As the Armenian church celebrates Easter today and the community marks 100 years since the genocide THEO PANAYIDES meets Archbishop Nareg Alemezian
It’s a good time to interview His Eminence Nareg Alemezian, Archbishop of the Armenian Apostolic Orthodox Church in Cyprus – because today is Easter Sunday for the local Armenian community (numbering about 3,500 souls), one of the many things their Church does slightly differently to its Greek Orthodox counterpart. The Archbishop’s sermon (spoiler coming up for Armenian readers!) will be taking a very specific tack, not just celebrating Christ’s resurrection but linking it to the resurrection of the Armenian people after the 1915 genocide – because this year marks the 100th anniversary of that hellish time when around 1.5 million perished at the hands of Ottoman troops, just before the creation of modern-day Turkey. That’s another reason why our interview is topical.
Just last week, Parliament amended the law to make denial of the genocide a criminal offence in Cyprus (Armenia wasn’t mentioned by name, but the change in the law – making it sufficient if the genocide in question has been recognised by our parliament, as opposed to an international court – was clearly designed to encompass the events of 1915), a change the Archbishop welcomes; that kind of law is crucial “if we want to prevent future genocides,” he says in his office at the Armenian Prelature, flanked by an icon of the Virgin Mary and a photo of the current ‘Catholicos’, Aram I. ‘Catholicos’ (meaning ‘Supreme Patriarch’) is a title unique to the Armenian Church – yet another of the things this small, traditional faith does slightly differently to its larger counterparts.
His own name, ‘Nareg’, means ‘well-sharpened sword’ according to the internet – but this particular Nareg has a mild, earnest manner, eyes gazing patiently from above his bushy beard. His eyebrows have a slight upward slant when he talks, giving him a pleading, almost beseeching air. He tends to sit back in his chair, wrapped in priestly robes, his hand gesturing rhythmically as he talks. He’s an easy talker, fluent in four languages – and in fact his previous post, when he was based in Lebanon (he only came to Cyprus in September 2014), was as Ecumenical Officer, “which is like foreign affairs minister. I was in charge of foreign relations for the Armenian church”. One can see his patient, earnest manner having thrived in that job, fostering dialogue with other churches (including Islam) in Armenian dioceses from Iran to Venezuela.
Lebanon is one of two headquarters for the Armenian Apostolic Orthodox Church (the other being Armenia itself). Lebanon – Beirut, to be precise – is also where he was born 53 years ago, the only child of “a very pious Christian family”. His dad was a deacon in the church; his grandparents were survivors of the genocide, carrying memories of life in old Armenia; Nareg himself was never in any doubt about his future. “There is a story about my entering the kindergarten when I was three years old,” he tells me, “[and] the principal asked ‘What would you like to become?’, and my immediate answer was: ‘I want to become a clergyman’. So I consider this as a pure calling of God. It’s a vocation.”
The only real decision – which he took at the age of 19, just before being ordained – was whether to become a married priest or a celibate priest; the former serve in the parishes, he explains, the latter “belong to a brotherhood” and are able to rise up the ranks, to Bishop or indeed Archbishop. The young man was advised to consult with his parents before making his decision (if nothing else, the celibacy of their only son would deprive them of grandchildren), but in fact the decision was easy. “You have two families now,” cried his jubilant parents: “Your first family is the Church, and then you have your paternal family”. Mum and Dad are now in their 80s, live in Montreal and see him when he visits every few months. “They are very happy. They always say this is the will of God.”
Isn’t celibacy a huge sacrifice, though? “It’s a decision of a lifetime,” he admits, “it’s a lifetime commitment. But, as I say, I don’t regret it … I consider celibacy also as a vocation”. It’s unclear how much of life he’d experienced at 19, having been ensconced in a seminary for eight years – but he’d certainly seen something of the dark side, since those were also the first years of Lebanon’s civil war (it dragged on for years, long after he’d left for Vancouver in 1981). The war “was more or less fluid, it wasn’t targeted in one place,” he recalls. “There was a time – for weeks, months, sometimes a year – that we were enjoying relative peace. But other times, yes, there were some bombardments, and we received our share of destruction.”
His teenage memories of war are mostly innocuous – queuing up for bread with other seminarians, for instance (“to sustain our physical life,” as he puts it). But he also recalls one time, after a bombardment, when he heard a commotion outside and went out to see a truck belonging to a local militia roaring down the street, dragging a person (presumably a prisoner) behind it. The soldiers were whooping and cheering, lost in “an atmosphere of happiness or satisfaction that they were driving that person around, and that person was going to be killed in that way,” he says solemnly.
Why doesn’t God intervene in such situations? There’s no easy answer to that question (the Archbishop mutters something about the soldiers having free will – but that still doesn’t explain why He didn’t intervene to help the victim, who must’ve been praying for all he was worth at that moment), in fact it’s no mystery that God moves in mysterious ways. “I strongly believe that all my decisions, all my plans, all my steps are guided by God,” says Nareg firmly – yet he also knows that God is elusive, and may just be a phantom for some people. What about atheism? Can he imagine a world without God? “Personally I cannot imagine that, and I cannot accept that,” he replies. “But, on the other hand, if there are people who say ‘I don’t need God’, I’m ready to respect their opinion. But they have to respect my opinion, saying that I need God [in order] to survive. I need God to live.”
It’s a typical response from this genial, ecumenical man, a man for whom compromise seems to come naturally even as he stays very firm in his own beliefs; “I’m sure we can find common ground, through dialogue and through mutual trust,” he affirms at one point. Dialogue is his forte, reaching out to other creeds. “I consider myself to be a person of all cultures, all faiths – a person in dialogue, a person in contact, a person in relationship,” he says earnestly. “I feel like I’m part of the whole world, although I keep my Armenian identity”. Despite his move to Cyprus (which may even feel like a step down, though of course he doesn’t say so), he’s still on the Central Committee and Executive Committee of the World Council of Churches, talking to everyone from Anglicans to Mennonites – and he still goes on “special assignments”, as for instance next Sunday when Pope Francis will be holding a special Holy Mass on the 100th anniversary of the genocide. Catholicos Aram will be there, so will the President of Armenia – and so will Nareg Alemezian, indeed “I will be there prior to the visit, in order to organise the visit in a proper way”.
Ah yes, the anniversary. Events are being planned all over the world, wherever the Armenian diaspora has a presence. In Cyprus, a commemorative stamp is coming out, a photo exhibition is being organised, a book is being published on how the Greek press covered the atrocities in 1915, the Cyprus Symphony Orchestra is giving a performance with an Armenian guest conductor – and that’s not even mentioning the religious service being held on April 24, viewed as the starting-date of the genocide.
‘But why dwell on it so much?’ I ask, somewhat impertinently. After all, it was a long time ago. Why not just move on?
He sighs patiently. “Well, we are ready to move on. Because our appeal has been, from the beginning, reconciliation – but based on forgiveness,” he adds with emphasis. “You cannot forgive someone if that person does not say ‘I’m sorry’”. Turkey continues to deny the genocide; some have even claimed that Turks were killed by Armenians, instead of vice versa. Above all, the wounds haven’t healed, despite the existence of an independent Armenia (which is only about one-tenth the size of “historical Armenia”); on the contrary, the violence persists as a kind of cultural genocide. “On a daily basis, we have many historical monuments in occupied Armenia – which is nowadays Turkey – being destroyed,” he reports. Even in Cyprus there’s the matter of Sourp Magar, the Armenian monastery in the occupied Pentadaktylos, not quite destroyed (at least not yet), but ruined by years of neglect.
The Archbishop visited Sourp Magar eight years ago, while in Cyprus for an ecumenical conference, and visited again a couple of months ago; he was shocked by how much it’s deteriorated. The place must be saved, he insists, but not as a historical monument – it needs to be restored as a monastery: “Monks have to live here. This place has to serve its purpose”. The biggest obstacle isn’t money, but politics; a full restoration, like he envisions, would have to be part of an overall solution to the Cyprus problem. Couldn’t he just make a deal with the Turkish Cypriot authorities, maybe through a private investor? “I don’t know,” he replies, looking uncomfortable. “I have also to respect the position of the authorities of the Republic of Cyprus.”
It’s a telling remark – because of course Armenians are a minority in Cyprus, totally integrated yet not quite assimilated, dependent to some small extent on the “hospitality” of their hosts. They used to live in a glorified ghetto in Nicosia (Victoria Street, now in the occupied north), but that’s now changed – yet the Armenian Prelature is on Armenia Street, next to the Nareg Armenian School, and the neighbourhood is dotted with Armenian businesses. Armenian culture is fiercely preserved, “and the Church is the bastion of that preservation and enrichment”. The Archbishop is a man on a mission.
What kind of person is Nareg Alemezian? A man of God, in the literal sense of having devoted his whole life to religion – but also in the more general sense of being austere, ascetic, un-tempted by the world. “I’m a simple person,” he shrugs. “I believe in simplicity in life.” He lives simply, in a flat above the Prelature. He likes reading, mostly memoirs and biographies – recent subjects have included Pope John XXIII and Lee Kuan Yew, the late Prime Minister of Singapore – and classical music. “I’ve never said, for instance, that I like to drive this kind of car, or wear this kind of shirt,” he tells me. “Whatever is given to us is a gift. As a matter of fact, our very life is a gift. And, in order to fulfil ourselves in the world, we have to think of spiritual and moral richness, not material. Unfortunately our world has become a very materialistic place, and our society a very consumerist place.”
He tells me a story. He lived for six years in New Jersey, working in the Armenian diocese there, and one of his great pleasures was reading the book reviews in the New York Times every Sunday. “The next day, I used to go to a bookstore,” looking to buy what he’d read about – “and entering a bookstore was for me a great occasion of joy. But, on the other hand, I found that instead of buying one or two books, that I would have time to read, I became addicted to buying 10, 15, 20, even there was a time when I bought 75 books in one visit!”. One day, he looked at the piles of unread books on his bookshelves and realised he was being self-indulgent – so “I stopped that habit. And now, I have a discipline. When I go to a bookstore I know what book I have to buy, and when I finish reading that book then I buy another book.” He nods, in his mild gentle way: “This is the way of life that has to be adopted by all of us.”
Is that true? Some will agree, others may violently disagree. Life is short, they’ll say; why deny yourself pleasure? The Archbishop will surely hear them out, and tell them he respects their opinion – but, for him, denial of pleasures (at least worldly pleasures) has been part of his life, part of his vocation. Meanwhile there’s the question of Armenia, still surviving in its scattered global fragments, still intact but heavy with the memories of 1.5 million dead in a long-vanished homeland. “Still, we are uprooted,” he tells me, and shakes his head sadly.
