Now, I know what my mother meant when she told me many years back, “If only I had my today’s wisdom, I would have been a much happier person during my youth.”

The other thing that she also said, was, “I have gone through so much in life that, even if someone were to shoot me, I wouldn’t feel the bullet pain anymore.”  “Besides,” she added. “Now, I don’t take things, which are banal and unimportant seriously … Yes, all those things that used to hurt me before.”

Come to think of it, she was so right. It is the same with me today. Subjects that in the past used to hurt me; especially those concerning my and my husband’s relationship – now seem ridiculous to me. Today, I tend to dismiss  all our stupid disagreements easily; while during my youth it was totally the opposite. Indeed, at present time, all those old, so called, ”bullets” don’t hurt me anymore. Is it because I have become thick-skinned, having gone through certain difficulties? Or maybe the wise words in the verses of Ecclesiastes in the Bible prove the vanity of such problems?   In other words, have I figured out that “under the sun,” such difficulties are like dust in the wind?

 

 

“Mom.” Peggy’s seven-year-old son said, “Can you come down to the garden and tell Philip to leave me alone?”

“What does he do?” she asked.

“He kicks me and smacks me on the head. You know, Mom; he doesn’t let me play in peace with my friends.”

Peggy could easily go down to the communal garden – where they lived in Geneva in a range of apartment buildings – and tell Philip off. However, she decided against it. Peggy did not believe in being an overprotective mother. Although, this happened ages earlier, she still has the same belief. She thinks children have to learn to defend themselves. Then, she claims, when they grow up, they will turn into capable personalities.

So that day, Peggy told her son, “No, I won’t go down and tell Philip off.”

“Oh, Mom. Why?” he protested, “All other mothers help their children.”

“I could do the same; but, don’t you think Philip and his friends will laugh at you and call you, ‘Mommy’s boy?’”

“OK.” He said, looking convinced, and continued, “Then tell me what I should do to have Philip and his friends off my back?”

Peggy hugged him hard and answered, “Next time they hurt you, try to hit them back. You can even kick them and run away fast before they find time to figure out what you did.”

Her son immediately left the house smiling mischievously. Then, within half an hour, he returned with a red cheek and his shirt sleeve hanging.

Peggy smiled; looking at him admiringly, and said, “It seems you had a rough time with those nasty boys, am I right?”

He beamed proudly and answered, “Yes, Mom. I really kicked them all hard.”

“Oh. You did?”

“Yes. When I kicked them as hard as I could, they rubbed their legs, sat down, and almost cried with pain. Then, one of the boys in the group called, Pascal chased me. When he caught up with me, he slapped my face and tore off my sleeve.”

She said, “No wonder your cheek is red… Pascal slapped you.”

That did it. Soon, the boys accepted him in their group. Indeed, he was the only little fellow hanging out with older boys.

Peggy claim that, that specific incident boosted her son’s self- confidence. What’s more, she also believes the reason for him for having a successful career later in life is due to his childhood experiences.

True. She was the kind of mother who taught her two children to look up for themselves. However, there were also times when she stood by them. Indeed, Peggy was supportive of her son and daughter whenever necessary.

Now, concerning Peggy’s treatment of her kids; there is one more story.

In their communal garden, there was a boy, whose mother never left him alone or unsupervised. And, if any child dared to bother her son, she was there to shield him; totally the opposite of Peggy.

One afternoon, their doorbell rang. When Peggy opened the door, the boy’s mother was standing behind it, holding a stick in her hand. She waved it at Peggy and said, “Your daughter is a very naughty girl.”

“What has she done?” Peggy asked.

“She annoys my son by calling him, ‘Mommy’s boy. You have to punish her.”

“Ok,” she said, before slamming the door to the woman’s face. “Leave her to me.”

As soon as she closed the door, her eight-year-old daughter looked at her mother bashfully, feeling guilty.

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Peggy told her. “I know what type of a boy he is. I don’t blame you for calling him, ‘Mommy’s boy; but I will appreciate it if you left him alone from now on.”

She gave Peggy a blissful smile and nodded, “Yes, Mommy. I won’t bother him anymore.”

Conclusion: Don ‘t be overprotective of your children. Meanwhile, be supportive and understand their small world if you wish to help them grow up into nice and confident characters later in life.

“Come, grab a chair and place yourself next to me,” said my daughter-in-law’s charming grandfather, as he sat by the window staring across the street.
The moment I sat down, Martiross Teshkhoyan – whom I’ll be calling Martik for short – gave out a deep sigh, and looked at me with sad eyes.
“Ah…” he interjected, “you know what day tomorrow is, don’t you?”
I nodded, thinking, which Armenian doesn’t? Naturally, being the 24th of April, it is the anniversary of the Armenian genocide.
Staring with respect at the deep lines hacked on his face, I asked, “You must be a survivor of the genocide; am I correct?”
Martik gaped out absently, as tears welled in his eyes. He swallowed, looked down and enquired, “If I tell you my story, will you promise to write it for me?”
I jumped from my chair, knelt upon the floor to face him, and uttered, “Yes; Sir, I promise. I’ll be honored to do so.”
He smiled, as a strand of wavy grey hair dangled casually on his broad forehead, and said, “Good, because I want my children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren always remember what their ancestors have gone through.”
Martik stared far out beyond the buildings across the street absently, and began, “My father, mother, elder brother, six-year-old sister, and I lived in Agen – a town in Turkey, located within the region which until 1555 belonged to Armenia.”
He took a deep breath and continued, “On a rainy day, on April 24, 1915, a Turkish Soldier knocked on our door and announced that my father and elder brother were invited to an official dinner at the mayor’s mansion that night. Later we learned that similar official dinner invitations were delivered to all prominent and intellectual Armenian men across Turkey.”
I gasped, as I was well aware of this sad and cruel historical event. As, none of the Armenian men returned to their homes from that “dinner”. They were all murdered weren’t they? I asked him.
He looked at me nodded sadly and continued: “The next day, after waiting in vain for the return of my father and brother, a group of soldiers showed up at our doorstep with their guns slung over their shoulders and forced my mother, little sister, and myself out of our house. Out in the street, we were rejoined by hundreds of other Armenian families ranging between young and old; women and men; babies, children of all ages as well as teenaged boys and girls. Soldiers shoved us all forward and forced us to walk for miles. We walked but did not know where we were going.”
He went silent for a few minutes and continued. “In some satanic way we were perhaps lucky, hundreds and hundreds of others were ordered into Armenian churches, where the soldiers bolted the doors from outside and set them on fire”
I felt a painful lump forming in my throat with distress. To me, it felt like suffocating from inhaling smoke inside a burning church together with my people, as Martik continued with his story.
“That day, after miles and miles of walking, our group reached the outskirts of the city. The soldiers ordered us to lie down on the ground and sleep. My mother, my exhausted and hungry sister, and I cuddled up with one another and tried to warm ourselves up against the chill of the night. In the morning we were kicked cruelly, awakened and forced to march again.
Martik stopped asked me for a glass of water which he drank deliberately as if to quench a big thirst, and said “We marched on and on from one day to another. We were exhausted, hungry and thirsty, and as days went by the elderly and children gradually began to die.”
“Eventually, we arrived at the border of the Syrian Desert. Turkey’s weather is cool, and in winter, freezing cold. So, naturally we were not used to the extreme heat of a Desert. It was tough; especially, with not having access to food and water, except for a meager ration we were handed at night as we collapsed onto the sand. It helped neither with hydration, nor nutrition.”
“During the day, as my mother staggered alongside me”, recounted Martik.”I had to carry my little sister. Fortunately, I was fit and strong. Then, one day, my little sister developed a high fever. Sadly, or perhaps mercifully, she did not last long and passed away in my arms the next day. When that night, we arrived to our resting station, my mother and I said the Lord’s Prayer, and buried her under deep sand with aching hearts.”
“How sad…!” I retorted, with tears blurring my vision.
“Next morning right before our march, my mother and I went to my sister’s burial site to say good-bye to her. Oh, you don’t know what we found.”
Martik held his head and began to cry, as I placed a caring hand on his shoulder.
He said, “Hungry wild dogs had dug out my baby sister’s body and eaten her flesh, while her head was still attached to her skeleton.”
I jumped to my feet and threw my arms around his shoulders.
Martik, after a while composed himself and said, “Then, a week later, my mother died. In a way, I was happy for her. She did not have to suffer any more.”
Martik took a sigh of relief and continued, “Two days later, something lucky happened to me.”
“Do tell me about it please,” I cut in.
“One morning a horse riding Kurdish man showed up and began looking into the disheveled and devastated surviving bunch of Armenians. He was hoping to find a young boy whom he could use as a servant around his household. Fortunately, he chose me.”
“When we arrived at his house in a Kurdish village,” he added, “and entered a black stoned garden with no trees nor flowers; I dumped my tired body on the stairs leading to the living quarters. Suddenly, I noticed a young Armenian girl with her traditional outfit coming out to greet me. She handed me some fresh clothing and began speaking in Armenian to me.”
I told her, “So, you are an Armenian.”
“Yes, I am.”
“What are you doing here, with your expensive hairband covered with gold coins?” I enquired.
“Well,” she said, “I am our master’s fifth wife.”
“What…?” I almost yelled at her, “What is an Armenian Christian girl doing married to a Kurd?”
“I rather be the fifth wife of a nice Muslim man than to be raped by those disgusting bandits, who have no pity on our girls,” she answered.
“She was right. What’s more, she did not have to die of starvation like the others, aside being constantly raped and maltreated.” Martik said.
He added that after taking a bath, changing into fresh clean clothing, and resting, he began working and cleaning around the house. He recounted that from that day on, the first thing he did every morning, was to light the samovar and make tea. Afterwards, he went on with the rest of the household chores.
“One morning, when I got up to prepare tea, as I entered the room to set the breakfast table, I found the Armenian girl, lying on the sofa, burning with fever. Her husband had not come home the night before. He probably had spent the night with one of his other four wives,” Martik recounted. “As the Armenian young woman lay there suffering, she had her expensive gold coin-covered hairband on.”
He sighed and asked me, “Can you guess what I did?”
“No, I can’t.”
Martik bit his lower lip, and continued, “I pulled her hairband off her head and took off.” He added, looking embarrassed. “Can you imagine? Rather than helping her, I stole her expensive jewelry just because I decided to sell it and use the money to escape to a land, where I could be a free person.”
I told him, “You had to save yourself. I understand you. Besides, I am sure her husband came that morning and helped her.”
“Maybe… However, up to this day, I can’t forget what I did to free myself. What’s more, I can’t forgive myself for giving her no hand when she needed my help.” He said that with his head bent down as if in shame. Then he raised his head, and said “You must write this”. And, so I have.

I was in my twenties when my husband, and I moved to the German village of Oberammergau for two years. For me, the big change from a busy and dynamic city such as Tehran, to a historical and picturesque village located high up at the bosom of the Alps, was quite bewildering. In other words, I could not adjust myself to the calm and inactive environment of Oberammergau. In one of my previous blogs, I do mention our move to the above village, where my husband worked for the US Army.
To make things worse, I missed my family members, relatives, and friends badly. My only consolation, aside from my husband, was our baby girl, Sophia, who also seemed to be missing my mother, sister, and three brothers. What’s more, Oberammergau, because of being located in the Alp Mountains, had freezing temperatures in the winter. Its summers were also quite cool; especially at night time, when you needed to warm yourself with a thick woolen jacket. And since I am not a lover of cold weather, you can imagine how I felt about Oberammergau.
A few months after our arrival in Germany, Sophia developed a bad sore throat and high fever. We were advised by a fellow employee of my husband at the US base to take her to the next town called Garmish to see a well-known pediatrician.
As I sat at the doctor’s office pressing my sick baby hard against my chest, a slim and tall doctor, in his immaculately clean, white medical overall, stepped out of his office. He walked straight to us, and introduced himself as Dr. Smiedt. He then grabbed Sophia from my arms and walked away with her to his office. I expected for Sophia to get upset for not having her mother accompany her. However, when she saw the doctor pulling out a lollipop from his top pocket and passing it on to her, she seemed happy and distracted.
I, in turn, sat there not knowing what was going on inside the doctor’s office, and wondered if Sophia was missing me.
As I was busy pondering those thoughts, suddenly Sophia’s ear-piercing screams filled the air. To me, it felt as if somebody had hit her hard on the head. Thus, I jumped to my feet with my heart pounding madly. “What’s happening?” “Why is my poor little girl yelling like that?” I screamed, as the people sitting across the room gave me strange glances. I am sure that if this had happened in the States, people sitting in the waiting room, would rush toward me and comfort me.
As Sophia’s shrieks continued, I heard her calling out, “Mama…Mama!”
I dashed toward the closed door and banged hard at it.
In no time, the door opened and the doctor walked out holding my crying baby in his arms. The moment Sophia set her teary eyes upon me; she threw both arms toward me and continued crying even louder.
“What happened?” I asked, while trying to comfort Sophia.
“Well,” he answered, “She had polyps, and I tore them out rapidly, going in through her nose thrills.”
As I looked at the doctor with bewilderment, he carried on, “Meanwhile this little girl was so busy enjoying her lollipop that she did not even realize what was happening to her.”
“You removed the polyps out without the use of any sedatives?” I demanded.
“In Germany, we don’t believe in the use of sedatives on children. It is not good for them.”
I shook my head and frowned. How could he have allowed himself to torture the poor baby?
Sophia suffered with pain the whole day; as I tried to distract her with toys and snacks. Yet, the following day, she felt like her normal self again; despite having gone through a tortuous surgery.
I thought, maybe after all the German doctor’s method was the right one. Nevertheless, I must stress that such a painful procedure would have never happened in Iran. The doctors in those days, were all US educated and happened to be “proper doctors,” as I liked to call them. Especially, after my terrible experience in Germany.

Oberammergau

I was in my twenties when my husband, and I moved to the German village of Oberammergau for two years. For me, the big change from a busy and dynamic city such as Tehran, to a historical and picturesque village located high up at the bosom of the Alps, was quite bewildering. In other words, I could not adjust myself to the calm and inactive environment of Oberammergau. In one of my previous blogs, I do mention our move to the above village, where my husband worked for the US Army.
To make things worse, I missed my family members, relatives, and friends badly. My only consolation, aside from my husband, was our baby girl, Sophia, who also seemed to be missing my mother, sister, and three brothers. What’s more, Oberammergau, because of being located in the Alp Mountains, had freezing temperatures in the winter. Its summers were also quite cool; especially at night time, when you needed to warm yourself with a thick woolen jacket. And since I am not a lover of cold weather, you can imagine how I felt about Oberammergau.
A few months after our arrival in Germany, Sophia developed a bad sore throat and high fever. We were advised by a fellow employee of my husband at the US base to take her to the next town called Garmish to see a well-known pediatrician.
As I sat at the doctor’s office pressing my sick baby hard against my chest, a slim and tall doctor, in his immaculately clean, white medical overall, stepped out of his office. He walked straight to us, and introduced himself as Dr. Smiedt. He then grabbed Sophia from my arms and walked away with her to his office. I expected for Sophia to get upset for not having her mother accompany her. However, when she saw the doctor pulling out a lollipop from his top pocket and passing it on to her, she seemed happy and distracted.
I, in turn, sat there not knowing what was going on inside the doctor’s office, and wondered if Sophia was missing me.
As I was busy pondering those thoughts, suddenly Sophia’s ear-piercing screams filled the air. To me, it felt as if somebody had hit her hard on the head. Thus, I jumped to my feet with my heart pounding madly. “What’s happening?” “Why is my poor little girl yelling like that?” I screamed, as the people sitting across the room gave me strange glances. I am sure that if this had happened in the States, people sitting in the waiting room, would rush toward me and comfort me.
As Sophia’s shrieks continued, I heard her calling out, “Mama…Mama!”
I dashed toward the closed door and banged hard at it.
In no time, the door opened and the doctor walked out holding my crying baby in his arms. The moment Sophia set her teary eyes upon me; she threw both arms toward me and continued crying even louder.
“What happened?” I asked, while trying to comfort Sophia.
“Well,” he answered, “She had polyps, and I tore them out rapidly, going in through her nose thrills.”
As I looked at the doctor with bewilderment, he carried on, “Meanwhile this little girl was so busy enjoying her lollipop that she did not even realize what was happening to her.”
“You removed the polyps out without the use of any sedatives?” I demanded.
“In Germany, we don’t believe in the use of sedatives on children. It is not good for them.”
I shook my head and frowned. How could he have allowed himself to torture the poor baby?
Sophia suffered with pain the whole day; as I tried to distract her with toys and snacks. Yet, the following day, she felt like her normal self again; despite having gone through a tortuous surgery.
I thought, maybe after all the German doctor’s method was the right one. Nevertheless, I must stress that such a painful procedure would have never happened in Iran. The doctors in those days, were all US educated and happened to be “proper doctors,” as I liked to call them. Especially, after my terrible experience in Germany.