Don't Forget Nature

A few deer in the foreground

My job at an RV resort in the higher elevations of the Sierra National Forest gives me an opportunity I’ve always dreamed of.  I get to work where I love to live.

As I stroll through the forest on my way to my neighbor’s space, I hear the forest floor crunching beneath my feet; the pine needles, broken down granite, soft dirt.  The only thing I hear besides my own footfalls is the wind blowing through the pine trees.  I stop to take in the quiet and the sounds of nature.

While I’m listening to this solitude, a little lizard scampers away.  The crisp air and cool breeze brightens my cheeks with a rosy hue.  My appreciation heightens and I am rewarded with a herd of deer meandering through the forest ahead of me.  I watch them in awe and they cautiously watch me.

I wish everyone could share this experience.   Our cities and concrete play yards are stifling and claustrophobic for me.  I need to see the open sky and be surrounded by mountain peaks.  May everyone enjoy this experience, at least a few times in their lives.  Better yet, make it a habit; it will do your psyche good.

My daughter - enjoying the great outdoors

My Cousin Harry Meneshian

Young Harry Meneshian

A good study of Harry

I want to tell the story of my dear cousin, Harry Meneshian.  Harry passed away on August 31, 2017, after an unfortunate illness.

Harry came into our lives when my grandmother (his aunt) sponsored him to immigrate to the U.S. from Jerusalem where he was born.

It was unusual then for a 17 yr old student from Jerusalem to arrive in the U.S. to study so our local newspaper, The Fresno Bee, did an article on him dated 1957.

There were a few bumps in the road, but Harry acclimated to life in the United States.  He eventually went to the Los Angeles area where he married the love of his life, Maggie, and together they had two children.

I saw Harry on and off through the years, but the most important time was when I decided to do my family history after my mother had passed away in 1999.  I had so many unanswered questions and kicked myself for not paying attention or asking more questions when my mother was still alive.  She had tried so hard to have her families' histories written down and recorded.

Harry found out about my interest so he provided me with a family tree of the Meneshian side of our family.  That was like gold in my hands, I was so thankful.  After that, I proceeded to ask his help translating letters and notes that I found in my mother's things.

It turns out Harry spoke not only Armenian, but the nearly outdated language of Ottoman Turkish which Armenians in Turkey used but wrote in Armenian characters.  If Harry hadn't been the willing participant to translate these old documents and letters, I wouldn't know 80 percent of what I know now.  For that I will be forever thankful and grateful.

We had fun working on this history and uncovering things as we went along. It was like being in a gold mine and uncovering one nugget at a time.  Each nugget became a cause for celebration.

Harry was the nicest person that I have come to know.  I will miss him and his joyful and happy attitude that permeated his whole life.  I am sad to lose my history compatriot, but I know he is in a happy place where he belongs and I'm sure he and my mother are exchanging stories even right now.

Visiting Harry in 2006.  L-R Avedis and Anahid Titoian (Harry's sister and her husband), me, Maggie and Harry, my two daughters, Windy and Katrina.

Harry - I will see you soon enough.  Until then...

I Cannot be Discouraged - a Life Project

In June of 1997 I went to meet an Armenian author named Peter Balakian. He had a new book out and it was interesting to me so I went to the book signing. Although that was 20 years ago I still remember that day as if it happened yesterday.  I listened to Mr. Balakian's talk and then politely stood in line so I could get my book signed.  I had no idea that years later Mr. Balakian would be a Pulitzer Prize winner:  See:  Balakian wins Pulitzer Prize in 2016

When I reached the table and opened my book, Mr. Balakian looked at me with penetrating brown eyes that told a world of history and said, "Please help me tell our story."  Well, it wasn't exactly verbatim but something to that effect. I remember thinking, "What can I do? I'm just one person with not much going for me. No money, no talent, not even a winning personality."  I smiled meekly and kind of croaked out, "I'll do what I can."  Thinking all the while, "sure, sure."

Two years later my mother, who was my strongest link to my Armenian roots, passed away.  That generation of Armenians who had braved so much and lost so much until they made it to the new world, were dying away.  Peter Balakian's book, "Black Dog of Fate, a Memoir" was so much like my life as an Armenian American growing up in the new world of America.  I heard the stories, I saw the tears and every single family had them.  No way were any of us unique to that pain.  A whole culture was nearly wiped out in a few short years.  If Aleppo, Syria had not been there and protected the fleeing Armenians, it would have been even more devastating.

Mr. Balakian expounds in his book about his awakening as an Armenian American to his ancestral roots and the rich history that we possess.  Since he is my age, I related to everything he said.  I carry the book around with  me and treasure that I met such a great writer who so easily put my thoughts into words.

But I never forgot that penetrating look and those words.  I knew I was supposed to do something but I had no idea what.  Once my mother passed away it became my duty to sift through her trash and treasure, as she so aptly called it, and either throw things away or part things out.  I was to find in her things and in her scatterbrained later years in life, that she had on and off tried desperately to put down in a story the events of her and her parents' life in Eastern Turkey (or as the Armenians like to say, Western Armenia) before, during and after the genocide.  I found bits of paper, writings here and there, scribbled notes, pictures - so many pictures - with Armenian script and Ottoman Turkish that I had no idea what was said or who the people were.

I felt ashamed, why didn't I know who these people were?  Why didn't I know these stories?  I was so absorbed in my life and my own problems I had completely neglected my mother and her efforts.  I felt like an ashamed daughter.  I decided I would make up for that wayward daughter and make amends to my mother and be a good daughter.  And that began the assembling of my ancestral family tree and my families' collective stories of their journey from the old country to the new.  I hoped that my mother would be proud of me and that Mr. Balakian would feel I was being some kind of a help.

It is a massive undertaking because there is so much to know and so much to find out on all sides of my family tree.  Thankfully, my cousin who was born in Jerusalem and knew three languages (at least), translated so many letters for me.

 I have written some of the stories here on this blog, but there is so much more.  But to complicate things, all records of Armenians or any records in Turkey have been destroyed or locked away.  I can only find out what was either written down or remembered by some ancient soul.  I am forever thankful that my mother wrote down everything she could and what was told to her by her own parents.

My mother (in green) in 1967 Baghdad visiting relatives on her middle east tour.

Because of these efforts I have reconnected with several families that had been lost through time and it has been amazing.  I have found our relatives from my paternal grandmother's sister who was married at 9 years old to a Turkish man after her parents were killed.  That family has even visited us here in the US and I plan to visit them.  The pain that we all feel of what happened during that time is with us, but the bonds we have because of it bring closure.

Bardakjian brothers - godparents to little Azadohi and Krikor

Another family sheltered my grandmother and my mother in Syria while my grandfather was in the Turkish army and then later in France after they fled their hometown of Aintab, Turkey, and became my mother and uncle's godparents while my grandfather came to the States to pave the way for his family.  Through my efforts I reconnected with their offspring who are scattered between Syria and France.  I plan to visit them too.  I owe them that. I owe them for sheltering my mother and my grandparents, for taking care of them in France until they got on that boat for that long ride to America.  They need that gratefulness and recognition.

Another family that helped my mother and grandmother is still missing.  Kevork found my grandmother alone in a cemetery after she had traveled from her home to Syria looking for his house.  They took her in and cared for her.  That link is missing - I hope they survived and one day I can find them.

The Guleserians in Syria - sitting L-R - Kevork Guleserian and his mother, Zoomroot.  Kevork's father died in battle. Next to them is my grandmother, Helen (Hripseme) and my grandfather, Armen. My grandfather escaped from the Turkish army after friends warned him that orders had come out for all Armenians to be killed.  Next to him is Stephen Khidishahian (his brother in law) and laying on the floor, his son, Rueben.  Back row Florenza, possibly married to Kevork Guleserian, then his sister Areknaz.  And the last gentleman is named Arshavir.

I have been unable to locate the members of these families. Maybe I never will, but I want it to be forever written down of their kindness and heroic efforts in saving my family.

Lately I have felt discouraged and ready to quit.  I write this memoir here to remind me why I started this project and not to give up in spite of the nay saying of other people or the meddling of those who cannot see the beauty in remembering and recording this history.  Whose petty differences blind them from seeing the full picture.

I hope I have made my mother proud and she is smiling down on me from her perch in the other world.  I hope Mr. Balakian's penetrating stare will twitch just a little with a twinkle in recognition of some accomplishments at least.  Because of them, I will persevere and plod again.  Because of them, I cannot quit.

My Mother - A Tribute

I'm the baby - with my mother, sister and brother

Happy Mother's Day 2017

As I reflect on this annual event and remember my mother, I think that many of us do not appreciate our mothers enough until we are older and have children of our own.  Then all of a sudden we are so thankful they put up with us the way they did.

We start to remember all the little things they did to make our lives so special, to keep us safe, to teach us all they could in order for us to enter into life well informed, steady on our feet, and ready for whatever life would throw at us.

There are so many things my mother did for us children that have affected us to to this day that I can only be in awe and thankful that she took so much time out of her busy day to spend with us, tutor us, discipline us, take us on field trips, and basically dote on us.

My mother used every opportunity as a teaching moment.  We had all kinds of animals including dogs, cats, birds, hamsters and chickens.  These were learning experiences she said.  Our hamster was pregnant and due to give birth. This was an exciting event, she said.  We were all waiting for this blessed event.  When that moment arrived my mother yelled for us to come and watch.  As fate would have it, I was in the bathroom and missed the whole thing. Boy, was I disappointed.

One day she told us she was going to teach us about the birds and the bees.  I was so excited.  I had heard about this when adults talked and made jokes about it. I couldn't wait. I was finally going to find out what the birds and the bees was all about.  As we all sat down on the couch with her, she opened up a book that was literally about the birds and the bees. Really?  I was disappointed but as she read about life my interest grew by leaps and bounds.

With my cousins at the turkey farm

So much of our time was spent going places and doing things.  She organized field trips so that we would see the country.

We went to turkey farms, we took the train, we went to a farm to ride a tractor and we always, always went to the Fresno Zoo.

Honeymoon Pool Dinky Creek

Every summer we spent two weeks at Camp Fresno in Dinkey Creek experiencing our mountain getaway.  It was my favorite vacation.

Once my brother saw a trout in the creek so he threw a rock at it and caught it. We ran back to the camp yelling, "Mom, Mom, Johnny caught a fish."  She promptly cleaned the fish, coated it in butter and lemon, wrapped it in aluminum foil and grilled it right there.  That was the best fish I  had ever eaten.

On the tractor

Feeding Nosy the elephant at the zoo

As I got older I did not appreciate my mother like I should have.  Why, I don't really know. But when I came back to her side with children of my own, she was once again my bulwark and my anchor.  Whatever I did in life, whatever mistakes I made, whatever silly and foolish choices I made, she never gave up on me.  She stepped in and took up the mantle when I needed help after a recent divorce.  My children benefited greatly because of her efforts.  I will forever be indebted.

RIP my sweet mother.  You left us richer and with memories we cherish and will never forget.  Until we meet again.

We Went to the Cave for Safety - The Story as it Unfolded

The Cave in Aintab -a recently acquired picture

Returning from Exile

Towards the end of WWI, forces were madly fighting in Eastern Turkey (or as Armenians like to say, Western Armenia).  The Ottoman Empire was crumbling and gasping for air.  The British had told the Armenians in exile that they could return to their homes as they thought the war was over and their lands were being given back to them.

 In their last hurrah, however, the Turkish forces under Attaturk made an onslaught against this community in Eastern Turkey named Aintab which was formerly a majority of Armenians and where my mother was born. The attempt was to drive out the Armenians who had returned.  My mother was born in the midst of this tumult in 1919. She nearly perished from lack of food so my grandfather pleaded with the missionary doctor at the time, a Dr. Shepherd, for canned milk for my mother and she was saved because of his efforts.

The Armenians made an attempt to defend their town against the Turkish army with the supposed help of the French and the British. Although at some point everyone was fighting everyone.  My grandfather valiantly, along with the other men of the town, tried to defend the Armenian community.  He is shown in a picture from a book on Aintab with other fighters.

My grandpa, 3rd from the right, with his friend's hand on his shoulder

 About the Cave

The story I was told and which my mother wrote down, was that my grandfather had taken the little family to a cave for safety.  It was in this cave where my grandfather thought he would scout outside to see if it was safe.  Against my grandmother's wishes, he went outside and was hit with shrapnel and had to be taken to the American hospital.

Recently, a picture surfaced, found by a researcher in Aintab, of the cave where the Armenians had gathered for safety. I never in my lifetime thought I would see a picture of this cave, which apparently is now underneath a school or hospital, as nearly all of the presence of the very large Armenian population had been erased. Even the town's name was changed to Gaziantep to celebrate their victory of eliminating the presence of Armenians in their very own city. The above picture was sent to descendants of Aintab by this researcher.

Wilsonian Map of Armenia

Initially, the Armenians thought their perils were over and they could return.  Even President Wilson had planned for this and made a map of the new divisions in Eastern Turkey.

In January of 1922 the French forces retreated.

Unfortunately, the Lausanne treaty would take place in 1923 by the French so that they could have Syria as a mandate and they gave the lands to the Turkish army.  Sadly, my mother and her family had to leave once again.  Every single Armenian who had returned were forced to leave until the last two remaining Armenians who had been two midwife sisters and needed by the Turkish community left.  Thankfully, they kept their journals and much has been learned from their writings.

It was the end of the Armenians in their ancestral lands - now called Eastern Turkey.  So the surfacing of the picture of the cave has monumental meaning for me and my family.  

For further reading on the topic, an excellent dissertation can be found at http://www.sciencespo.fr/mass-violence-war-massacre-resistance/en/document/expulsion-non-turkish-ethnic-and-religious-groups-turkey-syria-during-1920s-and-early-1930s

Kevork Guleserian - A Hero in a Desperate Time

L-R - Areknaz (daughter), Zmroukht (mother)
and Kevork Guleserian

Kevork Guleserian

In an interview with my mother on tape, my grandmother talked about her perils during the Armenian genocide.  One chapter I want to talk about is the family of Kevork Guleserian that saved my grandmother and helped her tremendously during that time.

Here is the excerpt of that interview:  (translated from Ottoman Turkish)

HRIPSEME:  We were in Damascus. Papa was in military. We heard that my father was in Damascus. He sent somebody to bring me. I had a child in my arms. The man came and told me everything and said, “I will bring you as part of my wife’s family.” He could not have sent me. He brought me a head covering. I was going to dress like a Turkish woman to be able to go. They were working on getting me a passport and when the travel arrangements were being made. The son of the ruler was there and asked them if there were any Armenians in the group and they said, “There is one.” So they got very upset and I couldn’t go. Then they took papa to military. I was left with my child in my arms. I had nobody there.

AZAD. To Turkish military?

HRIPSEME. There were Turks there too (Ottoman Empire, Syria was under Turkish rule).
AZAD. I thought that if you were in Damascus, the government was different.HRIPSEME. There are Christian Arabs too. But the Turks are there too. So I wrote to my father and explained the situation. My father sent another man to bring me to him. By that time I have heard that in Hama, Angel’s grandmother, and my sister-in-law and my father-in-law’s family. They are Guleserian. Angel, they are Baronyan. I heard that Kevork , were in Hama. There were men going to Hama and they said, “Let’s go together.” So I went with them and found them. Everybody got off when we were near Hama. I was the only one left. They gave me to a woman who had donkeys and this woman took me to Hama on a donkey. We had nothing. I had the child in my arms and the child’s necessities tied on my back. We came by a cemetery and the woman said, “I will not go in here.” She took me off of the donkey. She said, “I will be afraid to be in a cemetery. You do whatever you will.” I went by myself, I found a shop. I asked the man in the shop, “There is the Baronyan family living here, do you know them?” He said, “Yes, they went to Haleppo.”
AZAD. Oohh.
HRIPSEME.I said, “There is Kevork Guleserian here.” He said, “Yes, they are here but their place is very far.” Then they locked the door. The child wanted some water, I gave him some water and I went sat by the store. And it got dark, it was evening. Then I saw my father-in-laws (grand)son, he later said that he would never walk the way I was sitting at, he would always go the other way. I lifted my head and saw him, Kevork. I was looking for them. He got very surprised and asked what had happened and I told him everything. He took me, the child was in my arms, he took the load I was carrying and took me to their home.
AZAD. That’s good.
HRIPSEME. He knocked on the door, they opened the door, a month, or a month and a half. Papa’s brother’s wife was there.AZAD. She was Guleserian.
HRIPSEME. She was Guleserian as well. In about a month the child who was in my arms, died. I was devastated."

The Guleserian family in Syria.  

L-R sitting, Stepan Khidishahian (brother-in-law of Armen), Armen Guleserian, wife Hripseme Guleserian, Zmroukht Guleserian (wife of Kevork, Sr., who died falling on his knife when closing the gate against the enemy), Kevork, Jr. Guleserian.

Standing:  Arshavir, Areknaz Guleserian, Florenza (I believe she married Kevork, Jr.)

 Kevork and Florenza

Inscription on the back of the card wishing Mrs. Hripsema a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.  Aleppo 1925

Kevork states here that he is sending both pictures as "a memory of our deportation"

If I ever find the family of Kevork, Jr., I want to thank them for saving my grandmother and giving aid to my family.

Hripseme's Story - Never Forget

Wedding Photo taken in Turkey

 April 24 is the day Armenians remember the genocide that took place around 1915.  My mother wrote the following tribute to her mother for her 92nd birthday.

I will always remember my grandmother would cry and mutter things in Turkish. I would ask why grandma was crying and would be told in hushed voices that she is remembering the genocide.  Let us never forget and let us never be silenced.

The following is my mother's tribute -

            ....Born in Aintab, Turkey, in 1985 to Soghmon and Khanoom.  Her father was very well known to all the schools and townspeople as their baker of bread and Lahmajoon.  She was the only daughter.  Mom had four brothers.

            In 1914, she and my father, Armen, were united in marriage.  It was a big and fashionable wedding party that lasted for three days.

            Their first child was a beautiful, bright and healthy little girl who gave them much joy. She was not quite two years old when the Turkish government sent orders to have the Turkish army go around and evacuate everyone in Aintab from their homes.  They must leave!  Only whatever could be placed on a donkey’s back was allowed to be removed from our house.  That was it!  They were all ordered to go in the direction of the desert.  And march they did

            Her trousseau of finest lace, satin and silk was not meant to be enjoyed by her.  One by one, each article was sold for the price of something to eat.  Her gold coins, chains and rings also went the same way.  Eventually, hunger became unbearable and death took its grim toll.  One by one, God called their first born - then their second born - then their third born to be by HIS side.  They were never to feel hunger again.

            As time went on, Pop was able to trade some carpenter work for a sewing machine.  Mom learned how to use it and did dressmaking and alterations, mainly for the Arabs along the way.  They had a very dear companion whose name was Yepros Shirejian.  Yepros was good at scouting around for mom, to sew for the people.

            The Turkish government found out that Pop was a good carpenter.  They were in demand to help build army barracks.  He was taken away to the army.  His instructions were that he was not to reveal he was an Armenian or he would be killed immediately.

            At one point, a friend of his in the army came to him and said, “You know, the army has Armenian men working here and I overheard that the higher ranking officers give orders to kill them all, TOMORROW.”  Needless to say, Pop took his life into his hands and managed to escape during the night.  Being that he was on guard duty made his escape possible.

           

            Now that he was reunited with mom, the news came that “the war is over, return to your homes.”  Somehow they managed to return to Aintab in 1918. She was on one wagon returning to Aintab when another wagon carrying her father was spotted. She could hardly contain her emotions. They ran into each others’ arms.  Her father kissed her all over her face and her eyes and thanked God she was alive.  Her face became covered with his tears.  Tears of joy!  People became impatient and told them to get back on the wagon so they could continue their journey.

            By September 1919, God saw fit that I should be born there.  Armen and Horipsema (Helen) now had a fourth child.  Me!  Starting life all over again, with no money, yet with a stronger faith in God.  What would be my destiny?  Pop went to the American hospital where the Red Cross had canned milk for the patients.  Pop had made friends with Dr. Shepherd, an American Christian doctor.  He begged him for a prescription for some milk for me, or I too would die.  This helped for the time being.  But, again there was trouble. Disagreement was brewing between the Turkish government and the French, English and Germans.  The bombs started off again.  My father took us to the safety of a cave.  He was standing guard to see if it was safe enough to live - a bomb exploded and the shrapnel was embedded in his eyes and face.  He was taken to the American hospital.

            Again, they were ordered to leave Aintab.  By this time, families were terminated.  No matter who you talked to, somebody was killed or died of starvation or illness.  For those who left Aintab now, there was no donkey to carry the burden.  They walked and walked - heading south of the border.  Families became even more separated and confused.  They accepted wagon rides from anyone going south.  Pop had told Mom to find his sister, Mariam, who lived in Aleppo, Syria.  The wagon, Mom was on with baby brother and myself, continued on.  It was getting dusk.  The wagon went to the cemetery and dumped the people out.  This was as far as she would go.

            Fear gripped her heart, tired - hungry - lonely - two little ones - where to go from this cemetery - at night?  She had the sister-in-law’s address, but no one could tell her where it was.  After much walking, swollen feet, and complete exhaustion, she sat down for a goody cry.  Suddenly, she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.  “Girl, what are you doing here?”  When she looked up, it was Mariam’s son.  He assisted her in taking her home where everyone greeted her with love and joy.  She was given both food and rest.  The next day Pop was at the door.  He had been put into the Turkish army again and kept having troubled dreams.  They kept telling him - “go, go, your son is dying.”  So, again he escaped from the Turkish army and found his way to his sister’s house in Syria.  They told him, “Horipsema is resting, Azadohi is also asleep, but your baby son died during the night.”  What a heartbreak!

Syria circa 1920 

            As time went on, things looked better.  Mom had another baby, there was no one home - no telephones to call anyone.  Pop did not know what to do. The baby died right after birth.  Another heartbreak.  My father vowed right then and there that if God would spare my life, he would make a journey to Jerusalem and place a lighted candle in my hand to say a prayer, and place it on a special container for all candles.

            Now his wife, my mom was expecting another child. That is my brother, George. Yes, faith can work miracles.  He lived and still is with us. Thank you God!

            Now they had two children to plan a future for.  What could be more important?  Pop heard that Italy was the place some people were going for relocation.  We went.  The government supplied a big public tent for the homeless Armenians. Why wasn’t I afraid of the mice and rats that were all over the place?  I’ll never know.  There was a huge area for public washing of laundry.  To walk there was slippery and dangerous.  Pop decided to try to go to France.

Hripseme, Azadohi and Armen

            We arrived in France just in time for another child to be born.  A little girl.  Pop left for another “better place.”  He had several brothers in Philadelphia.  Perhaps it would be better to move there.  Since my brother had a Jerusalem birthplace on his passport - it was not available for him to go with us.  So, Pop went alone.  But instead of a delay of four weeks - it was four years of waiting to come to America.  In the meantime, baby Marie became sick.  Mom took her to the hospital.

            The story here is a bit confusing.  They told her the baby was too sick and she must now take her home (that doesn’t sound like a hospital).  Mom had gone to get the child, while my brother and I were holding onto her skirt.  What really happened?  They told her something she could not understand.  They told her to go home.  To this day - I cannot accept anything that tells me she died.  I don’t feel it in my heart that she did.  I asked Mom if they allowed her to go see the baby, she said “NO.”  They were very rude to her.  Was this child given out for adoption?  I pray she was.  If so - she is alive.  Dear God - whether she is with you or whether she is being loved here on earth - watch over her!

Azadohi, Krikor & Hripseme in France 1925

Reunited in Philadelphia

 Finally, we came to America.  Mom and I came first; George followed us six months later, at the age of five.

Azad ©1982

PostScript:  My mother told me that she cried all the way on the boat to Ellis Island missing her brother.

Visit to Ararat-Eskijian Museum March 2017

With my daughter, Angelina

Recently I was finally able to visit a museum (Ararat-Eskijian Museum) in Southern California (Los Angeles County) where I have placed some of my families artifacts from the Armenian Genocide era (@1914-1926) and their journey out of Eastern Turkey and to the United States where they finally arrived in 1928.

I took my odar (non Armenian) husband, my daughter and her two daughters.

The day was exciting, emotional and very informative.  The director, Maggie Goschin, has spent many years collecting the artifacts and arranging events.  She, along with the Eskijian family, have done a monumental job.

Here are a few pictures and description of our day:

My granddaughters, Shay & Jodie

Let me just say that the ornamental gardens around the museum and the chapel were stunning.  Beautifully landscaped and so pleasant.

The statue in front of the museum depicts an Armenian mother saving her child during the genocide and is entitled:  "Mother Armenia Rising Out of the Ashes."  In fact, many Armenian mothers chose rather to throw themselves and/or their babies into the river rather than be captured and tortured by the marauding forces.

The "Orphan Dress"

We saw many artifacts from that time period. Including what the director called the "orphan dress."  A dress which belonged to an orphan who walked 75 miles to an orphanage run by Mennonites in Eastern Turkey during the 1909 massacre brought on by the Bloody Sultan where hundreds of thousands of Armenians were murdered.  The dress had been recently found by an Armenian filmmaker at a college in Indiana.  We were so fortunate to see the dress which is currently on loan to the museum.  Maggie informed us that the patches that covered some of  the dress were not for rips or to patch holes, but were pieces of fabric from loved ones who had died and had been attached to the dress.  At that point I could not hold back my tears. Knowing I had uncles and aunts who died in the desert of Deir ez-Zor in my grandmother's arms or still born while on the "death march" to some faraway location where the army had sent them. Knowing how much my grandmother suffered was hard to comprehend and so the tears came.

Related to that was the bones from the same desert that were being displayed in the chapel above the museum.

Bones from the desert of Deir ez-Zor

The chapel was a treasure for the eyes: with beautiful stained glass windows and many displays.

Coat of Arms from "Lesser Armenia" 

The Coat of Arms where my mother was born in Aintab is called "lesser Armenia" because it was located outside the highlands of Armenia.

We also saw an "Oud" which the curator explained, to my surprise, was not indigenous to Armenians.  It is believed to have originated in Persia 3,500 years ago and is also seen depicted in ancient Egyptian drawings.  My grandfather loved to play the Oud.  So when my mother at 9 years old crossed the Atlantic so that the family could be reunited with her father (who had come ahead 4 years earlier) in America in 1928, she brought an Oud with her for her father.  My son keeps this cherished item for our memories.

An "Oud"

My daughter stands by a replica of the Etchmiadzin Cathedral in Armenia - considered the oldest cathedral in the world.

Here is an article I found that the Huffington Post did on the museum - click here.

My daughter admires a candle lantern used as a lamp

It was an eventful day and even more poignant as this month of April all Armenians around the world will commensurate "Armenian Martyrs Day" and a Day of Remembrance for the Armenian population of today's Eastern Turkey that was eradicated from their ancestral homelands and scattered throughout the world

Football Brings a Moment of Clarity

Today is Super Bowl Sunday, a veritable national pastime in this country.  I'm married to a football fanatic, it would be unheard of to not watch football.  You can win or lose, but it's still an exciting time.

Being that I am not like minded, I endure football as best I can.  I know names of players because my husband tells me since I am his captive audience.

 A few years ago I read the story of a football player in WWII and the Philippine death march.  I like to recount the story on Super Bow Sunday because it reminds me that people can find common ground no matter how vehemently one disagrees. Now in this tension charged climate we are in, it might be good to reflect on that.

The Story of Mario G. `Motts' Tonelli, 1916-2003: Former Football star who survived Bataan

In 1942, Tonelli was an Army sergeant, only 25 years old, battling the Japanese in a steaming Philippine jungle.

He tells the story:

“ We knew we couldn't win. We didn't have ammunition. The ammunition that we did have was old and there were duds.”

Only two grenades in 25 worked. Finally, 12,000 GIs gave up—the largest single surrender in American history. Men too weak to defend themselves were made to march 70 miles. It was a death march. Ten thousand American and Filipino soldiers would die.

“ You'd see them get shot. You'd see them get killed.”

On the first day, a Japanese guard demanded Motts' class ring.

“ And he kept pointing at it, and I said, ‘No, I'm not going to give it to you,’ and a couple of guys said, ‘Motts, give him the ring. He's going to kill you!’”

The Bataan Death March is not known for any act of kindness. But there was one, because of something that happened five years before, in Notre Dame Stadium.

Motts Tonelli was a fullback then with dazzling speed. Two minutes left in the game against Archrival University of Southern California, he ran 76 yards for a touchdown. It was a moment one USC student from Japan would never forget. Five years later, on that jungle path, the student, now a Japanese army officer recognized Tonelli.

“And he said, ‘Did one of my men take anything from you?’ And I said, ‘Yes, he did. It's in his pocket.’ And he said, ‘Is this it?’”

It was Tonelli's Notre Dame ring.

“I went to the University of Southern California,” the officer said. “I graduated the same year you did. In fact, I saw the game when you made that long run that beat us. You were a hell of a player.”

 “He gave me my ring back and wished me good luck,” Tonelli recalled many years later.

 “When you're talking about a war, you're talking about life.”

That extraordinary gift helped Motts do something most of his buddies did not, he survived the ordeal, with the ring and the memory of a single act of kindness. He still faced four years as a prisoner of war until the Japanese surrendered.

It was one moment where of all things, a football game brought two sworn enemies together.

Let’s not make football political.  It’s one of the few times people of different stripes get together and drink beer, talk players and referees and get off the grid, so to speak.

A Thank You to Dr. King

Me - 1969 graduation

Recently I was talking to my granddaughter about how school was going.  She told me she was working on an essay about Dr. Martin Luther King.  I told her maybe I could add something to her essay because when I was in school in the 60s it was the height of the civil rights movement. 

She perked up and became real interested. I guess she didn’t realize that grandma was that old.  She asked me if I marched with Dr. King. I chuckled and told her that where I grew up in Fresno we didn’t really have any marches.  Nor did we have the kind of problems they had in the south, such as forcing black people to sit in the back of the bus or drink at separate water fountains, yet we still had issues.

In Fresno at that time, I explained, the people of color lived on the other side of the tracks, literally.  They had their own part of town where the railroad marked their territory.  You would otherwise never see a black person living or participating in life anywhere else.  My father’s business, a box manufacturing plant, bordered that area and several of his employees were people of color.  In fact his foreman was black and his yard boss was Latino and was affectionately called poncho.  Everyone loved him and he loved everyone.  I never learned bigotry or racism in any form from my parents.

I still have the picture of my very white father attending the wedding of the foreman’s daughter.  My father seemed so happy and was smiling so big; the only white guy there.

My father - at the wedding of his foreman's daughter - 1950s

My granddaughter’s essay brought me back in memory to that time and place.  I told her that I may not have been involved in any marches, unless you count Berkeley – marching against the war - but I remember that time in America so vividly. It was exciting in many ways, there were the controversies and there were the victories.  Many things were changing.  We all followed Dr. King’s speeches and listened to every word. 

For me as a high school student, these changes affected my life.  I explained to my granddaughter how in high school where I lived in the north part of town, way far away from those railroad tracks, they bused in young people of color to attend classes with us at my school.

My memories are that all of us students welcomed our new fellow students with open arms. It was a happy time.  We were thrilled to be a part of these new changes. I don’t remember anyone being upset or critical in any way, shape or form.  We all wanted these changes to take place and for a people oppressed to feel welcome. I became good friends with one of the students in particular. I still remember her name, Johnnie James.

My granddaughter’s eyes were wide and she was so surprised that I experienced these things in my lifetime.  I found my old yearbook and showed her a picture of Johnnie and her sweet message to me which she read with enthusiasm.  We talked about other things in the yearbook, the times, the feelings, the experiences. 

As we parted and she clutched my yearbook, she said, “Grandma, may I borrow your yearbook for awhile?”  How could I say “no”?  I watched as she took my piece of history and carried it away next to her heart.

So today I want to thank Dr. King and his memory and the memories he made for me and that I was able to meet Johnnie and move forward in my generation and for future generations.  Let’s not forget his speeches that motivated us against hatred.

Update:  I am including a picture of Johnnie and her sweet comment to me in my yearbook.