By Arthur Hagopian
Sydney, Feb 16, 2026
Never in their painful annals have the Armenians of Jerusalem been visited by this latest calamity in, of all places, distant Australia’s largest metropolis, Sydney. It was 5am, Friday morning. 85-year-old Chris Baghsarian tossed and turned in bed, battling with a nightmare that turned cataclysmically real when a rough hand suddenly clamped down on his mouth while another began dragging him out of bed. He was gagged, resistance was futile as rough arms bundled him and drag unceremoniously him out of the house, into a waiting dark Toyota SUV.
“We heard dogs barking and screaming,” his neighbor Felix told police who showed up later.
It was a kidnap gone abysmally wrong.
“They have the wrong person,” State Police Acting Superintendent Andrew Marks said.
He demanded that the kidnappers to immediately release the ailing old man who is ailing and on medication.
Take him to a hospital, he said, and “we’ll do the rest.”
The crime has outraged not only the police and the community, but the underworld as well, because “a line has been crossed,” it has been reported.
Chris is my cousin.
We grew up in the Armenian Quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem. He is younger than me and the same age as my brother Setrag.
The two were best friends and formed part of the “gang” of half a dozen boys, all related to each other either closely, or distantly.
As they grew up, one of their greatest joy was smoking the American cigarettes they obtained at a reduced price from a sympathetic UN office staffer.
But Jerusalem had no promise for Chris and Setrag and they decided to emigrate to Australia.
They had no way of paying for the airplane tickets.
Khosrov Nalbandian, a man with a permanent smile on his face, who had a tailor’s shop in the Christian Quarter of Jerusalem, advanced them the sum.
“Pay me back whenever you can,” he told them.
They did.
(Khosrov had the distinction of owning the monopoly of making “tarboushes” headgear, a remnant from the Ottoman era).
Chris and Setrag were supposed to land in Adelaide, South Australia, but decided to stay on in Sydney.
Their first job was as painters.
The foreman provided them with a gallon of paint and showed them which walls he wanted done.
Sure thing, they said.
And they set about demolishing the gallon’s contents on just one wall.
The foreman was not amused.
It’s been three days now, and the investigation into Chris’s disappearance is still ongoing.
I rang up the police and offered to deliver the urgent medication Chris needed, to some “designated” spot so they could be picked up, but they did not like the unspoken risks involved.
They did not want another kidnap on their hands.
As I pass by the boarded up window the intruders had shattered in their forced entry into his house, all I can do is utter a prayer for his safe return.
The Armenian community here share the agony of his son and daughter, but there is nothing on earth anyone can do, until by some miracle, the kidnappers have a change of heart, if they even possess one, and release him.
We were to follow Chris and my brother to Australia several years later.
Like them, my first job was a disaster.
I was taken on a construction job, and told to take some bricks to a waiting bricklayer.
I got barely lift the handles of the wheelbarrow, and promptly tipped over its contents on the foreman’s foot.
He was not amused either.
One of the jokes Chris and I share when he pops over to our place, only a ten-minute walk away from his home.
Over a cup of tea and a cake or biscuit, we grow nostalgic and remember the good old days of our youth and childhood.
We can’t wait to pick up where we left off.
There still are so many anecdotes we want to share.
PIX CAPTION: A youthful Chris offering a lolly to my daughter, his niece, Lida
