InternationalVeronica Safrasian, 98, was daughter of Taniel Varoujean
Published: Wednesday March 18, 2009
Veronica Safrasian.
Purdys, N.Y. - Veronica Safrasian (née Varoujean Tchiboukerian), daughter of Taniel Varoujean – perhaps the greatest poet ever to have written in Western Armenian – and his wife Araxie, died on February 2 in Purdys, New York, at the age of 98.
Mrs. Safrasian was born in Perkenik, a village of Sepastia, on June 6, 1910. In a letter to a friend, written in 1911, her father reported, "I have been married for two years now. My wife is named Araxie, a fair-haired beauty for whom I have a bucolic love. In addition, I have a one-year-old daughter, who is endowed with a precocious intelligence. She can already say ‘hayrig'; that word fills me with indescribable joy. I've dedicated a poem to her, titled ‘To my Varoujeanig.' That's the name of my little angel, of whom I'm so terribly fond."
Aghvor, aghvor, aghvor vartn im Karunis,
Vor srdis vra patsvetsar,
Yev kezi hed patsir hokis vshdaheghts,
Nor yerazi me baidzar....
Lovely, lovely, lovely rose of my spring,
Who bloomed upon my heart,
And with you bloomed in my troubled soul
A new, bright dream....
The poet was murdered in 1915 as part of the Armenian Genocide. Veronica studied in Geneva, Switzerland, coming to the United States in the 1930s. She became a librarian and worked for Rizzoli and Doubleday Bookstores in New York and for the New York Public Library for many years until she retired in 1982. She was very proud of her Armenian heritage and always participated in April 24th demonstrations in New York City.
In 2007, Mrs. Safrasian published a collection of postcards kept in her family album, translated into English by Aris Sevag. It is titled, The Tchiboukkearians of Perknig.
Veronica Safrasian is survived by a daughter, granddaughter, great grandson, nieces, nephews, and cousins.
A mother's vigil
It's victory night and we're all jubilant.
Bride, pour some oil in the lamp.
My boy will return from battle, triumphant.
Bride, raise the wick of the lamp.
A carriage stopped by the door, beside the vine.
Bride, go ahead, light the lamp.
My laureled son is coming from the front line.
Bride, come on here with that lamp.
But the carriage holds blood and grief, laid at rest.
Bride, reach outside the door frame.
My son the hero was struck right in the chest.
Oh, bride, extinguish the flame.
—Taniel Varoujean (trans. V.L.)
