The idea for this book was sparked by a legal contest over art. I resolved to write it after experiencing yet another act of genocide denial. It was a commonplace and gratuitous kind of denial by someone who undoubtedly knew better. In its casualness it laid bare the fact that denial is a manifestation of the inequity of power and hate that foster genocide. I didn’t make an issue of it, but I could never forget it.
The writing process took place in the shadow of the Arab Spring and its somber aftermath. The festering conflict in Syria bore witness to the role of art in mobilizing action, as well as to the destruction of art and its intimate connection to mass violence.
The writing coincided with the centennial year of the Armenian Genocide. As a board member of “Project 2015” I had the opportunity to help organize and participate in the historic commemoration ceremonies in Istanbul. The intersection of activism, education, and memory that led up to April 24, 2015, challenged me to think critically about the genocide, its lingering effects, and human rights in practice. I am grateful to my friends and colleagues in Project 2015, and our partner human rights organizations in Istanbul and Europe. In particular, Sarah Leah Whitson, executive director of Human Rights Watch’s Middle East and North Africa Division, challenged me to think about commemoration and activism together, and Nancy Kricorian, novelist and activist, shared her writing and provided vital advice about my own writing and efforts to bridge academic and general audiences.
Genocide, that greatest of crimes, reaches into all human activity, including art. It challenges the very act of representation. In this book the chapters open with short vignettes that paint a picture or narrate a scene based on the same evidence that the body of the text treats analytically. In their more evocative mode of storytelling, the vignettes pay homage to the many voices of genocide survivors. For example, Garabed Gomuvian’s little-known song or Aram Andonian’s masterful In Those Dark Days take the stylized literary forms of the traditional ashugh lament and the modern novella in order to relate their experiences of the genocide—experiences so traumatic that they stretch the limits and possibilities of language itself. And yet survivors also spoke of the urgency of remembering and recording.
A number of important conversations shaped the direction of this book. Susan Brenneman, the op-ed editor at the Los Angeles Times, encouraged me to explore how the story of the Canon Tables also told the Armenian story. Her advice underscored the importance of taking this story, and the role of cultural heritage in genocide, into public discussion. Initial critical conversation took place within the working group “The Material World in Social Life” funded by the University of California Humanities Research Institute, for which I thank Marian Feldman, Chandra Mukerji, and Fred Turner. Rachel Teagle, founding director of the Jan Shrem and Maria Manetti Shrem Museum of Art at the University of California, Davis, encouraged me to think broadly about restitution and its impact on art history as well as the art market. An early invitation to lecture on this topic at UCLA from Susan Slyomovics, then-director of the Center for Near Eastern Studies, and the late Irene Bierman-McKinney set the stage for a discussion with Richard Hovannisian and Peter Cowe. Kathryn Babayan and Melanie Tanielian invited me to speak at the University of Michigan and shared the exhibition they curated on the collection of Armenian manuscripts “Now or Never.”
In Armenia I am grateful to the staff of the Matenadaran, especially the head curator of manuscripts, Georg Ter-Vardanian, for guiding my research on the Zeytun Gospels’ mother manuscript. I also thank Levon Chookaszian and Satenik Chookaszian.
I am tremendously grateful to Carel Bertram and Mia Fuller, who joined me in my quest to retrace the Zeytun Gospels’ journey in Turkey. They shared with me their own important research on the erasure and reinscription of cultural heritage. In southern Turkey I thank the individuals who introduced me to their hometowns, especially Z.K. and family. In Istanbul I thank Alin Pontioğlu, the late Vangelis Kechriotis, Vagharshag sargavak Serovpyan, and Osman Köker. I am grateful to Osman Kavala for his intellectual and ethical example, critical discussions, and warm hospitality. At the time of writing, this civil society leader and proponent of human rights, cultural heritage, and reconciliation remains imprisoned in Istanbul, the target of preposterous allegations, as part of the Turkish authorities’ crackdown on intellectuals and human rights activists.
Elizabeth Morrison, senior curator of manuscripts at the J. Paul Getty Museum, graciously hosted me, helped me examine the Canon Tables, and generously shared her research. She and Valerie Tate patiently answered my queries. Helen C. Evans, the Mary and Michael Jaharis Curator of Byzantine Art at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, shared her deep expertise in Toros Roslin’s work over several enjoyable meetings.
Stanley A. Goldman’s invitation to a conference at the Center for the Study of Law and Genocide at the Loyola School of Law in Los Angeles introduced me to the world of litigators and legal experts in cultural heritage. I am grateful to the attorneys who discussed complex legal issues with me: Lee Crawford Boyd and Rajika Shah, as well as Aslı Bâli, Karima Bennoune, Adrienne Fricke, Mark Geragos, Brian Kabateck, Kate Nahapetian, and A.L. I especially thank Michael Bazyler of the Fowler School of Law at Chapman University for many illuminating conversations over the years. I have tried to represent the legal issues to the best of my ability, and I am solely responsible for any errors. I also thank Susan Llano, the reference librarian at the Mabie Law Library at the University of California, Davis.
Researchers of genocide often report experiencing unbearable pain when studying accounts and evidence of atrocities and crimes. I found I was not immune to this. To those who provided me with moral and intellectual support at crucial moments, I am tremendously grateful: Taner Akçam, Peter Balakian, Carel Bertram, Bedross Der Matossian, Fatma Müge Göçek, Talinn Grigor, Marc Mamigonian, Christina Maranci, Dana Sajdi, and Elyse Semerdjian. Onnik Dinkjian’s 2009 album of sacred hymns of the Armenian Church, and a pirate copy of a 1979 record by the French Armenian band Zartong, helped me get through the tough moments.
I also thank the following individuals for advice and assistance: Aram Arkun, Tamar Boyadjian, Garo Derounian, Jason Felch, Don Lipper, Armen Manuk-Khaloyan, Sylvie Merian, Khatchig Mouradian, Vahé Tachjian, and Patil Yessayan.
Several institutions funded my research. A grant from the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation made my fieldwork in Turkey possible. A fellowship from the University of California Office of the President, as well as a research grant from the Academic Senate at the University of California, Davis, allowed me to focus on writing. A grant from the Mellon-funded Global Architectural History Teaching Collaborative at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology enabled me to translate some of my research into teaching materials. A publication support grant from the office of the Dean of Humanities, Arts and Cultural Studies in the College of Letters and Sciences, along with the Office of Research at the University of California, Davis, helped defray some of the expenses related to production and permissions. This publication was made possible by a generous grant from the Dolores Zohrab Liebmann Fund.
At Stanford University Press, Kate Wahl discerned the possibility of this book in its very first incarnation as a two-page prospectus. I am grateful for her patience, her careful readings of drafts in various states, and her astute suggestions. Leah Pennywark provided a close reading at a later stage. Without the editorial and intellectual support of Kate Wahl and her team, this book would not exist in its current form.
My mother, Sona Zeitlian, staunchly supported this project. My father, Sarkis Zeitlian, is present in this book through his thought and writings, but most of all through my memories of him and the cadence of his speech. My siblings Salpy and Hraztan, and especially my sister Garine, shared frank discussions about hay tad, the Zeytun Gospels, and its contexts. My deepest gratitude goes to three people who have had to share their lives with this book. My husband, Keith David Watenpaugh, first alerted me to a news item about the lawsuit over the Canon Tables in June 2010. I thank him for his support and advice since then, even as this project grew more complex and took more time. His own work as an eminent historian of human rights and the Middle East informs aspects of this book. Our children, Aram and Arda, cheerful, resilient, and full of life, invention, mischief, creativity, and affection, have known this book from the beginning. Cultural heritage and memory are their gifts.