Tsavt Tanem

   (1976) I was only 4 when, for the first time, I saw a dead man. Next to our home, there was a funeral and my grandmother naively assumed that it would be ok for a child to be there...

So she took me with her. To make it even worst, in front of the coffin, she lifted me by holding me under my armpits so I can kiss, as everyone did, the goldish, orthodox image of Mary and baby Jesus that the dead man was holding in front of his lifeless chest…

   His black, shinny, open coffin was standing in the middle of the living room. Around it, seated in a full circle, plenty of quiet fat, black dressed women, with black scarves on their heads, were crying out and murmuring words of a Greek Turkish dialect that I could hardly understand.

   At the level of my eyes, their black bellies and their black breasts were coming in full contrast with the skinny man in the coffin. Between their lifted black skirts and their black ted socks, I could see a small part of their naked, white knees. In their pink hands, I could notice some old fashioned, white handkerchiefs. The poor women were using them to sweep the tears from their reddish, swollen from crying faces...

   It was mostly the drama of that ancient tragedy chorus that had somehow upset me by leaving marks on my sensitive psychology and less the appearance of the previously very sick man who now looked to me as if he was peacefully sleeping...

(Today) Kindness and compassion play a critical role in my work, and they surely can emerge from unexpected places. 

The moment I had the chance, I asked a dear friend of mine to allow me to take some photos while he, as a funeral director, would be taking care of a dead body. As discretion and objectivity are crucial in my line of work I promised not to show the faces of anyone in that room. I hadn’t realised how important and emotional the process of that shooting would be.

  

   I saw him naked, lying down on the operating table. Under the cold light of the surgical headlamps, I almost felt the cold, metallic surface on his back. He was in his early 80s, with nice posture, without any signs of sicknesses, deformations, accidents, or a bad life. On his left hand, he was still wearing his wedding ring. Must probably his wife was still alive. Maybe, as my siblings and me, his children were living away and now they needed to travel unexpectedly to be in their father’s funeral.

I started thinking about my parents.

   They were around my age when in my 20s I left home to study and live by myself. Since then I visit them, once or twice per year, usually at Christmas. As long as I was becoming a man,

I watched them getting older and older; and only recently I began to realise that it was a matter of time before they leave this world and lose them forever… I felt sad. Friends of mine, who had lost their parents, talked about a feeling of the orphanhood and being cut off from something very deep. They could not describe it. They had said that it seemed as if you were suddenly hanging alone in the air… As a man in his late 40s, I had lost already some very close friends, some dear relatives, and many, strongly connected with me, pets. I can assure anyone that the permanent absence of a beloved one can be almost unbearable. At that moment, the idea of losing my parents made me feel extremely uncomfortable…

   By taking, as many photos were possible of that significant moment, I expressed my thoughts to my friend who was patiently preparing the old husband for his funeral. His answer truly relieved me. “Yes, it is true. Grief for the ones we lost can be incredibly lonely and pain can undoubtedly devastate us. But have you ever thought that during funerals, strength and hope can be found in connecting with others? Don’t you agree that in those very moments, people are more honest, kind, and usually more acceptable and open than any other time during their lives? Besides, for an elderly or a sick person, it can often be a relief that they're no longer in pain or the nursing home…”    

  He was right. Like a stray dog, unprotected in rain, looking around for some comfort, I turned my thoughts to the ones that hopefully will be there with me to share those difficult moments. My siblings, my cousins, my childhood friends.

I realised, deeply for the first time, the value of belonging somewhere; the importance of having good friends, and good relationships with people who know you since you were a child. I saw the significance to have the right people around to share your thoughts, your drama, your pain.

   A dear friend of mine once told me this: The Armenian people do not just hello to each other. Of course, there must be a phrase for a good morning or hello. But what they really use and they really mean it, is a little, magical, full of meaning phrase called: Tsavt Tanem. It simply means, “Let me take your pain” and it’s embodying the generosity, the good spirit, and the love between people who deeply care for each other.

    The sun outside was at its peak. No matter the wintertime, there was warmth and life around me. Before I had even buttoned my jacket I was speaking on the phone with my mother. I even asked my father on the phone. I needed to know that they were good.