Murderers on the Turkish DisOrient Express -- Then And Now

One hundred years ago, a man, an accident of birth like Hitler, with spitting inner-images of each other, once said to a bellicose nation with scimitar-rattling hands, "Burn -- Demolish -- Kill all Armenians." His name was Talat Pasha, a young bloodthirsty Grand Vizier; better known as, the principal architect of the first genocide of the twentieth century; chief director of the genocide of the Armenians as described by Henry Morgenthau, United States ambassador to the Ottoman Empire at that time, and the author of The Murder of a Nation.

In 1915, Talat and the other two members of his triumvirate government, Enver and Djemal set in motion a blood-soaked campaign to exterminate all Armenians from their ancestral land.

Thus the first knell of death was tolled for the Armenian people by the advanced demons of the Ottoman Empire; with Jihadist fervor they went to work, and they did Burn -- they did Demolish -- and they did Kill.

AND Rape, Defile, Plunder, Desecrate, Torture, Decapitate, and Crucify, yes, Crucify, let me say that yet again, in staccato tempo, so the reader could comprehend the incomprehensible, C-R-U-C-I-F-Y (quite apropos in the turbid mind's eye of an Ottoman Turk to do so to infidels, for the Armenians were the first nation in the world to officially adopt Christianity in 301 AD).

Countless other heinous acts  were perpetrated with zero compunction and with Mongolian mores to murder and maim, that was their aim and their game. The following, dear reader, will make your cultured flesh creep, I might as well here explain: They nailed horseshoes into the feet of Christian leaders and taunted them to run like cattle towards their Savior Christ. They flayed and torched defenseless people alive. The "butcher battalions" even gambled with lives as yet unborn with twisted brilliance of sadism. They used pregnant women to make wagered-guesses on the gender of their babies whilst still in the safety of their mothers' womb, only to be sliced open with a bayonet tip to reveal the winner of that bet; thus a new Turkish game was invented by killing mother and child, two in one, while they had fun. They perpetrated these heinous acts without the slightest sting of consciousness.

This was the dawning of a new age of evil right at the temporal gates of the twentieth century. Courtesy to the Ottoman Turk, a genocide was being perfected in the killing fields of Anatolia where rivers of blood carried away bodies and souls of a slaughtered nation changing the courses of  Tigris, Euphrates, and destinies. It is a documented fact, that the mighty Euphrates did change its course for a hundred yard from the overload of carnage dumped into it.

100 years ago the Ottoman Turks did this, and this by any other name murders a nation just the same. Raphael Lemkin studied the Armenian plight with untiring assiduousness and called it by what it was -- GENOCIDE. Mr. Lemkin coined the word, only; the Ottoman Turks coined the act, verily; the former came from the latter. That is the direction of the arrow of truth.

Unfortunately, today, on the eve of the centennial, and 1.5 million Armenian victims later, modern-day Turks perpetuate the genocide by vehemently denying their forefathers' crime. Through denial, Turks continue to exacerbate the pain and suffering of Armenian survivors worldwide.

Why is it that when the word "genocide" is uttered anywhere in the world, it is exclusively a Turkish heart that hops, skips a beat, and jumps till it fittingly drops in his sole-less shoe of denial, and much quicker than you could grunt the "G" phoneme? WHY? Is it possible that an Assyrian, a Pontus Greek, a Bulgarian of Batak, or an Alevi of Dersim would know the answer to this conundrum? You bet! for they too were massacred en masse by the same grand masters of genocide.

The greatest danger to Turkey lies not in anyone’s use of the word “genocide,” but in refusing to acknowledge what took place 100 years ago. As recently as April 12, 2015, when Pope Francis uttered the word "genocide" the Turkish authorities ran amuck and went on autopilot attack mode, and began denying the undeniable; defend the undefendable, while parroting ad nauseam, "our-noble-ancestors-did-nothing-wrong” line. In 1915 alone, The New York Times published 145 articles about the Armenian genocide.

Genocide is not the result of denial; denial is the result of genocide. As French philosopher Bernard-Henri Levy declared, “Deniers are not merely expressing an opinion; they are perpetrating a crime.” Yes, A CRIME.

You Can Neither Run nor Shun --The Appointment

Through hylic experiences of our five sensory perception, some things are as clear as day, while others seem to be way beyond the unplumbed depths of comprehension. One such example that causes thorny grapple with intellect is: our mortality. In an effort to outrun our earthly demise we shoehorn our delusional feet of reasoning into the fastest running shoes of delirium that we can find -- and we impulsively and breathlessly run with tiny quick steps till we arrive to the place that we'd never left.

Outside God, or outside the virtual center, the laws of duality is inseparable. Every beginning has an end and vice-versa. Every end is in need of a beginning for its own existence. Ironically, death is in as much need of life, as life is of death for its own "survival" so to speak. Thus, stop running and start living. After all, everybody, on their birth dates, punctually do arrive complete at the departing gates of their journey. You came in with everything you need to take with you and remember you are the one you've anxiously been looking for. So, relax and start having fun during the course. Hence, don't diminish life by looking for it elsewhere. Let each moment of your life be carried upon the wings of your angels. Here is a gripping story of an inescapable reality, called "Rendezvous in Samara."

A man who worked as the servant to a wealthy merchant. He had gone into town to shop for the day when suddenly he felt someone brush heavily against his shoulder. Somewhat offended, he turned toward the person who had jostled him, and found himself staring into a pair of eyes that spoke of death to him. Panicking, he dropped everything and ran home. His master saw him running breathlessly toward the house and met him on the front steps.

"What on earth is the matter?" asked the master.

"Oh, sir! Someone in the marketplace rudely brushed me, and when I turned to face him, he looked like the Angel of Death to me. He too had a look of shock on his face. It was almost as if he wanted to grab me but then backed away. I am afraid, sir. I don't want to go back to the market."

"Saddle one of our horses and ride all day till you reach the distant village of Samara," the master said. "Stay there till you get word from me that is safe for you to return."

The servant rode off, and the master made his way to the market to find the person who had so frightened his servant. As he wound his way through the crowded streets, he suddenly came face to face with the strange looking individual.

"Who are you?" the merchant said. "Are you the one who just scared my servant?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Why did you frighten him?"

"Well, I was truly surprised to see him here. I am the Angel of Death, and I chose to spend the day here before heading to my stop for tonight. You see, it was not so much that I surprised him, as that he surprised me. I did not expect to see him here because I have an appointment with him in Samara tonight."

Leave an Empty Chair by Your Bedside -- You'll See!

Perhaps, you too, just like the vast majority of us, in our waking and walking delusional existence, might very well have pompously professed the following sentiment: " I'll believe it when I see it." Really? Is that so? Are you sure that it might not be the other way around instead? As in, "I'll see it when I believe it?" Hence, my friends, just in case, the synapses of your brain have yet to connect the neuronal dots of comprehension to this revelation, I do suggest that you leave an empty chair at your bedside, for it may come in handy in the darker days of your life -- I'm almost certain that you will begin to SEE IT with eye-opening clarity by the conclusion of the following story:

A priest visiting a patient in his home noticed an empty chair at his bedside and asked what it was doing there. The patient said, " I had placed Jesus on the chair and was talking to him before you arrived ... For years I found it extremely difficult to pray until a friend explained to me that prayer was a matter of talking to Jesus. He told me to place an empty chair nearby, to imagine Jesus sitting on the chair, and to speak with him and listen to what he says to me in reply. I've had no difficulty praying ever since."

Some days later, so the story goes, the daughter of the patient came to the rectory to inform the priest that her father had died. She said, "I left him alone for a couple of hours. He seemed so peaceful. When I got back to the room I found him dead. I noticed a strange thing, though: his head was resting not on the bed but on a chair that was beside his bed.

Tell Me Again, and Again, and Forever Again ... Hok Che Badme Toon

A couple of days ago I was listening to an arrangement, by Arpie Dadoyan, titled "Ov Bidi Lseh? Hok Che Yerke Toon", which loosely translates to: " Who will listen to you? but sing anyway". Well, just today, in my daily reading, I chanced upon the answer to Dadoyan's yearning clearly reflected in the following prophetic line of that said hymn. "... tell me the old, old story for those who know it best, hungering and thirsting to hear it like the rest." My take? -- When artistic expression of any human being is not conditionally forged upon a targeted audience's receptive embrace, the detachment from its results always attracts the most satiated souls out of the clouds to hearken, ad infinitum, the "same-old-story" with child-like wonder and glee. That my friends is, simply, beatific divine intervention. Just think! think!! need to think here.