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VAHAN TEKEYAN 125
In Cairo, where I was born and lived the first fifteen years
of my life, I had many occasions to come across Vahan Tekeyan’s
name and, indirectly, his persona. At times, holding my mother’s
hand, walking through a neighborhood I would always notice
the plaque with Tekeyan’s name on the facade of one
of the buildings. I relished the feeling of mystery that would
fill me each time I passed by this house.
In our home, as in many other Egyptian-Armenians’ homes,
while flipping through family albums full of group pictures
of respectable men and tastefully dressed women, a finger
would suddenly slow down to point to a figure in spectacles,
and a voice of admiration would utter: “This is Vahan
Tekeyan...”
I would hear his name most often in my grandfather, Sahag
Turabian’s house– they used to be close as members
of the Ramkavar Party for many years, and both collaborated
in the Arev newspaper. My aunt would tell me that in his moments
of restraint and hesitation when he would become reclusive,
Mr. Tekeyan would not tolerate being surrounded by people,
except for a few, one being my grandfather... My perception
of Tekeyan’s persona was being formed within the layers
of my diasporan daily life, enveloped by an enigma. I was
very proud that such a great man had been my grandfather’s
friend.
As for my own perception of Tekeyan’s poetry, I could
say there was none. At school and party events, – as
a rule – mainly young ladies or women would emphatically
and trembling with emotion read his poems, the selection being
repetitious, and as the last words of the stanza would slowly
fade into the ovation, I would stand there, distant, unrelated
to the meaning of it all...
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