Chapter 20 of 24 · Khrimian Hayrik, 1894Գլուխ 20 / 24 · Խրիմեան Հայրիկ, 1894

Improving the Village People's ConditionԻ. Գիւղական ժողովրդի վիճակին բարւոքումն

The English translation on its own.Read in Armenian — Khrimian's original text.The two languages paragraph by paragraph.

It makes a man despair, Tornik, to look at the condition of the village people and the bitter, laboring life they lead. He turns it over in his mind and asks himself, can it really be possible for the lot of our plain-dwelling, land-working people to change? Can their life get better? Can they too begin, step by step, to move forward?

You have to understand, Tornik, that the condition of the world's nations and peoples never changes all at once. It happens in the natural order, by degrees. Progress started in the west, and it has only now come in at the eastern door. A long time will pass before it gets through that door and reaches our own country. Progress begins with the cities first, and only then draws near the villages. But the cities have only just begun their ABC. The primary schools have all been opened for the little children, who are still learning to read and write, with a little Christian teaching, a little arithmetic, and a little studying of the map of geography. And the child, who does not yet know the places around his own home, off he goes and lands in the capitals of America and China.

In the chief villages of Vaspurakan a start has already been made at opening primary schools, and the village children have begun, more or less, to learn their reading and writing. The village schools can only keep their terms in winter, because in summer the villager badly needs his ten-year-old boy. Who is going to graze the calves and the lambs? Let the little boys do the plow-boy's work. From spring to autumn, in every branch of the farming, the service a boy like that gives is worth four hundred dahekans in wages. Progress in our country is a newborn baby, and a great deal of time has to pass before it is baptized in the font of the school's enlightenment, grows day by day, and becomes a man. Do not imagine, Tornik, that the child of education grows as fast as the child a mother bears. Twenty years are enough for a natural birth to reach its full growth, but the growth of progress and education takes long centuries. Do you know how many centuries ago Europe started out, and how she has only now reached the level she stands at?

Still, it is a great piece of luck for the generation we live in, because Europe, with grinding labor and enormous sacrifice, leveled and opened that road of progress, made ready all the elements of learning and science, and set them out like a table in front of us. The word of the Gospel fits this luck well. "Others have labored, and you have entered into their labor."1

So won't you say, Tornik, what do we need all that work and labor for now? Let's just sit down at the table, laid and ready, and eat.

That is very bad reasoning. Did you think the table was the tanapur, the yogurt soup, and the dinner our mistress of the house has cooked, so that we can pick up a spoon, sit down and eat? No. It will take great effort and great labor, long nights and hard discipline, before we can eat the bread of the table Europe has laid, because that bread grows in the field of the school. What do you say, Tornik? Shall we not plow, not sow, not tend the crop, not reap, not thresh, not grind the wheat, not knead the flour, not fire the tonir, the sunken clay oven, not bake the bread, and then sit down, without any of that sweat and labor, comfortably, at our ease, and eat our bread? You have heard in the Gospel that the sparrows are fed without plowing and without working for it.2 Come now, you foolish Tornik. Have you never watched a sparrow work? Do you think that scrap of a bird has no hard labor of its own? Don't you see how it goes and comes a thousand times over to keep its brood alive, carrying straws to build the nest, laying its eggs, hatching its young, going back and forth without a stop, finding little worms and bringing them to the nestlings until their wings are grown? And then watch how hard it works to school its young, so they learn to fly.

Do you see it, Tornik? There is nothing in nature that does not work. Bird, beast, creeping thing, everything that lives and moves works to keep itself alive. And never mind the creatures of dry land. The fish of the sea and the countless swimming creatures of every kind in that watery world work and struggle just as hard to stay alive.

The speechless animals of the world learned it from nature once and for all. God the Creator brought them out of the school of His making already able to find their food and live, without lessons and without education.

But man, created a reasoning creature and ruler over all the animals, cannot get his bread without school and without education. Yes, the people of our country, ignorant and unschooled for the most part, do manage to get their daily food, in a bitter and grinding way, and they eat their bread in hardship and distress. But there is no possibility at all of their having even a little comfort in their lives. They cannot know the economy of their own lives, or how to run house and family with rule and order. They cannot know the ways of the world and the terms on which people live together, or say for certain what is good and what is bad, right and wrong, virtue and vice. They cannot tell, with any exactness, truth from falsehood, justice from injustice, honor from disgrace. And what matters most, they cannot know the Christian faith they profess, the supreme commandments of holy Scripture and the Gospel, and what a Christian's duties are toward God, toward his neighbors and his household, toward the church, toward the nation, toward the state. All these most necessary kinds of knowledge are what the schoolroom teaches us. So the first and fundamental condition for changing the present state of the village people is school and education. Now say it yourself, Tornik. To found a school you need a man, and along with the man, money. Where is the man, where is the money, and where is the trained schoolmaster? Out of the threshing floor, or out of the winepress?3 The state of the village people is plain enough already. They have no mind to think with, and they cannot so much as understand the word education. And suppose you say, let the townsman help, since all his trade and all his profit come by grace of the village people. Yes, the townsman. He cannot lend a hand with money for the education of the working people, and worse, his spirit is cold and indifferent even about the education of his own children. Here is an example close at hand, the famous city of Van. Ask how much the Vanetsi spends in a year on his schools. I will not talk about that. I will spare him. I will say only this much. For the most part the Vanetsi educates his boys and his girls on the paltry candle money and oil money vowed to the church. He is not in the habit of paying a school fee, and if you ask him for one he scowls. Press him, and he takes the boy out of school.

But Tornik, we do not need help from the townsfolk. Long life to the village people. They pay the state its dues, and they provide for all those guests coming and going. Can they not keep one plain schoolmaster, a man who would be satisfied with very little pay?

We have bread, we have butter, we have cheese and the other things that come from the milk. Our schoolmasters want very little. They will be content with zhazhik, the whey-curd of the village table. All that is needed is someone to take charge and set things in order, someone to urge the common people on and lead them onto the road of education. And whose sacred duty is that? First the diocesan Prelate's, and second the monastery vardapets'.4

But here is the pity of it, Tornik. Our Prelates nowadays have turned into a kind of political official. The real ministry of the church, the school, education, learning and the rest, has been laid on the shelf. And who is to blame for it, the people or the Prelate? Our judgment is that the Prelate is to blame, because he is a shepherd, a minister of the Gospel, and nothing else but a spiritual servant of Christ's church.

But look what has happened. The people have made their Prelate's spiritual office into a thing of the flesh. They do not ask the Prelate to open their shut eyes by a miracle so that they can see what there is in the world, or to heal the sicknesses of their souls. They ask one miracle and one only. Let the Prelate bless five loaves, the way Jesus did, and feed five thousand men.5 And so the hungry people's question of bread has beaten down God's word of life, the word the Prelate is there to preach and serve out. How pitiful the people's blindness is, Tornik. It makes them look more to blame than the Prelate. And yet who can pass judgment on them? The people are choked by the problems of staying alive and hemmed in by hardship, so they look to the Prelate for every remedy. Of course they look to him, as long as they are ignorant. They have no learning, they cannot speak for themselves, they do not know the law of the land, so naturally they take the Prelate for the go-between and the advocate of their cause.

So the matter comes back again, Tornik, to the monastery vardapets, who are free men. They carry a great obligation, and they owe it to the village people to work for them with complete self-devotion. Their work is to go from village to village, to preach, to teach, to speak in a plain, familiar way the people can follow, so that they grasp what a school means and what the education of their children means.

A visiting vardapet who does that will not only found village schools. He will educate the village's young men, the men in their prime, and even the worn-out old ones, whose schoolhouse is the church. Let the vardapet come often on his visits. Let him speak, go back over his sermons and the meaning of the Gospel he has read, explain, set out God's commandments, and lay the table of the word and the bread of life in front of the hungry people, so that they eat and are filled.

The village people are very old in the Christian life, but look at how they live now and you will see they have turned back into a newborn child at the breast, and the picture of their life is ignorance and rusticity. Their teeth have not come in yet, so solid food is not for them, meaning fine lessons and sermons. They need to be fed on milk, something they can taste with pleasure and digest. It is true that what a man learns in childhood is the best grounded and the firmest. I only wish I had had the luck to go to school as a boy and get a proper education myself. What I know, and what I am telling you in these lessons, I learned when I was already a grown man, and it does not come to much. Only by listening, and by reading books, have I come to know a little about the things of the world. You know, Tornik, that every book is a schoolmaster in itself to the man who reads it. The writers have died and gone, but the writing has stayed alive. There are books that never die. Thousands and thousands of years can pass, and they will still be talking to us.

I am writing these few lines, Tornik, so you understand that men well on in years can still learn their necessary lessons and be educated, provided the man teaching them gives himself to the work, tireless, always talking, never discouraged, persistent and patient. I saw the trial and the proof of it with my own eyes. Let me tell you about it, Tornik.

About twenty-five years ago, under the shelter of the church of Surb Lusavorich in Galata in Bolis,6 a new kind of educational undertaking was started. The man who started it was a fine, tireless, hardworking man named Ghazaros Kristostur. It is a great pity. He died two years ago, but he kept the work going without a break until the day he went into his grave. And what was the undertaking? A Sunday class for the education of the pandukht porters, men from the provinces living in exile for their bread. Yes, he opened it, and he made a success of it. You should have seen how, on Sundays and feast days, our pandukht brothers left the coffeehouse and the other places of amusement and poured into the classroom, and how Mister Kristostur, a schoolmaster without a salary, started them at the letter Ayb and gave out his plain lessons. He was no trained teacher, but he taught in a manner and style so easy that these porters, who were supposed to be thick-witted, took in everything he said without the least trouble. And in a short time our porters, rough peasants, turned into men who knew something. They learned a good deal of the Armenian language, grammar, the history of holy Scripture, Christian doctrine and lessons from the Gospel, arithmetic, calendar reckoning and the rest.

Do you know how this fruitful undertaking ended, Tornik? Once the porter had gotten the taste of learning and his mind had opened a little, he felt and recognized his own worth. He learned that a man is not a beast made to carry loads. God created man a prince, the ruler of the animals. So the porter threw the pack-saddle, the semer, off his calloused back and went and found work that suited his worth. Some of those porters even took posts as private clerks, and some went home to their own country and became schoolmasters in the village schools.

Gratitude obliges me to remember this and to say it. While I was in Bolis I went again and again to listen to that self-devoted man, and his lessons, above all the ones on counsel and morals, were a real education and a great benefit to the pandukhts of the provinces. God rest his soul, he was a preaching vardapet without cowl or crozier. He knew nothing about method. He had no orator's tongue, and he could not say a thing briefly, touch it once and move on. He would talk and talk, plowing away at the fallow ground of his porter pupils until he had broken it up, sown the grains of his lessons and bedded them in. Blessed be his memory, and may the Lord God pay that tireless laborer his wage.

I have told you this true story as proof, Tornik, so that you and the village people can be convinced that grown men too can be educated and can learn, provided there is a teacher who gives himself to the work, above all when he teaches and works at the same time and offers his own person to the people as an example.

And where are men like that? How rare they are for the peasant people. And where would they suddenly come from? Out of the desert, like John the Baptist?7 Or will the Lord God, in His care for His people, bring out a prophet from among the shepherds, out of the school of His grace, the way He once did for the people of Israel?8 As long as we have no settled, well-ordered training schools to raise learned and educated successors, the people's condition will stay exactly as it is.

The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few, Jesus says. Ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into His harvest.9 We neither ask nor beg. And yet the Lord God, pitying our wretchedness of His own accord, does now and then bring out a small laborer, a visiting shepherd, for our harvests. Der Daniel vardapet is such a man, of the brotherhood of the monastery of Varag, who for ten years and more has shepherded, with complete self-devotion, not only our village of Archak but all the villages around it, near and far. His visiting feet knew no rest. He was forever on the move. That tireless laborer did more than sow the seed of the Gospel and speak moral counsel. He taught lessons in village farming as well, in a style so plain, so clear, so easy to follow that we thick-witted peasants could take in every word of it. He built and established our school at Archak and at the same time arranged revenues to keep it going, and in many other villages too he built churches and founded schools. Daniel vardapet's own life was altogether plain, and he wanted very little. He ate at the peasant's table, which usually meant tanapur and madzun, our curdled yogurt, and he ate it without a word of complaint, and he would say, for a man in orders this is enough and more than enough. His spirit was free of the love of possessions and clear of the disease of greed. He had pity in him. His heart went out to the wretched, and he liked giving better than taking. He had a steady will. Whatever he set his hand to, he worked to carry forward with an unflagging spirit. He was not bound by prejudice, and though he had no great learning and no widely cultivated mind, he had a real gift for the progress of the times. In the end, Daniel vardapet was the one visiting shepherd the village people had, and that is why the people loved him, and why he loved the village people even more.

If only the church had more self-devoted laborers like that for our plentiful harvests. Then you would see, Tornik, how the condition of the village people would change and improve.

That brings these general lessons to an end. Now the time has come for me to speak, and to tell you the thing that concerns your own life in particular, and our family.

Notes

  1. John 4:38.
  2. Cf. Matthew 6:26.
  3. 2 Kings 6:27, "If the Lord does not help you, where am I to get help for you? Out of the threshing floor, or out of the winepress?"
  4. A vardapet is a celibate priest-doctor of the Armenian Church, licensed to preach.
  5. Matthew 14:17-21.
  6. Surb Lusavorich, the church of St. Gregory the Illuminator in Galata, the port quarter of Constantinople where the migrant porters (hamals) from the Armenian provinces gathered.
  7. Matthew 3:1.
  8. Cf. Amos 7:14-15, the herdsman taken from the flock to prophesy.
  9. Matthew 9:37-38.
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