Chris Baghdasarian: Waiting for Burial in Sydney
By Arthur Hagopian
The rumble of outrage at the butchery that took the life of an innocent 85-year-old Armenian in Sydney has become a roaring thunder, reverberating across social media, as more people give vent to their anger, pain and sorrow.
One of the most articulate begins with: “I still don’t “understand how this isn’t bigger news than it actually is. One of the most despicable crimes I have seen unfold and yet another completely innocent victim.”
Another revealed that it “looks like the torture was so graphic that the [perpetrators’] lawyer has given up already.”
Chris Baghsarian was kidnapped at 5 am two weeks ago, as he lay sleeping, by two men in their 20s who proceeded to torture and kill him before ditching his body in a paddock, 50kms away from his home in a Sydney suburb.
But it appeared they had targeted the wrong man, a fact police broadcast repeatedly, urging the perpetrators to release the innocent widower.
They were deaf to the plea: the day after they snatched Chris, he was dead, tortured and mutilated.
A macabre end to his Australian dream.
Chris, or Khatchig to use his Armenian name, had come to Australia at the end of 1963, seeking a better fortune and a new home among strangers, Aussies known all over the world for their friendliness and hospitality.
“G’day,” was one of the first word he heard when his plane landed in Sydney airport. His first job, as a house painter, was a no-go: he had never handled a paintbrush before, and used up a whole gallon of paint on just one wall.
The contractor was not amused.
But soon after, he landed a good position with a Hollywood movies distribution company.
He married and the newlyweds settled in the new house they had bought in the quiet
Sydney suburb of North Ryde, one of the country’s major business districts.
One perk of his job was a permanent free pass to movies for him and his wife, something they made free use of most weekends.
His wife was a great cook, and pretty soon he was putting on weight as he sampled the best of Lebanese cuisine at her hands.
To fight the potential flab, he began taking long walks, from his house to ours, a 20-minute hike, both ways.
We would sit around a table, Chris, my wife (who was his sister), and myself, sipping tea and munching biscuits while taking trips down memory lane, for an hour or two.
There were so many stories to rehash, mostly hilarious episodes usually involving other family members.
He always eschewed the offer of lunch.
“I never eat at noon,” he would say.
He loved watching soap operas, Australia’s “Home and Away,” his favorite, and documentaries.
And he devoured books, particularly those about Jerusalem, where he spent most of his childhood and youth, surrounded by a community of Armenians, all connected to each other, tracing their ancestry back to the times of Emperor Tigranes II.
Now, his family waits to make preparations for his burial.
