց համաձայն՝ հօր տոհմական մականունը Բէգունց ***էր, որմէ ալ առաջացաւ իր Բակունց գրչանունը։ Երբ ծնած է Բակունց, արդէն Գորիս հաստատուած իր հօր ալեքսանդրապոլցի ընկերները նուէրներ ուղարկած են արու զաւակով բախտաւորուած Ստեփանին՝ նաեւ խնդրելով, որ որդուն անունը Ալեքսանդր դնէ ի պատիւ իրենց քաղաքին։ Ալեքսանդրապոլցի Ստեփանը ընդառաջեց իր ընկերներու խնդրանքին։ Սակայն Ալեքսանդր անունը երկար կեանք չունեցաւ, որովհետեւ պատանեկան տարիներուն Բակունցը ստանձնած էր նորվեկիացի թատերագիր Բ. Բյոռնսոնի «Նորապսակները» գործին հերոսներէն մէկուն՝ Ակսէլի դերը եւ ընկերները, այդ օրէն սկսեալ, Ալեքսանդրի փոխարէն սկսան Ակսէլ կանչել զինք, մինչեւ որ ինք եւս, Ալեքսանդր անունը մոռացութեան տուած, ընդունեց գրական աշխարհ մուտք գործել Ակսէլ Բակունց գրչանունով։

Ծնած էր 1899ի Յունիս 13ին, Գորիս՝ հայոց Զանգեզուր աշխարհի բնական գեղեցկութեան եւ խորհրդաւորութեան ծոցին մէջ։ Գորիսի ծխական դպրոցը աւարտելէ ետք, 1910ին ընդունուեցաւ Էջմիածնի Գէորգեան Ճեմարանը, ուր եօթը տարի ոչ միայն աշակերտեց ժամանակի հայ դպրութեան վաւերական բոլոր մեծերուն, այլեւ՝ տիրապետեց հայ ժողովուրդի հոգեմտաւոր հարստութեան ու մշակութային ժառանգութեան, այդ բոլորով հարթելու համար Հայաստանի ու հայ ժողովուրդի դժուարին ուղին դէպի նոր ժամանակներ։

Գէորգեան Ճեմարանի գաղափարաշունչ մթնոլորտը թրծեց նաեւ Բակունցի քաղաքացիական ու ազգային-քաղաքական ճառագայթող կերպարը՝ իբրեւ հայոց ազգային-ազատագրական շարժման փարած ջերմեռանդ դաշնակցականի, իբրեւ հայոց գիւղական աշխարհի անանց արժէքներու համակարգին պահապանի եւ, միաժամանակ, արդիականացման յառաջապահ դրօշակիրի։ Իբրեւ Հայ Կամաւորական Շարժման զինուորի մասնակցեցաւ 1918ի Անկախութեան թէժ մարտերուն՝ Կարինէն մինչեւ Կարս եւ Ալեքսանդրապոլ։ Եւ երբ անկախացաւ Հայաստանը եւ մեր ժողովուրդը ամբողջ թափով լծուեցաւ իր ազգային պետականութեան կառուցումին՝ Բակունց վերադարձաւ իր ծննդավայրը եւ ամբողջապէս նուիրուեցաւ ուսուցչութեան՝ նորահաս սերունդին հայոց լեզուն եւ գրականութիւնը, պատմութիւնն ու մշակոյթը սորվեցնելու սրբազան գործին։

Նոյն շրջանին, գրական-գեղարուեստական իր գործերուն կողքին, Բակունց ձեռնամուխ եղաւ հայ գիւղի ընկերային եւ տնտեսական հոգերն ու ցաւերը դարմանելու, զարգացման ուղին ճշդորոշելու եւ առկայ ապօրինութիւններն ու անարդարութիւնները յաղթահարելու աշխոյժ հրապարակագրութեան։

Խաչատուր Աբովեանի, Միքայէլ Նալբանդեանի եւ Րաֆֆիի ազգային-գաղափարական աւանդին առանձնայատուկ համադրումը կար Բակունցի մէջ, որ Հայաստանի խորհրդայնացման առաջին տարիներուն գրական պայքարի ասպարէզ նետուեցաւ՝ հինի եւ նորի հակադրութիւնն ու բախումը ազգային հունով յառաջ մղելու առաջադրանքով, թէ՛ գեղարուեստական իր գրականութեան, թէ՛ հրապարակագրութեան մէջ հետեւողականօրէն շեշտելով դարերով պահպանուած լաւն ու գեղեցիկը, արդարն ու մարդկայինը պահպանելու եւ նորոգելու, արդիական շունչով զարգացնելու հրամայականը։

Այդ մղումով էր, նաեւ, որ Բակունց 1920ին գնաց Խարկով՝ բարձրագոյն ուսման տիրանալու եւ գիւղատնտեսութեան մէջ մասնագիտանալու որոշումով։ 1923ին, ուսումը աւարտելով, ան վերադարձաւ Զանգեզուր, ուր եւ ստանձնեց գիւղատնտեսութեան մէջ պատասխանատու պաշտօն։

Բակունց սկսաւ գրել կանուխ տարիքէն։ 1915ին, Շուշիի «Փայլակ» թերթին մէջ, լոյս տեսաւ Գորիսի քաղաքապետին անօրինութիւնները քննադատող իր հրապարակագրական ակնարկը, ինչ որ սկիզբը դրաւ բակունցեան ժառանգութեան հիմնական ուղղութիւններէն մէկուն, որ հայ գիւղին, հայ գեղջուկին եւ գիւղատնտեսութեան պաշտպանութիւնը եղաւ, աւանդականն ու արդիականը համադրաբար զարգացնելու առաջադրանքով։ Այդ ուղղութեան ծնունդ եղան 1920ականներու առաջին կիսուն, Թիֆլիսի «Մարտակոչ» եւ Երեւանի «Խորհրդային Հայաստան» թերթերուն մէջ իր ստորագրած հրապարակագրական էջերը՝ «Մեր գիւղերում», «Գաւառական նամականի» եւ «Նամակներ՝ գիւղից» խորագիրը կրող շարքերով։

Նաեւ հայ ազգային-քաղաքական թեմաներով եւ հայկական ազատամարտի ներշնչումով յատկանշուեցաւ Բակունցի հրապարակագրութիւնը։ 1918ին, Երեւանի «Ժողովուրդ» թերթի էջերուն, ան հրատարակեց Անկախութեան պայքարէն ներշնչուած պատերազմական իր ակնարկները, որոնք հետագային իրենց արձագանգը գտան խորհրդային պաշտօնական մտածողութեան մէջ ազգային ուղղութիւնը գտնելու, յայտնաբերելու եւ զարգացնելու Բակունցի հետեւողական ճիգերուն մէջ, որոնց համար ալ իր կեանքով ծանր գին վճարեց հայ արձակագրութեան մեծ վարպետը։

Ակսէլ Բակունցի գրական տաղանդը ռումբի պէս պայթեցաւ 1927ին՝ «Մթնաձոր» անունով պատմուածքներու իր ժողովածուին հրատարակութեամբ։ Խորհըրդային պոլշեւիզմի քանդիչ մոլեգնութեան նորովի բորբոքման տարիներն էին, հինը ամէն գնով մերժելու եւ քանդելու հիւանդագին շրջանն էր եւ, ահա՛, կոմիտասեան շունչով եւ սարեանական գոյներով ողողուած իր արձակով՝

ինչպէս քննդատները պիտի վկայէին տասնամեակներ ետք՝

Բակունց հրապարակ կիջնէր «յաւիտենական գեղեցկութիւնների կողքին» վարպետօրէն արտայայտելով հայ կեանքի «դառն ու լուռ ցաւերը, որոնք յար ու նման էին աշխարհի ծայրերում ապրող մարդկանց ցաւերին: Նա չէր իդէալականացնում բնաշխարհը, այլ մտահոգ էր բնութեան անզուգական գեղեցկութեան մէջ վեր հանելու ժողովրդի դառը կացութիւնը: Համակիրները շատ էին, բայց քիչ չէին չարախօս թշնամիները: Չարենցը անհանգստացած նախազգուշացնում էր Բակունցին, որ Մթնաձորում չկորցնի իր պայծառ ուղին, փորձի դուրս գալ նոր ուղեծիր.

«Քո «Մթնաձորում» թախիծ է ծորում

Եւ կարօտ մանկութ հարազատ ձորի,

Աշխատիր, սակայն, որ այդ մութ ձորում

Քո պայծառ ուղին անդարձ չկորի»:

«Բակունցը անյողդողդ էր, հարազատ իր համոզմունքներին, հին արժէքների կողքին դնում էր իր սրբատաշ որմը, նորի իր արարումը: Նա ցանկանում էր ձերբազատուել հողժողկոմատի իր ծառայութիւնից եւ անցնել ստեղծագործական աշխատանքի»:

Եւ իրապէ՛ս մեծ ոստումով Բակունց գրաւեց հայ գրականութեան հրապարակը՝ 1927-1937 տասնամեակին։ «Մթնաձոր»ին հետեւեցաւ «Յովնաթան Մարք» երգիծական վիպակը, իսկ 1933ին լոյս տեսաւ «Սեւ Ցելերի սերմնացանը», որ «Մթնաձոր»ով անմահացած հայ արձակագրութեան անմեռ էջերը հարստացուց նոյնքան եւ աւելի գեղեցիկ՝ անկորնչելի պատմուածքներով։

Բակունց ձեռնարկեց նաեւ շարժանկարի համար բեմագրութեանց եւ ստեղծեց «Զանգեզուր» շարժանըկարի բնագիրը, որ սակայն բնաւ չնկարահանուեցաւ իր բակունցեան հարազատութեամբ, այլ՝ խեղաթիւրուած տարբերակով հրամցուեցաւ հայ սերունդներուն, խորհրդային հակադաշնակցական թոյնով լեցնելով անոնց հոգին։

Խորհրդային իշխանութիւնները կատաղի պայքար ծաւալեցին Բակունցի դէմ։ 1936ին ձերբակալեցին Բակունցը, քանի մը ամիս ամէնէն ահաւոր չարչարանքներու ենթարկեցին հայկական արձակի փառքը մարմնաւորող մեծ գրողին, բայց չկրցան Բակունցին պարտադրել «խոստովանութիւններ» եւ ի վերջոյ կարճատեւ, հազիւ 25 ռոպէ տեւած «դատավարութենէ» մը ետք, մահուան դատապարտեցին եւ Յուլիս 18ին, գնդակահարումով պոկեցին կեանքի թելը Հայկեան Հանճարը վկայող այս վարպետ արձակագիրին։

Ինչպէս որ «Սովորենք հայերէն» ելեկտրոնային կայքէջի Բակունցի նուիրուած վկայութիւնը կþեզրափակէ՝

«Դեռեւս 30ական թուականներից այլախոհի պիտակի տակ էին առել շատերի հետ նաեւ Բակունցին: Գրական հակառակորդների կողմից ծայր էին առել բամբասանքն ու բանսարկութիւնը, ինչպէս ինքն էր գրում՝ զրպարտւում էր «մահացու բոլոր մեղքերի մէջ»: Քաղաքական ծանրագոյն մեղադրանքներ են բարդւում Բակունցի հասցէին. 1936 թուականի Օգոստոսի 9ին շատերի հետ ձերբակալում են նաեւ նրան: Նոյնն էր մեղադրանքը՝ «հակայեղափոխական, հակախորհրդային, ազգայնամոլական գործունէութիւն»:

«Բանտային խիստ պայմաններում 11 ամիս անընդմէջ Բակունցին ենթարկում են կտտանքների: Նրա ինքնարդարացմանն ուղղուած ճիգերը ապարդիւն են անցնում, իսկ յուզիչ նամակները՝ մնում անպատասխան: Նամակներից մէկում այսպէ՛ս է ներկայացնում իր հոգեվիճակը. «Ծա՜նր է, շա՜տ ծանր Մտածում ես մէկ ժամ, երկու, երեք, մէկ օր, երկու օր. մտածում ես յիմարանալու աստիճանի, մինչեւ յիշողութիւնդ փուլ է գալիս եւ չգիտես՝ գիշե՞ր է, թէ՞ ցերեկ. միայն պարզ գիտակցում ես, որ կեանքը մնաց փակ դռների ետեւում Երբ ես հարցնում եմ, թէ ի՞նչ է լինելու յետոյ, յուսահատւում եմ, գիտակցութիւնս մթագնում է, ջղաձգութիւնները խեղդում են կոկորդս Ի՞նչ է լինելու ինձ հետԳոյութեան միակ նպատակը մնում է գրականութիւնը Ինձ գրելու եւ կարդալու հնարաւորութի՜ւն տուէք, ինձ գիրք ու մատի՜տ տուէք»։

Գիրք ու մատիտի աղերսական այդ ճիչը շրթներուն՝ հայ ժողովուրդէն առյաւէտ խլեցին եւ գնդակահարեցին Բակունցին։

Կիսաւարտ մնացին անոր «Խաչատուր Աբովեան» եւ «Կարմրաքար» ծաւալուն գործերը։

Բայց ինչ որ ան հասցուց վերադարձնելու իր ժողովուրդին՝ իրաւամբ անմահներու համաստեղութեան արժանացուց հազիւ 38 տարի ապրած, բայց դարերով ապրելու կոչուած գրական հարստութիւն նուաճած Ակսէլ Բակունցին։

NB The penname Bakunts.

*** See also where I suggested that Bakunts may be a variation of Bekunts.

#4 http://hyeforum.com/index.php?showtopic=7080&page=1&&do=findComment&comment=57183

 

Հանրագիտական տեղեկութեանց համաձայն՝ հօր տոհմական մականունը Բէգունց ***էր, որմէ ալ առաջացաւ իր Բակունց գրչանունը: Երբ ծնած է Բակունց, արդէն Գորիս հաստատուած իր

Սակայն Ալեքսանդր անունը երկար կեանք չունեցաւ, որովհետեւ պատանեկան տարիներուն Բակունցը ստանձնած էր նորվեկիացի թատերագիր Բ. Բյոռնսոնի «Նորապսակները» գործին հերոսներէն մէկուն՝ Ակսէլի դերը եւ ընկերները, այդ օրէն սկսեալ, Ալեքսանդրի փոխարէն սկսան Ակսէլ կանչել զինք, մինչեւ որ ինք եւս, Ալեքսանդր անունը մոռացութեան տուած, ընդունեց գրական աշխարհ մուտք գործել Ակսէլ Բակունց գրչանունով:.

** http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cheka

Cheka (ЧК чрезвыча́йная коми́ссия chrezvychaynaya komissiya, Emergency Commission, Russian pronunciation: [tɕɪ'ka]) was the first of a succession of Soviet state security organizations. It was created on December 20, 1917, after a decree issued by Vladimir Lenin,

NKVD http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/NKVD