Avetis Aharonian
Avetis Aharonian 
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| Name in Armenian | Աւետիս Ահարոնեան |
| Birthplace | Igdir |
| Birth date | 4 January 1866 |
| Lived in | Igdir, Yerevan, Paris, Marseille |
| Resides in | Yerevan |
| Death place | Marseille |
| Death date | 1948-03-20 |
| Death year | 1948 |
| Resting GPS | The following coordinate was not recognized: Père Lachaise Cemetery.The following coordinate was not recognized: Père Lachaise Cemetery. |
| Languages | Armenian, French |
| Ethnicities | Armenian |
| Dialects | Eastern Armenian |
Avetis Aharonian (Armenian: Աւետիս Ահարոնեան; 4 January 1866 – 20 March 1948) was an Armenian politician, writer, public figure and revolutionary, also part of the Armenian national movement.
Aharonian was born in 1866 in Surmali, Erivan Governorate, Russian Empire (today Iğdır, Turkey). Growing up, he was influenced by the natural features of his birthplace, such as the Aras River and Mount Ararat, both of which were located near Surmali.
His mother, Zardar, was a literate person, who was able to educate her child by teaching him how to read and write. After completing elementary education at the village's school, he was sent to Echmiadzin's Gevorkian Seminary, and graduated from there. He became a teacher for a few years, after which he went to Switzerland's University of Lausanne to study history and philosophy. During this period of time, he met Kristapor Mikaelian, who was then the chief editor of the Troshag (Flag) newspaper and befriends Télémaque Tutundjian de Vartavan, who is in the Faculty of Law since 1900;[1] they decide to join their efforts for the creation of an independent Armenia. He then began to write for the paper. In 1901, upon graduation, he went to study literature at the Sorbonne.
In 1902, he returned to the Caucasus and became the headmaster of the Nersisian School in Tiflis and the chief editor of the Mourj (Hammer) newspaper. Thus, in 1909, he was captured by the Tsar's government and imprisoned in Metekhi's prison, where he fell ill. Two years later, after a generous donation of 20,000 rubles, he fled to Europe.
He returned to the Caucasus in 1917, and chaired the Armenian National Council, which proclaimed the independence of the First Republic of Armenia on 28 May 1918. He signed the Treaty of Batum with the Ottoman Empire.
In 1919, he was the head the Armenian delegation at the Paris Peace Conference with Boghos Nubar, where he signed the Treaty of Sèvres formulating the "Wilsonian Armenia" in direct collaboration with the Armenian Diaspora.
After 1920, Aharonian lived in emigration, in Paris. In 1926, he was nominated to the Nobel Prize for Literature by Antoine Meillet.[2] He suffered a stroke in 1934 and lived for the last fourteen years of his life totally incapacitated. Aharonian died in Marseille in 1948.[3]
His son, Vardges Aharonian, was a writer and activist.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avetis_Aharonian
AT DAWN
By AVETIS AHARONIAN
Translated from the original Armenian by James G. Mandalian
NOTE-This story is taken from the life of the old Armenian revolutionary patriots. In the early 80's when the Armenians despaired because of Christian Europe's indifference to their plight under Turkish oppression, they turned to revolution as the sole means of their salvation. Organized in bands of ten to several hundreds, these armed units roamed the interior of the country where persecution was severest, giving battle to Turkish gendarmarie, regular troops, and armed Kurdish irregulars whose depredations had made life impossible for peaceful, law-abiding Armenians, restraining the Turkish terror, and generally, protecting the unarmed, defenseless Armenian population. The members of the fighting units were called Haiduks which means a revolutionary volunteer fighter. The lofty fighting code portrayed in this story by the Armenian poet Aharonian is not fiction, but was typical of the Armenian revolutionary volunteer fighter.
The company was descending the snow-clad mountain slope at a sluggish, cautious pace. They had trudged all night and now, at dawn, they were still walking. The towering mountain tops Were bathed in the first pale rays of the sun which shot forth in a playful, timorous fashion, while their reflection cast a mauve shadow over the thick white snow which covered the somber valley below.
Like the weary travelers, it seemed nature, too, had passed a sleepless night in the bleak cold, shivering and suffering. And now everything looked at the sun listlessly, without the customary morning yawning, petrified as a sphinx. Indifferent to their surroundings were, likewise, the chilled travelers. Only when, under the impact of their feet, a heap of snow broke loose and tumbled down, did they stop a moment to look upwards. The snowpile would roll down raising a cloud of dust, would rush past them, only to crumble into nothing in the valley below.
The company kept walking. Once in a while the leader would stop, and raising his binoculars to his eyes, would scan the valley; then pulling up his head, he would resume the onward march. The snow-covered path meandered through grotesque cliffs and canyons, now hiding itself, now bursting into view, like a scurrying snake. And the travelers walked in single file, silent and gloomy like their leader.
-Ho, ho, Vallahi, here's my prey,-suddenly cried one of the Haiduks who was limping at the end of the line.
-Hush, Kacho,-reprimanded the leader in a low tone and, raising his binoculars to his eyes, he viewed the valley below where he espied something vaguely black. They all came to a halt.
-Kacho, do you know what it is?-asked the leader, looking back.
-Upon my life, I don't know my chief; what is it?
-It's an animal like you, a huge wolf who is better than you; he is not wounded.
-Ha, may his master perish, I thought it was a Kurd,-exclaimed Kacho disgusted,-shall I shoot him?
-Fool, do you forget that we are hurrying to cover our tracks?
Kacho was silent, and leaning on his rifle, he resumed his walk behind the others. An enemy bullet had pierced the flesh of his left leg, and although the wound was not serious and had been bandaged, he had difficulty in walking without the aid of his rifle. The preceding evening the fight had been hot and stubborn, taking a heay toll of the Haiduks in the distant, cursed bloody ravines, and now the survivors were fleeing from these accursed lowlands, their hearts filled with grief and revenge. They were gloomy and troubled. They had suffered much.
The only wounded in the company was Kacho, a short slim, but hardy and cheerful youth who, in the gravest of circumstances, found an amusing word to dispel the grief of his comrades. When under a hail of bullets, he would hum his customary song:
Heh, heh, heh, ho, ho, ho,
Yeghso jan
Yeghso seated milks the cow. . . .
That's all he knew of the song and he was satisfied with that much. And when a stray bullet splintered the rock before him, Kacho again would not forget his jokes and would taunt the enemy:-Heh, you blind fools, raise your guns a little higher; I don't want to waste my precious bullets, you dirty infidels.
Thus Kacho was spared, but many had fallen in that last bloody encounter in the valley. And every one who fell carried with him Kacho's smile, one of his jokes, a part of his life and zeal. His teeth grinding, his eyes bloodshot, his face pale, his brows bristling, Kacho kept on fighting. And every time one of his comrades beside him fell, Kacho pressed his gun all the tighter, his frown became more terrible, and his brows drooped lower.
- * *
It had been an unequal fight, with the enemy increasing its ranks each hour, and the Haiduk positions becoming vulnerable each moment. At last the leader gave the command to retreat. They had to make their escape under the shelter of night, and lose their tracks by devious ways. They had scarcely started when the last bullet struck Kacho's leg.
--Hoy, hoy, this was their goodbye-exclaimed the wounded youth and sat down.
-Kacho, cried the leader in an affectionate voice.
-Oh, it's nothing, nothing at all, replied Kacho, and tearing a piece of his clothes he quickly bandaged the wound with the aid of his comrades.
-Can you walk?
-You may leave me to the wolves wherever I drop.
And leaning on his rifle, without tiring or grumbling, he walked all night, through the snow, and under the cold. At dawn, again his voice was heard, he was whistling in a very low tone. Now the crunch of his rifle on the thick snow, now his interrupted whistling. Meanwhile his keen eye was scanning the recesses of the remote horizon. But as luck would have it, what he saw always proved to be either a bush or a fleeing animal. The company kept searching while Kacho followed whistling and limping.
By this time the sun was quite high. Its rays were playing on the snow-clad slopes of the opposite hill where they broke into a myriad scintillating pigments.
-Vallahi, he has come again,-Kacho stopped and adjusted his gun. The leader checked the object with his binoculars and saw that Kacho was not mistaken. It was indeed a man quietely descending from the hill, apparently a Kurd.
-My leader, shall I shoot him down?- Kacho spoke.
-Wait until he comes nearer; let's see who he is.
-Who should he be? 'Can't you see his Kurd's headgear? He is one of them; he is either coming from the loot or is going to the loot; these Kurds have no soul.
-Kacho, everyone who wears that cap is not an enemy,-the leader replied severely.
Meanwhile the lone traveler kept coming unconcernedly, bathed in the sun's rays, and it seemed this was the reason why he did not see those coming from the opposite side. He was now quite close when suddenly he raised his head, and coming to a halt with obvious anxiety, he stood there petrified. But this lasted only a few moments, then he resumed his walk with firm, bold steps toward the strangers. An instant later the armed company and the lone traveler came face to face.
He greeted them, and the leader returned the greeting. He was a brave looking handsome Kurd, a magnificent barbarian of the mountains, one of those sons of nature who by some whim had been born of the rocks and carried with him the haughty grandeur of the mother rocks. He was a tall youth with an eagle's beak, his scowl awesome, his neck high, like a mountaineers. His powerful hairy chest exposed to the morning cold, his huge paws leaning against the stump of his rifle, he kept looking at the strangers, proud and unruffled. This powerfully-built, iron-tanned creature was the personification of life and energy.
With a look of admiration and wonder, the leader was watching this mountaineer, and obviously enjoying the pleasure of his manly beauty. The company stood motionless and silent, and even Kacho stopped his whistling and came closer to examine him from all sides.
-Where are you going, Kurd?~at last the leader asked.
-God willing, and by your grace, I go to the Gray Peaks.
-The Gray Peaks ... the leader frowned, made a restless motion shifting his weight on one foot, then raising his head, and fixing his eyes on a solitary spot, he fell into deep thought.
-There's a storm coming,-Kacho whispered to his neighbor, seeing the frown on his chief's face.
The Gray Peaks ... It was there, in those cloudy heights where they had fought the day before; there had fallen many comrades, there the enemy had remained. And this Kurd was going right there, to carry the secret of the fleeing company's hiding; he would reopen the track which they had trod that dreadful night; he would let the enemy give chase to the company like hunting dogs. And how could they be sure that the enemy already was not following them; had not already searched the surrounding country?
What to do? How could they extricate themselves from this difficult situation? If the Kurd remained alive, their lives were jeopardized; but how could one raise a hand against such a magnificent man who had been brought to this bloody path, not through his enmity, but by an unjust, fateful accident?
It was a choking puzzle. The leader was suffering inwardly as the company looked on silently, without understanding what was transpiring, while Kacho began to show signs of impatience. The Kurd was waiting.
-Why are you going to the Gray Peaks in this wintry weather?
The Kurd smiled, and his look was not long, I am going to my own; I am engaged; you too are young, you understand.
- * *
There was another silence. The sun began to play on the Kurd's face, the leader raised his head and looked into his eyes, then he dropped his eyes, as if ashamed of the thought which crossed his mind. Before him stood a wholly innocent man, a youth who was full of hope and was going to see his fiancee in this winter cold. It was a terrible situation. In all his battles, in all dangers, his brain had never tortured him so cruelly, so godlessly.
Again he looked up and saw that the same gentle smile was playing on the Kurd's face. He again hesitated, again the same accursed thought which, like an iron fist beating against a closed door, battered his skull from the inside. He took his hand to his forehead and rubbed it several times, as if trying to repel the evil thought.
-You are going to the Gray Peaks-repeated the leader without raising his head, his eyes fixed steadfastly on a solitary spot,-you are going to the Gray Peaks. Ah, but you know what? We've just come over this path, it's a terrible road, it's crammed with snow. You listen to me and go down to the open fields, the open fields are much safer.
-The way by the open fields is twice as long,-replied the Kurd without comprehending the meaning of the stranger. Besides, this is not the first time I have tracked this road.
-There are many bandits in these parts, they gave us chase too, see, one of our comrades is wounded, it is not safe for you, there are many outlaws in the valley.
-Ah, the outlaws, too, are men like you. I am not leading a caravan, I am a lone man,-returned the Kurd, and again smiled.
-That's right, you are a lone man, you are not afraid of the outlaws,-repeated the leader a1bsently, as if he himself did not hear his words.
There was another silence. The Kurd was beginning to get worried, and as if to force the issue, he made a move to proceed. -Stop, fool, where are you going ?-roared the leader, fiercely yanking him by the arm, -I tell you that road is dangerous.
- * *
The Kurd was startled, and now he was even more alarmed and paler. He darkly suspected that, underneath all this questioning, there was a hidden thought which eluded his comprehension. He tried to figure it out, but think as he did, he was unable to penetrate it. He knew very well that in the open fields, in those wild mountains, lurked many strangers who had a right to block the path of a traveler, to rob him, and even kill him; all that was perfectly plain to his savage mind. But the extraordinary behavior of this man, his worry, was quite beyond his comprehension. In his savage eyes shone dark unrest and suspicion; his hairy chest rose and fell from this uncertain emotion, and his nostrils quivered like that of a frightened deer.
The leader himself was even more agitated, and the more the Kurd penetrated the depths of his thought, the greater was his discomfiture and exasperation, despite his efforts not to betray himself. And now there began a sinister duel in which one of the combatants was trying to convey a secret, while the other, sensing that it was a question of life and death for him, was struggling to read the mind of his antagonist.
The leader again relapsed into thought. Needless to say, it was but a moment's work for him to remove this living menace which threatened their safety, this disturbing Kurd; and the company even wondered that he was losing so much precious time. But, to the leader, it was a task heavy as death to raise a hand against this magnificent fellow, this lone traveler. Besides, there was such a strength, such a frank manliness on that handsome face, in that glorious body, those broad shoulders, and those powerful arms.
-Disarm him, we'll take him along with us,-commanded the leader,-there's no other way out, otherwise he will go and betray us.
For a long time Kacho had been waiting for this order; he was first to snatch the Kurd's rifle. In a desperate try at self-defense, the Kurd pulled back his weapon, but in the scuffle Kacho's wounded leg conspired against him, and he fell on his face with a howl of pain. What followed was so swift that no one saw it; there was the roar of a gun, a little cloud of smoke shrouded the Kurd's head, and with a howl he fell to the ground.
It was Kacho who, having forgotten his pain for the moment, had felled him. Pale with fury, the leader instantly drew his gun and leveled it against Kacho's breast, but the members of the company who had sensed the impending danger rushed upon their leader and held him firmly in their grip, while some, falling on their knees, embraced his feet and implored him.
-Dog, merciless dog, - bellowed the leader as he let go of his rifle. Then, trembling with fury, he fell bodily on the snow like a tree which has been felled by a storm, and gathered the Kurd's head in his hands. The prostrate Kurd continued to wallow and growl with pain as his blood slowly spread on the snow, forming a crimson paste.
Disconsolate and mortified, Kacho rose to his feet and stood there petrified, not daring to raise his head. The leader's eyes were still fixed on the dying Kurd who was convulsing with death agonies. And when he breathed his last, motionless on the snow, huge tear drops hung on the leader's eyes, and falling down, wet the dead youth's cheeks.
The warriors were astounded. This mighty, this terrible brave who had shed no tears at sight of his fallen comrades, was now sobbing like a baby before this unknown Kurd.
The sun came up; they resumed the trail along heavy, grim paths, toward their stormy destiny.
It was dawn, the sun shone on them lustily; but that other dawn when no longer innocent blood nor tears shall be spilt, was far far away.