“hokiyis takallagner”
For the Armenians of Jerusalem, descendants of a race of
mountainous warriors, but imbued as they have become with
the Middle Eastern ethic of sentimentality, a child is their
literal treasure on earth.
We
believe
that
our
children
are
the
most
important
component
of
our
existence: we live only for them.
We don't live for ourselves. The children always come first.
True,
in
some
as
yet
unenlightened
age,
a
father
may,
under
extreme
duress,
take
a
belt
to
a
recalcitrant
son,
or
backhand
a
stubborn
daughter,
but
almost
as
soon
as
the
child
is
chastised,
it
is
pulled
back
into
the
paternal
or
maternal
embrace,
the
anomaly
or
transgression
soon
forgotten
or forgiven almost immediately.
And we spoil our children shamelessly.
"You
are
the
wheels
of
my
soul,"
(hokiyis
takallagner)
is
one
of
the
most
common endearments with which an Armenian parent will address a child.
To
us,
our
child
is
absolutely
precious,
but
if
there
is
any
other
human
being
we
love
more
than
our
child,
it
will
be
our
child's
child,
our
grandchildren.
The
love
endures
forever.
Even
if
that
love
is
drastically
tried
in
the
face
of
childish
misbehavior
or
alienation.
No
matter
how
old
a
child
may
be
he
or she will always have a place in our heart.
It
is
not
unusual
for
a
mother
to
retain
a
piece
of
clothing,
a
shoe,
worn
by
a
little
child,
for
years
after
he
or
she
has
grown
up,
married
and
had
children of his or her own.
And
we
have
no
qualms
or
inhibitions
about
demonstrating
our
love
for
our children, in private, in public, anywhere.
And
never,
in
the
history
of
the
Armenians
of
Jerusalem,
has
anyone
ever
heard
of
a
son
or
daughter
leaving
home
at
18.
Go
to
university,
even
if
overseas,
yes,
but
leave
home
to
live
alone,
elsewhere?
Never
has
such
an
inconceivable
abomination
been
visited
upon
the
Armenian
Quarter
of
Jerusalem.
The
picture
changes,
of
course,
when
the
family
emigrates
and
resettles
abroad.
Then
the
values
of
home
drop
by
the
wayside,
and
default
values
of
the
new
mode
of
a
foreign
way
of
life
replace
them,
as
people
try
to
adapt
and adjust to the culture shock.
Not
always
successfully.
The
overwhelming
majority
of
"bantoukhd"
(exile)
Armenians,
and
non-Armenians
as
well,
continue
to
pine
for
the
old
hearth
they
have
abandoned,
often
unwillingly,
under
various
unremitting
pressures, through no choice of theirs.
But
they
can't
go
back.
Few
ever
make
it
back.
There
is
no
ingathering
of
exiles
for
them.
And
in
the
aftermath
of
the
uprooting
from
the
native
soil,
the
children
are
lost
to
the
relentlessly
creeping
embrace
of
assimilation:
their
native
tongue
is
forgotten,
the
girls
change
their
names
when
they
intermarry
with
locals,
all
the
cherished
ancestral
values,
that
provided
their
parents
with
stability
and
security,
are
discarded
and
drowned in the shallow cup of foreign mores.
But
it
is
not
all
a
tale
of
gloom
and
doom.
Many
migrants,
armed
with
hard
honed
experience
and
expertise
gained
in
their
native
land,
pick
up
where
they
left
off,
and
achieve
great
success
and
glory
in
their
new
habitat,
exploiting
the
magnificently
promising
new
opportunities
available
to them.
They never forget Jerusalem. For who can ever forget Jerusalem?
This
is
the
raison
d'etre
of
the
Armenian-Jerusalem
website
project:
an
attempt
to
preserve
our
culture,
history
and
traditions
against
the
inroads
of
assimilation,
and
to
leave
our
progeny
with
a
record
and
chronicle
of
their precious ancestry.