But, if that time ever came, at least we would have history to learn from. And thus, we would not fall so easily into the tricks and traps set by our persecutors. Sadly, the same cannot be said for the Armenians who suffered and died in the Armenian Holocaust, the western world’s first historical account of genocide.

Thus, the question I would like to address and explore is a simple one: How can the victims of genocide allow such a thing to occur?

In the case of the Armenian Genocide, fellow countrymen were set against one another as the highest officials of the Ottoman Empire spewed poisonous propaganda meant to paint the Armenians in a false light. As a result, their Turkish neighbors turned against them, believing them to be not only traitors, but also the primary reason for many of the nations problems. The facilitators of this genocide used textbook tactics by dehumanizing, dispiriting, and dividing the Armenians so as to prevent them from uniting in revolt. Also, the Turks sought to weaken the wills of the Armenians even further by imprisoning many of their leaders, sending their military men to labor camps, forcefully deporting a large majority of them, and executing many others.

Similar strategies were used both in the Holocaust, where Jews were turned against one another at the labor/death camps, as well as during the colonization of the Americas by the Europeans, who spread lies among the various tribes, causing them to distrust and fight against each other.

These approaches worked because they subscribe to the widely-acknowledged stages of genocide, numbers 3 and 5 in particular. The third stage, dehumanization, focuses mainly on a psychological assault meant to infuse doubt and self-loathing into the victims. Eventually, the genocide progresses to the fifth stage, polarization, in which the perpetrators move to separate the victims both physically and psychologically in an attempt to keep them too busy being wary of one another, so that they become oblivious to the horrible genocide they face.

Now, although many people may say that a modern instance of genocide is impossible, history has contrarily proven it to be a probability. Faced with the hypothetical question of how would one react if one was a victim of genocide, many people would strongly assert that they would resist to the utmost and that the attempted genocide would fail. Regardless of whether or not those assertions would be true, I am simply thankful that we have not yet had to find out.

And I will continue to hope that that remains true.

Though April 24, 1915 is commonly referred to as the date of inception, this atrocity was not actually caused by a single catalyst but rather by a collaboration of various social, political, economic, psychological, and moral factors. Following the fall of the Ottoman Empire, the ensuing Turkish Revolution, and the subsequent reinstatement of Ottoman rule, Armenians struggled with inequality, poverty, and oppression. Not only that, but the entire nation as a whole faced internal issues around their economy and government.

Then, in November of 1914, the Ottoman Empire entered WWI on the side of the Central Powers, thus setting themselves against their geographic neighbor and longtime enemy, Russia. In the widely-known Battle of Sarikamis, a battle in which the Ottoman Empire attempted to regain territory previously lost to the Russians, the War minister Enver Pasha had been supremely confident in their likelihood of victory. However, in an ironic turn of events, the Russians crushed their forces. As a result, Enver Pasha became suspicious of the Armenians, especially those who openly sympathized with the Russians.

Therefore, Enver Pasha began to take actions that would eventually lead to the inevitable genocide. He stared by spreading propaganda throughout the country’s Turkish population about the supposed traitorous nature of their fellow countrymen, the Armenians. Next, the War minister ordered that all Armenian military units be demobilized, disarmed, and sent to work in labor battalions, which would later become labor camps, then eventually death camps. Also, the Ottoman military began to draft healthy, able-bodied Armenians under the guise of conscription; however, they too were killed.
Then, the Turks began making more blatant moves, such as the infamous incarceration of 250 notable Armenian individuals. Finally, the true nature of the genocide became apparent under the Tehcir Law, which mandated the “temporary” deportation of all Armenians, justified as necessary to maintain national security.

The death marches that resulted from this law left somewhere between 500,000 to 1,000,000 Armenians dead and tens of thousands more as refugees forced to seek asylum in other countries. Though the majority of deportees died en route, the few that survived the trek across the Syrian desert found no additional comfort but awaiting death as a result of lack of preparation or gathering of resources that would have been necessary in order to sustain the lives of the deportees.

To this day, the Turkish government refuses to recognize the Armenian genocide for what it was.

Opening the eyes of the masses with their shocking lyrics and haunting melodies, System of a Down (SOAD) is arguably one of the few mainstream bands intent on actually using their influence to make a difference in the world. With all four members being descendants of survivors from the Armenian genocide, SOAD has a personal tie with human rights activism, one of the main focuses of most of their songs.

The groups consists of lead vocalist, Serj Tankian (who I call Mr. Super-Beard), guitarist, Daron Malakian (who I don’t believe is capable of closing his eyes), bassist, Shavo Odadjian (who exudes only moderate weirdness), and drummer, John Dolmayan (who’s the background weirdo). Tankian, the undisputed leader of the band, has also founded and heads a non-profit organization, Axis of Justice, centered around combining peoples love for music with spreading awareness about global issues and fighting for social justice. Some of the topics that the organization supports include: the corruption of the American government, rampant global poverty, the need for religious freedom, the injustice of censorship, and drugs deleterious effect on society.

These causes are mirrored in the nearly all of the bands music, which adopts a unique style blending various types of rock and metal, including: alternative, punk, folk, psychedelic, classic, symphonic, thrash, funk, and progressive. Music reviewers, finding it nearly impossible to categorize SOAD’s genre, have come to consider the band alternative metal.

Despite the attention given to labeling the band, System of a Down makes no claim to uniqueness, nor do they deny any similarities to other bands. In fact, the band has cited Middle Eastern music, the Beatles, and Kiss as heavy influences to their musical style. Additionally, on top of the many unusual musical instruments that they utilize (including electric mandolins, baritone electric guitars, acoustic guitars, ouds (I know, WTF), sitars, twelve string guitars, keyboards, and synthesizers), SOAD boasts a very singular, distinctive type of vocal style, attributed to Serj Tankian.

Some of SOAD’s more popular songs include: Chop Suey, Toxicity, Aerials, B.Y.O.B., Hypnotize, Lonely Day, and Prison Song.

Currently, the band is on hiatus, and leader Serj Tankian has temporarily branched out with his solo debut album, Elect the Dead, which has two hit singles of its own, Sky is Over and Empty Walls.

So, I advise you to listen to a couple of their songs, and when you’re done, hopefully you’ll be right there with me crossing my fingers and hoping that album #6 is only right around the corner. Hey, and if SOAD just isn’t your thing, theres always 50 Cent (aptly named as thats about what his music is worth). But then again, you’d have to be crazy not to like SOAD…or maybe that was you’d have to be crazy to listen to them. Oh well.

and as you bring the ocean to your lips,
you drink it down, discovering the delight
that melts, cascading down your throat.

hoping for more, but realizing
that you shaped the prize
with your expectations, and now
the geometric boundaries
have stolen away your satisfaction.

By the way, there’s another person that shares your optimism. And he’s a very important person-a writer, in fact. His name is Stephen King. Except it’s not really optimism for him, nor is it hope. He simply believes that he knows how to see the situation from both perspectives. And when he finally got sick and tired of people (community college English professors, 20-year old self-proclaimed "well-read" undergrads, and of course, literary critics, which actually include any goddamn person with a big book and a big mouth) saying that writing was dumb, King presented his own opinion. He said that although writing was sometimes dumb, it was also sometimes brilliant. King believed that whenever writing was dumb, it wasn’t any fault of the "craft." Instead he blamed "bad writers."

To prove his point, King wrote On Writing, an informative book for aspiring writers, specifically those "bad writers" whom he hoped he could at least transform into "competent" ones. In On Writing, King blends wit and humor with straightforward, friendly, painfully honest advice. This writer’s manual begins with an extremely brief, though revealing story of King’s life, with an emphasis on his experience in the field of writing and publishing. He personalizes this by citing a large handful of examples ranging from his first rejection slip from a potential publisher to his first published novel, Carrie, and the road to renown that followed.

Many of the ideas and guidance that King offers may seem a bit too strong-minded at first, but he forewarns the reader to simply take it all with a grain of salt. Among some of his statements were the pessimistic, though realistic, convictions that there are four levels of writers (bad, competent, good, and great); that this hierarchy is structured more as a pyramid with the majority of "writers" being bad ones; that practically no one since the authors of "the classics" has achieved the status of "great" writer; and that even amid the minority of people who are deemed "good" writers, very few are ever published. Although his words might crush the dreams of some aspiring writer, in a way, that’s exactly what King wants. He believes that it’s necessary to dispel any fantasies an upcoming writer has about being able to sustain and support a family on writing alone because, he says, that it is almost never the case.

Apart from the slap of reality King administers, he also spends plenty of time talking about specific things that one needs in order to be a writer. He calls this list of essentials a writer’s "toolbox." In describing this preferred analogy, King makes a hilarious reference to his past, as well as explains how each "tool" (vocabulary, grammar, spelling, etc.) functions and helps contribute to the creation of high-quality writing. He also takes it a step further by letting the reader know where to get some tools of her own. No, it’s not the hardware store, but instead, the local library or bookstore. And with this, King once again reinforces the mantra of his entire book: reading is key in being able to write well. King pairs this information with another dose of hard advice: "If you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time or tools to write."

I definitely recommend reading this book for absolutely any aspiring writers, whether they’re an 11-year old girl who just finished the Harry Potter series and now wants to recreate that magic; or a high school sophomore who has just read his first "classic" and now feels that it his moral obligation to write something more fun to read; or perhaps a stay-at-home mom who has just discovered that her children would make brilliant villains in a murder mystery; or maybe even a retired, friendless, bored old man that isn’t quite ready to pass on yet without leaving his legacy. Basically what I’m trying to get at is that, regardless of who you are, I guarantee that On Writing will be both comical and insulting, yet still an overall enjoyable read.

In addition, the book is easy to navigate, containing three informative and funny forewords, one brief introduction, the main section entitled "On Writing," a heartwarming and enlightening conclusion entitled "On Living," and two postscripts containing a writing exercise and a booklist. But without ruining any more of the contents of this wonderful writing manual, I will end by saying that this book, more than any other I have read (and I’ve read plenty), has explained to me exactly what it takes to become a writer. It’s been both daunting and encouraging, but so is nearly any other endeavor worth pursuing.

I’m aware that writing is oftentimes dumb, especially mine. But Mr. King’s book has motivated me to change that. Because although writing can be dumb, it can also be brilliant.

As he went, he grumbled.  And almost as if in response, a pair of birds started to chirp, chorusing a high-pitched melody full of hope and happiness.  The old man stopped on the path, squinting up at the birds with a scowl on his face.  Birds, utterly repulsive.  The little bastards were just rats with wings–loud, obnoxious flying rats.  And these birds were the singing types.  The old man shivered with disgust.  Good for nothing and useless, that’s what they were.  Not even worthy of being the main course for a pagan holiday.

Yet there they were, casually fluttering back and forth, left to right, across the old man’s vision, almost as if taunting him.  Damn birds! The old man’s eyes flared.  Stooping down, he violently snatched a stone from the path and chucked it at the musical duo.  His eyes tracked the birds as they scattered, flying away from the park and the old, grumpy man that lurked within it.

Before proceeding onward, the old man gave the immediate area a quick scrutiny, ensuring that no birds, or happiness, remained.  Then, an inconspicuous soccer ball rolled onto the path, halting at his feet.  And, while it was not an obstacle, it caused the old man to stop nonetheless.  Suddenly, several children appeared on the path, apparently the boys and girls whose ball it was.  The old man stared at them, and they at him, though while he contemplated their grotesqueness, they simply wanted their ball back.

But, he refused to allow it.  The old man wondered, how could he prevent their happiness? What would be best to teach the children the unfairness of life? The ball seemed too tough to puncture, and besides, the old man had nothing sharp on his person.  He considered kicking it away, but the old man knew he had not the strength to do so.  And even if the ball did travel a significant distance, the children, with their abnormal vitality and likely drug-induced reserves of energy, would be able to chase it down and retrieve it.

Thus, after much debate, the old man decided on his only option.  He took a few steps toward the children, basking in the fear he could see in their eyes, and smiling coldly all the while.  Drawing his cane upward, the old man began to strike the little children, lashing their calves with his wooden stick, which elicited painful cries of agony from them.  After a minute or two, the old man determined his satisfaction in having taught the dreadful children a lesson.  To think that they really believed, for even a second, that he would possibly return their ball.  It was only another example of the prevalence of naivety.  Hope and happiness did not exist! But, the fools all around him insisted otherwise.  Well then, the old man would show them the truth.  He would make it his responsibility to eliminate the ideas of those who hoped for hope, or were happy because of happiness.

Returning to the time at hand, the old man inspected his cane, making certain that those damned children’s legs had not damaged it in any way.  After doing this, the old man resumed his trek, but this time with renewed purpose.  However, he was careful not to identify his purpose as a source of happiness, lest he contradict his profound truths altogether.

As he continued his walk, he noted that the presence of trees was diminishing, and he began to feel something heat his back.  Gazing up to the sky, the old man realized the cause of the new sensation.  An old foe of his, the sun.  Though he was scornfully turned away from it, the sun continued to thoughtlessly cast its rays on the old man’s back.  Refusing to allow this to become a discomfort, the old man adjusted his hat and continued down the path, grumbling of the sun’s lack of sympathy or care for the residents of this dreary planet.

Really, the sun was rather rude.  Bathing half the planet in light and warmth like that; and without even being asked to do so.  Completely inconsiderate.

I pity the world and myself along with it
we are clueless, controlled, and sedate
belief without question, accepted as true
though I think this deserves some debate.
Is ignorance bliss? Are we safe in a world
of fun-house mirrors distorting what’s real?
No, we’re not safe, just stupid is all
thinking it’s better to be numb and not feel.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I see the allure
of immersing yourself in delusion
but without recognition of a problem as real
you’re unable to form a solution.

It’s a lot harder, you see, to actually see
when we choose to be purposely blind
to wander astray while lacking a purpose
if we don’t Seek then we cannot Find.
But we are the trickster as well as the fool
it’s a shock that we haven’t caught on
we allowed the illusion to aid our confusion
it must’ve been the plan all along.
Because Lies are like pillows, and Truth is like knives
it’s just a matter of which you prefer
to be comfortably smothered or sharply awoken
you simply need the strength to endure.

********************

What a strange boy, she thought, watching him walk straight out of the school-building as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Wait, that wasn’t right. From what she had seen, the boy had actually seemed very tense, as if he was concerned about something far away from the world of high school and meeting new students in the hallway, no matter how strange the circumstances under which they met.

As the main doors of the school swung back into place, making a loud and unsurprisingly uninviting sound, Nayda felt an exceptionally strong urge to look down at the ground. The impulse was unexpected, but had a feeling of necessity to it. Nayda succumbed to it, gazing down and seeing a manila envelope bearing the phrase: Property of Aiden Michaels.

He had said his name was Aiden during the brief exchange they had shared. Somewhat of an odd name; maybe they could’ve discussed it. In fact, she had a rather uncommon name herself. Why, they could’ve spoken about absolutely anything—school, family, hobbies, friends…anything. But, he had hurried off after helping her up. And besides, she had to get to class. She was already late as it was. It was almost too bad; Nayda would’ve appreciated some company and someone to talk to in this strange new school.

Placing the envelope into her bag, she promised to remember to return it at her first opportunity. She continued on down the hallway, occasionally peering into classrooms she passed, hoping that she’d find the one she was searching for. This is ridiculous, she thought. I mean, how hard could it be to find Room 105. She assumed there’d only be one. But, for all she knew, this school could be Hell in disguise, and there were actually six-hundred and sixty-six different classrooms bearing a placard stating that they were all Room 105. In her frustration, Nayda began to recall the four previous schools she had attended in the past year before coming to this one. She had always had trouble making friends and she never understood why. It was possible that losing her parents at a young age had affected her ability to socialize. She missed her mom and dad terribly, it was true, but she thought that she had gotten over it. After all, it was a long time ago. And, if there was one thing she hated more, it was dwelling on the past. Especially when there was a much more painful present to think about.

After her parents died, Nayda went to a foster home. Eventually, she was assigned to a semi-willing couple that adopted her and raised her. Well, maybe they didn’t raise her, but they did feed her. Didn’t that suggest that they cared for her? Maybe a teeny bit? But, as she grew older, she realized that her foster parents didn’t seem to like her much at all. In truth, her adoptive mother had even confided in Nayda that she had hoped for a better daughter, one that would listen to her parents, focus on her studies, and follow the dreams that her parents set for her. Well, sadly for them, that girl was not Nayda. She listened to her foster parents to a certain extent, and she did well enough in school, at least in her own eyes; but never would she allow someone else to force a dream upon her. Nayda was determined to set her own future and create her own hopes and dreams. However, she had no clue as to what those would be. All she knew thus far was that she enjoyed one thing more than anything else in the world, and that was playing music.

She reminisced of her real parents, and the day they introduced music to her. She was 7 years old and her parents had brought home some huge wooden contraption on wheels. They had wheeled it into the living room with her sitting atop it. She had been so excited. Her father had told her that it was a gift for her and that he hoped she would love it. “Oh, I’m sure she will,” her mother had said. “Especially after she learns how to play.”

“What is it?” Nayda had asked curiously.

“It’s called a piano. It produces music, at least when it’s used correctly it does.” Her mother had smirked at this last remark. “Actually, honey, Daddy isn’t that good at using this particular instrument,” her father had said abashedly.

“But, you won’t have to worry, honey,” her mother had said calmly. “I promise to teach you how to play. And that way you can learn to love music too.”

“But, I do love music, Mommy.”

“I don’t think you understand, baby. I don’t mean music like the songs you hear on the radio, or the alphabet song, or even the songs your father sings while he’s in the shower,” Mommy had explained slowly. “I’m talking about a type of music that is different to every person that hears it. A type of music that is unique and wonderful and that sings throughout your soul expressing all the happiness and joy locked up inside. Even when you’re sad, this song will lift all of the pains and heartache away, leaving you free.”

“I know, Mommy. That’s the kind of music I was talking about.”

“Really?” Mommy replied curiously. “And when have you heard it?”

Nayda thought for a second. “Well, I hear it when I think about you and Daddy,” she had said, grinning at her loving parents.

“Excuse me, miss.” Nayda was pulled out of her dream reluctantly, as if coming out of a deep sleep. “Hello there. Are you lost?” asked a woman standing at the doorway of one of the classrooms. Nayda looked above the woman’s head. The sign read: “Room 105.” Figures. “I said, Are you lost?”

Apparently not, Nayda thought to herself. “Um, no. Thank you though. But I think I’ve found where I need to be. See, I’m a new student here.”

“Oh?” the woman replied, seemingly unimpressed. “Regardless, you are still late. And what class are you supposed to be in right now?”

Nayda referenced her schedule. “Art class in Room 105.”

“What a coincidence. That happens to be my class,” the woman stated impassively. “My name is Ms. Olivier, and I’m going to be your teacher.”

********************

Late one night, after telling Derek that a “black guy” is trying to break into his car, Danny’s older brother immediately seizes a pistol and runs outside to confront the would-be thieves. Upon opening the door, Derek shoots one of the men, killing him instantly, and wounds the other. As the wounded man tries to escape, Derek walks up behind him, pointing his gun to the man’s head, and tells him to “bite the curb.” He then proceeds to stomp on the man’s head, instantaneously breaking his jaw and neck. During all of this, Danny stares shocked and slightly-traumatized, while the sirens of police cars wail and scream down the street, screeching to a stop in front of his older brother. Derek is then arrested and eventually sentenced to three years in prison for voluntary manslaughter.

However, while in prison, Derek surprisingly experiences a drastic transformation of perspective. After realizing the ignorance of his past beliefs and actions, and after forging a strong friendship with an unexpected individual, Derek survives prison. With the help of his admired English teacher, Dr. Sweeney, who ironically is a black man, Derek leaves prison a changed person. He returns home to find that his little brother Danny has followed in his footsteps. To his brother’s distress, Danny has now become active in the local white supremacist group, has written a paper on Adolf Hitler as a civil rights leader, and is now threatened with the possibility of expulsion by none other than the man that helped Derek amend his bigoted ways, Dr. Sweeney.

The story then progresses with a multitude of conflicts as Derek attempts in vain to persuade his younger brother that it is wrong to blindly hate a fellow human being solely based on color. At first, Danny resists, appalled at the betrayal of his idol to the cause he so firmly-believed in; but, after Derek psychoanalyzes himself in an attempt to educate his brother about the corruptive power of racism and hate, Danny finally agrees to discard his intolerant ideas and to trust the man he had so long placed his confidence in. But, just as we start to feel that there may be hope for the brothers, the story ends in tragedy. And this, I believe, is the most important part, because without a tragic end, the reality of the story cannot be absorbed. Only with a heartrending conclusion can the true meaning be gained.

And that meaning is this:

The story derives not from the imagination of the writer, but from the reality that we all live in. Many people truly value bigotry, racism, and inequality, and those people are consumed by their skewed views. The truth is, many people remain ignorant and never manage to understand the significance of empathy, unity, or love. There aren’t enough people that genuinely care about the well-being of their fellow human beings. However, we need not despair just yet. The future is not yet set, and our story will not necessarily end in tragedy. We simply need to learn a simple lesson.

Hate will forever separate us, and there is nothing else, no alternatives, no way to avoid a tragic fate, except one possible solution. If we make the effort and learn from our mistakes now, then love can ultimately bring us back together. And that is because love, if wielded sincerely, always defeats hate.

Society expects that by a certain point the days of playing in the sandbox and having a game of kickball in the park will be long past, and the new generation of teenagers will have to venture out onto previously unexplored paths. Sadly, upon entering this teenage stage of life, some of the first things one encounters are drugs and alcohol. We begin to see all our friends doing it, and hearing things like "Everyone does it," "Stop being a square," and "Don’t worry, it’s all in good fun." And while I’m not judging anyone at all for being curious or wanting to try something new, the truth is that the majority of teenagers begin to use regularly after that first try.

People come up with a variety of arguments to counter this fact, insisting that the drugs aren’t that harmful or the drinking isn’t done often. Let’s try looking at it this way for a change: Why drink or do drugs at all? Really, in thinking about it, one would realize that it simply isn’t necessary. Looking back and remembering life before drugs, one will realize some key points that are painfully obvious and easy to understand. For one, if life sucked before, you’ll notice drugs/alcohol hasn’t improved it at all. Or, if life was great before (and even if you think life is still great while using drugs/alcohol), then you’ll notice that with or without them, life can be great. So, you see, they’re not necessary.

So, you’re saying I don’t need them? Then, why does it feel like I do?

Good question! Despite what you’ve heard about which substances are more addictive or how much willpower you’ll need to fend off an addiction, the plain and simple truth is that drinking and drug use leads to a familiarity with them, which in turns leads to a continual desire. And this, friends, is called "dependency." Glad we’re brushing up on the vocabulary. But, honestly, the dependency is the worst part. Nowadays, two friends who have known each other for years and have grown up together, can’t even hang out without having to drink, smoke, etc. Go to the movies? The mall? A party? Play a game of basketball? Just sit at home and enjoy each other’s company? Nope. Not possible. Can’t do it. Well, how is this deteriorating friendship fixed? What’s the remedy? All we have to do is alter the situation a bit. Go to a party? Sure, as long as you’ve got a bottle. Chill at the house? Fine with me, as long as you have a joint. Play some basketball? Why not. But, let’s try it while we’re on some pills?

God, I can’t believe this has happened without me noticing. Since when have things changed?

Shocking, I know. To answer your question, since teenagers started to allow themselves to be easily swayed by what "everyone else" is doing. Since friends started to care less about other friends and decided to ruin their lives too by persuading them to "just try it." Since everyone became clueless and started to really believe that it’s "all in good fun." I make it sound overly-dramatic, I know. It’s a tendency I have. But, even if none of your friends have died (which really happens) or if you simply prefer to dwell in your world of unreality and "ignorance is bliss," I’d have you know these harmful substances will change people. And in ten years, you and your friends might not be where you expected yourselves to be. Then, maybe you’ll notice. Maybe you’ll acknowledge. Maybe you’ll realize.

That it wasn’t all in good fun.