paul chaderjian

by Paul Chaderjian May 13, 2013 On the edge of this multicultural  metropolis, miles shy of the suburban promises of Americana in Orange County, thousands of cars have come to a halt on a massive multi-laned interstate in Buena Park. Cars, new and old, foreign and domestic, weave an incomprehensible tale of multicultural harmony in our globalized 21st century. Inside the inner sanctum of isolated metal boxes on rubber wheels, radios blare the latest sensational headlines. A young Chechen is charged with heinous crimes that morning. The son of a dictator is threatening to make war in the Korean peninsula. Anonymous is shutting down the Internet in protest of unconstitutional reversals of privacy laws. A Bruno Mars mix sounds from the woofers of a fancy black SUV driven by a young lawyer. A cancer surgeon listens to the Oprah network on Sirius XM broadcasting Dr. Phil’s talk on marginalization and belonging. Meanwhile a traffic reporter in a chopper above tells his TV audience ...

By Paul Chaderjian a column for the Asbarez newspaper Once there was and there was not … In a haunting phonograph recording from 100 years ago in Paris, the scratchy and hollow, melancholic and faraway voice of genius priest Komitas comes to life via 0’s and 1’s, bits and bytes, on an iPhone 4S in Hawaii. Prologue Monochromatic images follow on the screen of the mind: a round cylindrical or maybe a flat 7-inch disc, spinning unevenly at 70 rotations a minute. There goes a motherless child sent to the seminary. Here comes the celibate monk, a driven genius crisscrossing the lands of the Armens to create an encyclopedia and playlist of songs spanning thousands of years. The famous ‘notaji vartabed’ gives his people their modern musical identity and perhaps more. He finds notoriety in Europe. There he is in Berlin, Paris, then back to Constantinople, where he is jailed on April 24, 1915. He sees the Great Catastrophe, Genocide, experiences the indescribable ...

a column by Paul Chaderjian for the Asbarez newspaper Once there were and there were not … IZ is blaring in your earbuds as you battle your default human nature of being unsatisfied, lazy, suffering, lethargic and ennuied. You are pushing half your body weight away from your chest, against gravity and destiny, and sweating in a gym on the fourth floor of a building at the intersection of King and Ward in Honolulu. You open your eyes and standing in front of your is a Kazakh lawyer. His lips are moving; he’s talking to you. You smile and remove your left earbud to hear him, because your right brain is intuitive and process the whole and not the parts. His name is Tim. You met him more than a year ago at the gym. He and his wife have a strict routine they follow every other day. Today, he jumps through a series of thoughts and questions. “Your anchor Pamela Young. She’s the most talented woman on the air here. I saw her live reports from ...

By Paul Chaderjian a column for the asbarez newspaper Once there were and there were not … #We become the story we tell ourselves On Friday, April 24, 2015, I walked among hundreds of thousands snaking through the reflective pathway to the needle monument and concrete slabs nesting our eternal flame. We held hands, moved in unison, tweeted pictures and carried flowers underneath a sheltering sky of gloom. One hundred pathological years of lies had passed since one of the greatest human catastrophes, when the physical manifestations of our iconic culturemakers and culturekeepers had been gathered and sent to heaven. But their souls were freed. And they became the caretakers of those who survived, empowering them to defeat the deletion… and undelete our ancient culture. We would not be aborted. We escaped to the remote corners of the world. We were dumped on beaches and built shantytowns from scraps to shelter our haggard bodies and souls. Some of us chang...

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By Paul Chaderjian
 Once there were and there were not … Trade winds keep the Tiki lounge overlooking Waikiki breezy and cool. Frozen and blended tropical drinks with rum, strawberries and bananas make everyone giddy. “To free and fair elections,” says one of them. They laugh and drink. “Wait, wait,” says another. “To the Genocide museum in DC.” They take another swig. With the panoramic view from the windowless Hula’s as the backdrop, a group of unlikely friends meet to forge a new Armenia in paradise, a new ohana. Beirut. Rome. Vegas. Aleppo. Los Angeles. Tehran. Houston. Manila. They have come from far away places and range in age from 23 to 73. A few are Armenian; others Armenian by marriage. One can shoot you to death from a mile away. Another is known for the best Middle Eastern cuisine on the islands. The oldest in the group is a retiree after a long career in protecting the environment. The youngest in the group is an engineer from the land of the Phoenician...