I always think, even though it is impossible, that when I die, I want to take with me ten of each of my favorite films, music albums, novels and poems to the other world...if such a place exists. I want to show the people over there why I fell in love with this world. I want to give them my treasure chest and tell them, “look at the amazing place I came from. Look at the kind of people who live there!” Most of the time this thought comes to me when I am watching, listening to or reading one of my favorites once again. And every time the only thing that comes out of my mouth is a long “Wow”, as if it is a new and fascinating discovery. There is something very strong inside me like an adoration, call it worship if you want, for the beauty of the human soul. I am always amazed at how these filmmakers, composers, writers or poets come up with such pieces...pieces that strengthen my faith and conviction that life is sacred and goodness is the essence of humanity, despite the reality around me.
It is not possible to write down here the list of ten that have inspired hope and strength in my life. But I sometimes consider writing separate stories about films, music, photographs, paintings and books that have given me a thirst for life. Books and reading in general would be a good start. As I stated in my story, ‘The Library’, last time, I did not discover the importance of books and reading until I moved to Toronto even though as a student in Beirut, I had to read a lot of Armenian, Arabic and English literature because they were part of the curriculum. I do not know if it was because I was a teenager who was busy with typical pastimes at that age or it was because of our oral story tradition (adults told stories and the young listened), somehow reading books did not take up much of my daily life.
But there are a few little exceptions during this period of my life in Beirut when I discovered certain books that made me stay up reading till late many many nights. Gibran’s Broken Wings was so captivating that I finished it, I think, in a night or two. I still carry the ache I felt at that age for the fate of the star-crossed lovers. Until today whenever I hear the name Salma (the heroine of the story) or the words Druze or Beqaa Valley, a melancholic sadness pricks my heart. Odyan’s Inger Panchuni and Baronyan’s Kaghakavarutyan Vnassneri and Medzabadiv Muratsganneri, were also some discoveries I made at that age of thirteen or so. How I used to laugh in bed while reading their comic stories! Sometimes hearing my hard laughter, my mother would barge into my room and ask smiling, “what happened my son? Is it Baronyan again…?”
That, luckily or unluckily, was a short-lived period of my life. I was growing up fast…that’s the fate of children in the Middle East. Thanks to our new leftist teachers at Yepremian Varjaran, our eyes were starting to open. We were becoming serious about the world and inequalities. As if Baronyan’s satirical approach about poor and rich and class system were not enough, our new teachers introduced us to serious leftist literature. And my friends and I welcomed it enthusiastically. One of my teachers asked me to carry out weekly reading discussions based on this new literature within our young group. So, the weekly gatherings began and he would pass me some stenciled copies of chapters from certain books discussing class system and economic disparities between rich and poor. But because all this was to be done clandestinely, he would put the weekly material inside rolled up magazines.
There was a funny twist to this story I am telling you. The magazines were always old issues of Playboy. The reason was that if the principle or one of my parents got curious about what was the rolled up magazine, they would blame it on my raging hormones as a teenager…my punishment would be nothing compared to one given to a boy going on the wrong path of socialism. So, what happened is that at the meetings, we would unroll the magazine, take out the given literature copies, read and discuss some issues and then put them back inside the magazine. I would take the rolled up magazine home and when no one was looking, throw it up on the big clothes wardrobe in our bedroom. I was sure no one would look there. It was piled with stored away luggage and boxes.
Well, one day our application to immigrate to Canada got accepted and we were ready to move to Toronto. This was a long time since the days of our weekly gatherings and by that time, I had separated from my teachers and political colleagues. It is a long story fit for another time. But what was funny was that one day I arrived home and saw my father on top of a ladder, cleaning the top of the famous wardrobe. I panicked about the magazines. After all, they were pornographic, even if the soft kind. But he had already finished cleaning and was coming down the ladder. I looked at my parents and they looked at me for a moment that felt like an eternity. In the end, my mother said, “thank God we finished. We threw out so much stuff. We can sell the wardrobe now!”
Until today, I wonder what they thought when they found those rolled up Playboy magazines and the other literature copies inside them. I never dared to open the subject while they were alive.
