Hresh
Genocide.
Genocide was that inescapable, ever present force, molding generations of Armenians into angry victims; memorializing and venerating murder and murderers by prescribing a higher purpose; calling revenge justice while slowly poisoning their souls.
This same genocide had loomed over Karo his whole life.
Genocide had killed his ancestors.
Genocide had displaced his family.
Genocide had determined where he was born.
Genocide defined his politics.
And most of all, genocide had shaped his identity.
Later in life, in one of his quieter, more contemplative moments, Karo would recognize this truth about himself and try to imagine a life free of its influence.
He could not.
2. Verity
When Karo was younger he used to make it a point to wake up early and take a detour to the town square whenever a public hanging was announced. Those were special days, where the ire and hatred of an entire people would come together, focusing their energy onto a singular target so vile that an execution managed to elicit the worst in people.
The cursing.
The spitting.
The tossing of rotten food.
This was one of those days.
Near the soon to be corpse would be a list of his crimes: Theft, patricide, torture, rape… nothing unusual. Nothing noteworthy. Nothing unique, except for a simple fact neither listed nor said. He had betrayed his people, a crime worse than any other.
Bad enough to be strangers in a new land. Worse still, to have lost friends and family to murderous squads and death marches. Yet to have one of their own take yet another life, to so openly and brazenly attack an already suffering people, this was the work of the enemy, of the Turk.
This was treason.
As the curses continue to fill the square Karo thought of Soghomon Tehlirian, the man who had killed Talat Pasha, an architect of the Genocide. A single bullet to the neck, in public and in cold blood and was found innocent, his vengeance excused as trauma.
A hero.
Looking back at the dead man before him Karo thought “He should have saved it for the Turks.” An old woman pushed through the crowd and came up beside Karo. She took her time, wetting her dry mouth, filling it with as much snot as she could muster, and soon shot a greasy wad onto the face of the corpse, smiling as it ran down his forehead, then eye, and eventually settling on the cheek.
Do wrong things, but do them for the right reasons.
3. Dogma
As a teen Karo joined a local Armenian club. He did so because his friends did so. He did so, because it's what young Armenian men did.
The club was a fun distraction.
They had dances to celebrate their culture. They sang songs to remember the motherland. They kept the memories of their families alive by telling and retelling old stories of who and what was lost so long ago.
Then politics crept in.
A political ideology, unlike the people who follow it, is inflexible. So when Karo and his friends were finally exposed, a choice had to be made, contort oneself or remove oneself. Karo chose the former, embracing the thought that one day he and his compatriots would march toward Armenia and liberate it from the heathens.
They were no longer emasculated refugees, now they were revolutionaries.
“Let's take Sasun,
Enter Van,
Mush, Alashgerd, Ardahan.
Nation's heroes,
And the Courageous,
Saviors of our homeland…”
4. Probity
Karo tossed and turned. On the table next to his bed was a pistol and a photo. He turned over and stared at them, unsure if he was capable of doing what was asked. The target was an Arab not ideologically in sync with their cause, and had in fact been actively working against them.
Karo sat for most of the morning arguing with himself. It may be murder, but it was justified. This man could not continue to disrespect the Armenian cause. At the same time, who was Karo to make that determination? He didn’t know this man. He couldn’t even be sure that what the Party was telling him was true.
Several hours later, a decision was made.
The young man put on his coat and stepped outside. He took a bus downtown, arriving at a cafe across from a manicured garden and fountain. He ordered a coffee and stared off into the distance.
Soon a man in a white hat appeared. He pulled out a chair for the woman accompanying him, then made his way to his own seat. His finger called over a waiter and whispered something to which the waiter nodded and ran inside. From his pocket he pulled out a steel case holding rolled cigarettes. He plucked one and his lovely companion lit it for him.
A moment later a bullet penetrated his forehead and the cigarette fell limply from his fingertips to the ground.
Karo was already running when the shock of what just happened began to resonate.
As he ran, Karo kept repeating to himself “Do wrong things, but do them for the right reasons.”
5. Recollection
At six years old Karo witnessed his grandfather Levon changing shirts on a muggy summer’s day. Along the side of his grandfather’s waist he saw the long, jagged scars, and being young and inquisitive, asked what they were. Levon, being a loving and thoughtful man, sat down and told Karo a story.
A story about being a young boy in the jungles of India, tracking down a wild tiger that had been haunting a nearby village. One day, a monkey had caught his attention, and looking up, failed to see the tiger lunging for him, its paws outstretched and claws extended. Within seconds, three large cuts had formed, and almost instinctively a knife plunged into the wild cat’s neck.
Karo was in awe. Levon, his grandfather, was a hero.
The story was, of course, a lie. Levon was no superhero, no tiger killer, no champion of the people. He was a survivor.
A survivor of desert crossings.
A survivor of the rape and murder of his first wife.
A survivor of the loss of their unborn son, with whom she was pregnant.
A survivor of a vicious stabbing by a Turkish army man who decided to put him out of his misery after his refusal to move on from her lifeless body.
Levon, beyond odds, survived it all, and went on to remarry and father several children, who in turn fathered several grandchildren of which Karo was one. He had lived, and in living had believed he had planted the seeds of renewal that would extend beyond his eventual passing.
So, rather than to oppress his grandson with the horrors of his youth, Levon chose instead to tell a lie, to keep the weight of history far from the shoulders of Karo, to give him a chance at a normal life.
When Levon passed nearly a decade later, he did so believing he had done his job.
6. Abscondence
Karo sat in the cargo hold of a ship headed to Marseilles. He was a wanted man, so smartly had chosen to maintain a low profile; hiding his face, speaking with no one, subsisting on what little he had brought with him. Waiting for the moment for the ship to dock so he could finally pursue his future.
When the ship arrived In Marseille, Karo exited the ship to meet with a cadre of revolutionaries conducting activities out of France. He was to pick up money, documents and a ticket. In his mind, he thought he would be embraced as a hero, instead he was greeted as a nuisance. A beggar at their door there to drain their time and finances.
For a brief instance, he saw what these men were up to. A collection of firearms laid out on the table. Explosives packed away in a corner. Another table laid out with bread, cheese and wine, toasting the future.
Not one of them turned to look. No one invited him to join.
Karo was hurriedly given his due and asked to leave.
His passport said his name was Mustafa Farroukh.
He was to speak only in Arabic or broken English.
When asked where he was headed, his response should be a vague “America.”
Returning to port, Karo boarded the next ship. For the next two weeks he barely left his cabin, interacted with virtually no one, and in the loneliness of solitude began to dwell on the worst case scenarios of his new life.
Karo began to feel less the hero they convinced him he would become and more the murderer he dreaded turning into.
7. Ignition
“When a life ends, Areen” someone said, “It will be scrutinized and reinterpreted, and a new narrative formed to suit someone else’s needs. Because when we look back we are interpreting intent; but the reality is that intent is unknowable.”
This discussion was one of many taking place at a party. The part taking place in a home. Karo’s home. The man speaking was a coworker of Karo’s wife, Areen, and Karo stood silently listening as these partygoers philosophized.
Upstairs, Karo’s two young boys played with the children of their guests.
Karo thought to check on them, but a look from Areen suggested otherwise. This party was important to her, therefore his being by her side was important to her. For the next several hours he played along, smiling when he was supposed to smile. Nodding when he was supposed to nod. Helping refill drinks. Keeping interactions to a minimum.
Tonight was Areen’s time to shine. A celebration of her promotion to English Department chair.
Karo, was of course, happy for her success, even if his own business had fallen into a slump. Where he once had a thriving HVAC installation company, he now had a glut of free time and the dangers that come along with it.
Karo was prone to overthinking, and free time allowed him to overthink far too much and far too often. He thought about his past, where his life should have been, what he was meant to accomplish. How he had become neither hero, nor villain, but something far worse.
Ordinary.
The party came to an end, with the last person leaving shortly after midnight. Karo, unable to rest, offered to clean and let his wife sleep, then set about picking up the glasses and plates to bring into the kitchen.
Then something stopped him.
He looked around his home, this two story house in the hills of Glendale, California, with a raised chandelier in a foyer they absolutely had to have, that connected to dining room and den, both lined with beautiful tall windows that let in the most amazing amount of natural light, with a central staircase that led to the rooms above, one for each child, and a spacious master bedroom for he and his wife, with a private bathroom with a large bath perfect for dousing away one’s troubles.
Karo snapped.
He ran upstairs swiftly and in a voice unhinged, called out for his wife and children to wake up immediately. They ran to the hallway and he ordered them to leave the house this minute. When they tried to argue, anger overtook his face and rage filled his eyes.
“Leave! Now!” he screamed, chasing them down the stairs and out the door.
Once outside, he ordered them to keep running and locked the door behind them. Karo then entered the garage, returning to the house with a canister of gasoline. He began to shake it, spreading the liquid over the drapes, and on the couch, and on the walnut coffee table, and the carpeted staircase, and so on, until the smell of gasoline was overpowering.
He struck a match and placed gently under one of the curtains, watching the flame engulf the fabric.
From a distance, Areen and the boys watched as smoke began to billow from the house, slowly turning into fire, brightening the night sky even as it choked it in smoke. They watched in horror, everything they had, gone, Karo most likely with it.
Inside, Karo took a seat watching the flames dance around him. The heat was overpowering, causing him to sweat. His skin began to tingle as the temperatures grew oppressively hot and dangerous. Karo paused to look at what he had just done.
As the fire grew stronger, Karo realized it would be over soon. The flames danced in his eyes, like beautiful demons swaying to unearthly music.
Erotically.
Hypnotically.
His penis became erect, a smile on his face.
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