The prince charming of Armenian pop - Armenian Reporter

My myrigKay Mouradianstoryby Kay MouradianMy myrig and I had an endearingrelationship. She never interferedwith my life, never held me backfrom exploring or living in manyparts of this glorious planet. AndI always returned home. My myriglived by a philosophy that you holdby letting go. Pretty remarkablefor this small 5-foot woman whosurvived the Armenian Genocide,whose life had been colored bythe horrors of the past, and whodwelled on the loss of her familymembers who had perished at thehands of the Turks. Then one daythat dark shadow was gone and hertransformation is quite a story.In 1988 I had gone to Aleppo,Syria, to search for the family thathad given my myrig refuge fromthe Turks. Incredibly, I found theone remaining descendant. Bornafter my mother had left Aleppo,the handsome woman knew allabout the 14-year-old Armeniangirl, Flora, who had cared for hertwo sisters. Delighted to meet me,she gave me a gift I still cherishtoday – photos of her sisters, hermother and of her father, a kindman who treated my mother asone of his own.The day after our extraordinarymeeting, I received a call fromhome. Myrig was back in the hospital.I left for Los Angeles.Myrig had already had threeprevious trips to death’s doorand to the amazement of all, includingher doctor, she managedto survive those precarious episodes.But this time, when I sawmy mother on that hospital bed, Iwas sure her time had come. Shewas deathly frail.When she saw me she tried tosmile, but was far too weak. “Idon’t know why I didn’t die,” shesaid, her voice barely audible.Kay Mouradian’s mother, who said,“Hunger is a pain that never sleeps.”I, too, wondered. I would haveexpected her to embrace the releaseof her worn-down body, especiallyafter having been so closethree times in the previous fouryears. Or did she know somethingI didn’t? I leaned in close and said,“Mom, do you think you will dienow?“It doesn’t look like it,” she said,her voice cracking and her face reflectingher own disbelief.Somehow she knew.Two days later, when I enteredthe cardiac care unit I was surprisedto see Myrig sitting up inbed, unattended. The day before,she couldn’t turn her head withouthelp. But when she saw meapproaching she shouted somethingin Turkish, a language shehadn’t spoken in more than fiftyyears.I was startled. She was filledwith energy. And why was shespeaking Turkish, the languageof those she hated? “Mom, I don’tunderstand you,” I said, trying tocalm her. “Speak to me in Englishor Armenian.”She kept shouting in Turkish,and I began to panic. What if shecontinued to speak only Turkish?Would I lose contact with her forever?Could I retrain her brain tothink in English?“Mom,” I said firmly, “repeateverything I say.” I went throughthe entire English alphabet. Sherepeated each letter dutifully, asif she were in school following ateacher’s instructions. We countednumbers and she repeated those inEnglish. But she started to shoutin Turkish again with an Englishor Armenian word in the mix. Istruggled to understand. The bestI could comprehend was:“They took my education,” sheyelled.“They took my family!“Do you know what it was like?“I went crazy!”She looked straight into my eyes,said loud, and clear in English.“The bastards!”Even though there were momentswhen I felt panic, othermoments like this one were justplain comical. I couldn’t hold backa laugh. I had never before heardher use this crude word. Andthroughout this wild scenario,even though she was shouting inTurkish, she appeared to be joyful.“Mom, are you happy?” I askedtrying to understand this phenomenon.“Yes,” came her emphatic reply.“Why?”“Because I’m awake!” she saidwith authority.I found her choice of word intriguing.I would have expectedher to say, “Because I’m alive.” ButI had a suspicion of what mighthave happened.With my keen interest and yearsof study in eastern philosophy, Iwondered if she had crossed overinto another plane and witnessedthe Armenian Genocide from ahigher, impersonal view. Hadshe gained an understanding ofthe horrific karmic debt the perpetratorshave to pay? And hadC14 Armenian Reporter Arts & Culture 11/10/2007