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.