Sardarapat, and Great-Uncle Geraseem

Geraseem Hovhannessian is the name of my great-uncle, who died at the Battle of Sardarapat exactly 102 years ago; the battle in which Armenia came within an inch of being destroyed at the hands of Ottoman Turkey, but prevailed in victory, afterwards declaring a short-lived independence which lasted until 1920 when the Soviets conquered Armenia. The Hovhannessian family (later renamed Oganessian when my grandfather Suren was drafted into the Soviet army in World War II) is from the village of Shvanidzor at the southern border of Armenia, near Iran. Two of my other great-uncles, Nikolai and Yeprem, died in World War I battles between 1914-1918, which ones exactly I do not know. My great-grandfather Hagopjan died of pneumonia around 1910, and my great-grandmother Nubar, according to my grandfather, reportedly died of fright when she learned the Turks were invading the area. My grandfather Suren was left an orphan by age 11 after Sardarapat, and went to live with relatives in Yerevan. He had a sister named Mariam who also survived to old age (I met some of her descendants when I was in Armenia), and two other siblings that didn’t survive infancy due to scarlet fever. That’s as far back as my family tree goes on my paternal grandfather’s side, as far as I’m aware. I can go much further back with my three other grandparents. My aunt Knarik gave me this information a few years ago. But I wanted to take the time to remember them all today, as I do every year.

My grandfather Suren is on the right. On the left is one of his brothers. But, I don't know which brother.

I am fortunate to even have the names of these great-uncles and great-grandparents. I didn’t until about five years ago, courtesy of my aunt. But aside from their names and appearances in one photograph, I don’t know who they were, what kind of lives they led, what their worldview was. I suppose that’s what happens as time passes. You become a name on a family tree. Perhaps my descendants will have the books I wrote, but eventually, I’ll just be a name too. A name is still a powerful remnant. The ancient Egyptians for example believed that as long as someone’s name was remembered they weren’t truly dead. Being forgotten was the second death. I like this belief. So, I’m keeping my relatives alive by remembering their names.

Geraseem fought so that what happened in Western Armenia, the Armenian genocide, didn’t happen in Eastern Armenia too. There wouldn’t even be an Armenia today had the battle of Sardarapat been lost. It’s a worthy reason to put your life on the line. I don’t think a lot of wars these days are actually worth that, but Sardarapat was. It’s still a pity that the war had to happen in the first place. Geraseem couldn’t have been much older than his early 20’s at the time, and maybe not even that old. I’ve outlived him at this point. Who would he have become if he had survived the battle? Or if the battle had never taken place?  

I went to Sardarapat once in 2014 and again in 2015. There I paid my respects. They have a grandiose memorial of two winged bulls at the site of the battle now, which looks ancient despite being completed in 1968. There’s also a museum nearby which actually I would consider one of the best in Armenia, containing not just artifacts from the battle itself but a lot of ancient Armenian artifacts from elsewhere.

Bonus picture of my favorite Vishapakar (dragon stone), in front of the Sardarapat museum.