Volumes One and Two (Hayastan Publishing House, Yerevan, Armenia, 2023, 2026) of the projected four or five, of Siran Seza’s Letters uncover a tormented soul, which perhaps should have remained inviolate. “There’s an inexplicable sorrow in my heart,” “I feel hopeless,” “I can’t take this life of endless despair anymore,” writes the distraught woman, again and again. Not publishing the letters, on the other hand, would mean losing, among much else, the exquisitely written missives addressed to Sireli Siran, pari aghchig, by the talented young writer Vazken Shoushanian of the post-Armenian Genocide generation. Shoushanian hopes Azniv Siran will “reconcile herself to the disorder and the chaos of life.” His letters also mourn the “collective pain of our people,” destined to assimilate in exile away from their homeland.
The first two volumes of the Letters comprise Seza’s vast correspondence with her two husbands and various lovers. Volume One is devoted to the exchanges between Seza and writers Vahe-Vahian and Antranig Dzarougian, Anoush Siran had intimate relationships with. Volume Two assembles the remaining letters, including the correspondence between Seza and her husband Dr. Nerses Kupelian, both before and after their marriage. What these letters unearth is a woman who loved all too freely and openly. Seza writes about her experiences with no attempt to conceal what she knew would be met with condemnation by a society that, in her words, “was all about profit and money . . . totally removed from moral or spiritual concerns.” Seza is outspoken about “the deceptions, the vulgarities and the jealousies” of the Armenian communities, especially the Lebanese Armenian community she knew so well. If the free-spirited woman is “bold and unafraid,” it is because she is guided by “the just and the good.” Digin Seza may have been impulsive and moody, prone to frequent outbursts, but her intent was never to hurt, to manipulate or to deceive.
What the publication of the Letters has bolstered, however, is the image of Seza as a “flirt.” “My capricious girl“ did indeed have multiple lovers, yet introducing the correspondence with stark numbers — two husbands and about ten lovers — encourages the perception of a woman lacking in moral and spiritual purity, when, in truth, the letters reveal a woman who is perhaps a trifle too exigent in her moral expectations. Seza’s letters are full of expressions of indignation at vulgar and irresponsible behavior. “Living is more heroic than dying, especially dying with a bottle of arak,” Tchar aghchig tells her lover, the prominent writer/editor Antranig Dzarougian. “His vulgarity will always be a stain on my soul,” she confides to Nerses. Later on, the wife and mother chides her husband for “always being absent,” and pleads with him to come back. (At the time, Nerses was working in Kirkuk, Iraq, while Seza was in Beirut with their son Vahakn). “I think only of Vahakn . . . that child grew up isolated . . . without the presence of a father . . . It breaks my heart,” she writes to Nerses.
The anguished Seza probes “the depths of her soul . . . which are as splendorous and divine as are lofty heights.” In a letter to Vahe-Vahian, she writes: “Whoever said that virtue resides in the highest places?” What the feeble girl, “so totally weary of life,” to borrow Shoushanian’s words, uncovers in those “deep caverns” is a world of pain and unhappiness—“There is always torture in my djagadakeer . . . Today I’m very nervous and sad,” she writes to Nerses. It may well have been this immense capacity to suffer that endeared the pari aghchig to some of the foremost literary figures of her time. It should not be difficult to empathize with a woman willing to “isolate herself to search her soul” so she can find meaning in life.
Siran Seza’s Letters leave the reader wondering why the naturally talented writer did not devote herself to literature to write the song of her suffering. “You talk too much about yourself . . . life is difficult . . . complaining is not enough to alleviate our moral misery . . . if you must talk, express your sorrow through literature,” advises Shoushanian. Indeed, Astine, the fearless protagonist of The Book of Genesis, the posthumously published novel Seza wrote late in life — the novel is based on her life experiences and memories of the events and the people of Constantinople, the city she lived in until her early 20s — is the perfect embodiment of the adolescent Seza. Devoting herself to the creation of imaginary characters might have helped steer the unhappy girl away from her personal pain.
It is interesting to note that the iconic advocate of a woman’s rights and her independence — Seza is best known for publishing the pioneering journal The Young Armenian Woman in Beirut, Lebanon, in the years 1932-1968, at times with long interruptions — emerges in the letters as a staunch supporter of traditional Armenian family values. (The two are certainly not contradictory). Having the approval of Nerses’s mother for their union is very important to her. Her own mother’s well-being is always a priority. The azniv and pari mayrig is, in fact, ever present in her letters.
