If you want to look you'll find no shortage of disparagement of the Burlington Free Press around here, so I think it's fair to give them credit when they deserve it.
Today's paper featured a rare serious piece by Chris Bohjalian about the coverup of the Armenian genocide by the White House.
The facts are clear, and we've written about this before, but just to refresh your recollection, the Turks slaughtered a million and a half Armenians around the time of World War I in what is considered the first act of genocide of the Twentieth Century.
I've been critical, both here and at Rational Resistance, the reticence chickenshit attitude of the U.S. government toward the legitimate grievances of Armenians and Armenian-Americans in this area.
Bohjalian's piece incorporates his family history in a story of his visit to see a famous rug woven by survivors of the genocide.
I'm outraged, too. It's not that long ago that Nobel Prize winning author Orhan Pamuk was prosecuted for “criticizing Turkishness” because he had the temerity to discuss and write about the genocide.
Here in the United States we're way more civilized: we just ignore you.
You should read Bohjalian's piece in its entirety.
Here is one Armenian’s tribute to his people, in French on YouTube, with English lyrics below.
It’s a sadly compelling song to listen to; it’s brought me to tears many times.
___
They fell that year they vanished
From the earth
Never knowing the cause
Or what laws the offended
The women few as well
And the babies they tendered
Left to die left to cry
All condemned by their birth
They fell like rain
Across the thirsty land
In their heart they were slain
In their God still believing
All their pity and pain
In that season of grieving
All in vain, all in vain
Just for one helping hand
For no one heard their prayers
In a world bent on pleasure
Form others people care
They simply closed their eyes
They create a-lot of sound
In jazz and right time measure
The trumpets screamed till dawn
To drown the children’s cries
They fell like leaves
Its people its prime
Simple man, kindly man
And no one new his crime
The became in that hour
Like the small desert flower
Simply covered by the silent wind
In sands of time
They fell that year
Before a cruel foe
They had little to give
But their lives and their passion
And their longing to live
In their way, in their fashion
So their harvest can
Thrive their children can grow
They fell like flies
Their eyes still full of sound
Like a dove its flight
In the path of rifle
That fall down were it might
That holds on with its might
As if death were a trifle
And to bring to an end
A life barely begun and I am of that race
Who die in unknown places
Who perished in their pride
Whose blood in rivers ran
In agony and fright
With courage on their faces
They went in to the night
That waits for every man
They fell like tears
And never new what for
In that summer of strife
Of massacre and war
Their only crime was life
There only guilt was fear
The children of Armenia
Nothing less nothing more