I pray for you: Mel Gibson offers support to Armenians

Columbus Day Woes and the Annihilation of the Armenians

 Armenian Genocide, What Does it Mean?

 

Armen & parents

There is plenty on my blog here about my family and their history.  Plenty about my mother and both sets of grandparents escaping to America.  About families and friends lost.  About homes, businesses, and lands lost.  About never being able to return again.  The land of milk and honey violently ripped out of their hands by their oppressors.  

Once the Armenians were expelled from their ancient lands, the victors went to work changing names and history.  They took over their homes and divided up the spoils among themselves.  Their beautiful churches were torn apart so they could use the stones for their own needs. The propaganda machine went into beast mode and full speed ahead on the events, blaming the Armenians for fighting back, for wanting a better life, for not wanting to be sent into the desert of Syria (for their own good), only to die of thirst and starvation.  It's all their fault, the victors said.  Don't pay any attention to witness accounts of young women being hanged naked in the town square.  Of father's taken from their homes never to be seen or heard from again.  Just in case they might fight against us, they said. They might be subversives that we must restrain and send to their deaths in open graves.  Or the best and most comical one, "People die in wars."  Sure, all those women and children lying in the sands of the Deir Ez-Zor [Deir_ez-Zor_camps] desert were no doubt ready to take down the Ottoman Turks with their bare hands.  I challenge anyone to go to that desert and sift through the sands.  The bones are still there, en masse, including my great grandparents seen in the picture above.

Those Armenians were troublesome, always asking for autonomy and to be treated fairly, not as second class citizens.  And they couldn't stop excelling as savvy businessmen and sending their children to school, women included!  What right do they have to complain, don't they know we came in as invaders and conquered them?  We subjugated them and they need to act accordingly.

Finally, the "bloody" Sultan had enough and began a series of massacres in their own ancient homeland of Eastern Turkey.  100,000 Armenians killed here, another 200,000 killed there, totaling nearly 300,000 and producing 50,000 orphans.  My own grandmother was born during one of the Sultan's tirades and massacres.  She tells the story of how when she was born they couldn't find her father. He was in hiding.  Hamidian Massacres

Those Armenians think they have a right to fight back against these massacres.  We'll show them.  And that's exactly what they did.  They whipped up their religious students following their creed of conquering by the sword.  Many women and children were forced into harems and given as gifts to Turkish and Kurdish families after the parents were killed.  Both sisters of my grandmother suffered this fate.  One ran away, but the other was forced to marry at only 10 years old. 

And so the stage is set.  The world watched once before as the first genocide of the 20th century played out in front of their eyes.  There was that brand spanking new railroad going in with Germany which needed it for the war and to supply oil and supplies for their war effort.  Yes, indeed, it was a war and people were dying and the Armenians were smack dab in the way of that railroad so important to their world domination.https://www.globalsecurity.org/military/world/europe/de-berlin-baghdad-3.htm

Again, Armenia is in the way of these super powers designs.  The world won't care, just take them out, they're too small to survive our mighty armies.  And all the Armenians around the world suffer yet again.  If you see them protesting in the streets, if you see them crying for their homeland around the world, this is why.  Because once again our brothers and sisters are being eliminated. The Republic of Artsakh is part of these ancient lands that is to this day inhabited by Armenians.  Artsakh 

And again, it is in the way of an oil pipeline.  

 

Baku Pipeline

World Denial and Columbus Day

It hurts, as a descendant, it hurts and it hurts bad.  But what hurts even more is the denial, it's the rewriting of history, it's blaming the victim, it's the hatred that continues unabated.  World powers that should know better, ours included, fall into the trap of denial to save their own skin.  After all, Armenia is just a little tiny country of not much significance.  What use are they on the world power stage, they must wonder.  Indeed, one of the last remaining Christian nations in that area.  The rest having been conquered by the sword.

Every Columbus Day I hear from my native American friends about the horrors of colonialism and how this must all change. I certainly sympathize with their plight, I get it.  But there's something they have that I don't get to have and that is validation.  The world knows and the government admits to the atrocities.  I don't get to have that. I don't get to hear the world say, "that was wrong and it shouldn't have happened and here's your compensation."  Every Columbus Day I go though the same thing, I don't want to hear the complaints, I don't want to hear about the oppression.  Maybe it's wrong of me, but it's real.  I know the government gives out money and special services to atone for the mistakes of the past.  I don't get to have that and I don't even get recognition.  My grandmother's tears flowed remembering the genocide and the children she lost to starvation.  Adding insult to injury, in 1919, they were told they could return to their homes but their homes had been taken over by the local population, never to be given back, all their things gone.  And then, they were escorted out once again, this time my mother as a tiny toddler having been born amidst the war torn ruins.

Above photograph of Armenians living in a cave in 1919 after returning home to find their homes occupied.  My mother and grandmother spoke about living in this cave. They fought valiantly to be able to stay but all the super powers left them and Atatürk forces rode in and made them leave yet again.

My mother and my grandparents after leaving their home of Aintab for Syria.

I tell their story over and over again.  I feel I cannot tell it enough.  If I don't, we will forget and I fear the worst.

Please call your congressperson and demand they protect this country and this ancient people.  I would thank you forever.

What Have We Done?

I am old enough to have lived through the civil rights movement, the demonstrations over the Vietnam War in Berkeley (I attended a few), the flower child movement and consequently, the rejection of the status quo.  That makes me old, I know.

I am old enough to have welcomed the first black students to attend our very white, rich and affluent school.

I am also old enough to have lived through the Watts Riot, the Rodney King Riots and so many, many more.

Today my heart breaks, not just for the injustice of a black man losing his life through bad policing (more will be known as time goes on, hopefully), but for our country, for our youth, for the generations after me.  For the innocent babies that will be forevermore taught hate.
Today, we have had several days of rioting that have decimated thriving communities; our symbols of freedom and hard work have been destroyed.  Our souls are being ripped out.  Rioters will tell you this is all well and good.  I have heard them say, who cares about property or possessions when lives are lost.  I wonder what they are talking about when the riots themselves have caused lost lives. And how do we measure this pain?  They say we are not to measure in buildings or possessions or the ability to put food on the table through one’s business.  Or to have a store nearby where they can shop. We must think about black people and the pain they have when they are discriminated against.  And yet the pain I see on the faces of these very people they are so virtuously ramming that 2x4 through shop windows for - breaks my heart.  For the life of me, I cannot understand this line of reasoning.

Of course, I’m told, I’m just a dying breed and I just don’t get it.  I must be like the gentleman in Portland who tried to carry an American flag through the streets to support his country and was brutally attacked and heckled.  I’m that person, some old boomer with ancient ideals that just don’t fly in this new age of so-called progressive thinking. 

I never thought that my welcoming Johnnie as my friend in 1968 would today be called racist because having a black friend doesn’t qualify a white person as not having some inherent racism and if you look hard enough, you will find it, they say.  If you don’t, “they” will show you what and where it is.  These new preachers of progressiveness will show you chapter and verse of just what sins you are guilty and they are more than ready to tell you what you need to do to correct it.  And if you don’t – well, Hell, fire and brimstone are just a stone throw away. 

They hate religion, evil as it is, but little do they realize just how much of a religion they are also practicing.  They have a god (progressiveness), they have a bible (found in the annals of academia), and they have their preachers (just about every college professor – oh and movie stars, don’t forget).  If you go against any of these things, you will be lucky if you are not ostracized (how we worked so hard to stop religions from doing this yet here it rears its ugly head again), silenced (see how protesters routinely shout down people they don’t agree with), and shamed (apparently ok to do as long they are doing it because they are so virtuous).

Not one of these things is my ideal of liberalism.  This is not why I marched in Berkeley.  This is not why I welcomed Johnnie as my friend at a time when black people literally lived on the other side of the tracks.  It was such a different world then, these new ministers of progressiveness have no idea what happened and what we went through.

It’s true that I am not black and have not walked in their shoes.  But I have had a peak and I have been discriminated against because of my race.  Not just me, but my whole family.  We are Armenian and we could not purchase a home in a certain part of town because of our race.  Armenians could not hold a job at the university.  I was called names in school because of my race. Yes, it’s peanuts compared to what black people have and do go through. I do understand this.

  Recently I realized I have generational PTSD from listening to my grandparents and mother talk about their exodus from their homeland due to discrimination.  How my grandmother suffered.  How my grandfather was nearly executed for being Armenian. How my grandmother’s sisters were stolen and put in harems or given to Turkish families, how brothers and fathers were killed leaving families to fend for themselves. How my mother had to translate for my grandparents as a child of 9 years old when they first arrived.  She was the one who had to learn English and she was the one who steered that family. I saw and heard my grandmother cry too many times while remembering the children she lost and her trek through the desert.  It left an indelible mark on my psyche.

Our family always understood the plight of those who suffer oppression.  A glaring memory I have as a little girl was when we were moving to that better part of town once courts ruled against discrimination in housing.  We put the house up for sale and were ready to sell it to a black lady who had been given money for her home due to some development going in.  She loved our home and was so happy to be able to purchase it.

All of a sudden, my little nice neighborhood that I grew up in became a hot bed of activity.  People came out of the woodwork and meetings were being held in our living room.  They were not happy.  Their property values were going to go down they exclaimed and so the meeting went.  I sat there bug eyed.  I had never seen such a display from my neighbors.  The display was fear.  One particular exclamation has never left my memory even though I was only about 11 yrs old at the time.  One neighbor complained that her husband had just planted flowers.  “What about Sam’s flowers?” she said.  I can still remember thinking – “who cares about Sam’s flowers.”

The next day, my father had the unenviable task of telling the prospective buyer that he couldn’t sell her his property.  Again, I was there, watching.  I could see on my father’s face how hard it was for him to tell her this.  The lady’s face once happy suddenly fell, like the life got sucked out of the room.  In my young life, I had never felt so sorry for someone else.

I understand, I have an idea and I want to make it better, always have and always will.
After high school I went overseas and returned 10 years later.  I was so happy to see that the black population was now able to live and work more freely than they were able to before; they were no longer regulated to the other side of the tracks.  There was progress and I was relived. 
It’s true, the scars of 250 years of slavery do not go away overnight and I know how they must suffer the generational PTSD like I do.  And I know it’s harder because of skin color and there will always be bigots and racists no matter how hard we try and eradicate these sins because we live in an imperfect world.  I know I can never understand completely.  No one needs to tell me that.
Fast forward to the Rodney King riots in 1992.  We were a young family with a bunch of kids.  I was recently divorced and had remarried.  We were on welfare and doing our best to make solid citizens out of the kids, but it was rough.  We didn’t even have a car, I had to borrow my mother’s and my new husband was trying to find a job to support us all.

I was following the riots and hoping for the best, but then it erupted and literally all hell broke loose.  One day while all this was going on, my neighbor, who was black and our daughters were good friends, stopped in for some reason.  I remember we were outside in the driveway talking.  What did we talk about?  The riots?  How the police hate black people?  How awful life is for her?  No, not one word.  Instead we talked about our lives, the struggles we go through, how she was working hard to become a nurse so she could have health care for her kids.  I remember admiring her and her resolve.  I felt like she was a better person than me because she didn’t let her race define her and here I was drowning in kids and troubles.

Later I was to find out about Reginald Denny - The truck driver pulled from his truck and nearly beaten to death in those riots.  But he was saved just inches from his life by kind-hearted black people.

The thought came to me that this was how we make the world a better place for our children; this was how we resolve issues.  We lead by example.  We do our best to turn the bigots and haters through love and forgiveness.  Is it going to be easy?  Of course not, whoever said it would be.  I doubt it would ever be completely resolved, not even in 100 years.  But burning down neighborhoods and defacing and destroying national monuments and landmarks (they even defaced an Armenian genocide memorial) will only cause people to be angrier and will only foster more hate.  The fact that people can’t see this is alarming.

I write this only because I must share my heart.  I want things to be better so bad and yet I feel we have today taken a huge step backwards and that we may never recover from this.  We can only blame ourselves.  Sure politicians are for the most part deceptive and useless, but who is throwing the rocks?  Who are spray painting stores and landmarks?  Who is smashing windows and setting buildings on fire? 

In the words of Thomas Sowell:

“Historians of the future will have a hard time figuring out how organized groups of strident jackasses succeeded in leading us around by the nose and morally intimidating the majority into silence.”

Homeschooling Tips 101 - Corona virus update

During  this time of uncertainty in the world, with schools closed and parents at home with their children, it reminded me of the days I home-schooled my children in the 70s and 80s.  I thought maybe I could share some things that worked for me and could be helpful for others.

As you can see in the pictures, I started off teaching my children in the mid 70s when we were living overseas.  Then as the children got older in the 80s, other children from the international community were added to my classroom.

@1976 Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

It was fun for me and I found out I actually learned more from teaching the children than I had learned during my own school days.  My spelling improved, my understanding of sentence structure, my reading, etc.  Math, however, was always a challenge.

I was not a trained teacher and I learned as I went.  Here are a few things to consider for all you parents who suddenly have your children to teach.

1) - I found it helped to have a separate room available for teaching.  If that wasn't an option, then I would try and avoid the kitchen table.  Even a small work area set aside in the living room or bedroom for example.  When the children were small, school area was off limits except when school was in session.  This helped the children from thinking we were just at home, which made it hard to differentiate between playtime and school time.

2) - Math is not my expertise and I really do get math anxiety.  However, I found that the Montessori method of teaching math was so easy and realistic and made sense.  If you have a similar problem, I would recommend checking into it.  The main thing is we want our children to be able to function in all ways in society.  We just have to do what we know best and get the instruction to them.

3)  - My mother was the expert at making everything in life some sort of educational lesson. I learned a lot from her in that regard.  Because of her example, everything we did was always a teachable moment and something that could be incorporated into our school work.  Math was more exciting when you did fractions while baking a cake.  Learning about insects and bugs in the garden is a biologists dream.  I hated history in school but when it became relatable to me I found that I really did love history and it could have very well been one of  my favorite subjects.

4) - Find out what your child or children's strengths and interests are and emphasize that with them.  This is an opportunity they might not have in a traditional school.  For example, my oldest child was fascinated with different countries and where they are in the world.  I put up a world map in the hallway and every time he passed the map he would look at the capitals of the different countries and memorize them.  He ended up graduating with a degree in geography and to this day he can still tell you the capital of every country.

5) - I know parents are afraid of too much screen time, but try giving them things to do online that are education related and let them feel they are getting the screen time they think they are missing.  In this day and age, this is actually a blessing and can free up your time to help another child while the other ones are working on projects online.

6) - In those days, we didn't have much and we certainly didn't have the internet.  And TV was almost non existent so reading was the best form of entertainment.  I can't emphasize enough how important reading is.  Don't let the internet replace reading.  We always had quiet time in our home and everyone was expected to rest, and if not wanting to nap, they could read.  Even the older ones.

7) - Games.  Don't forget games and puzzles.  Games like scrabble are excellent for brain activity and learning language.

I'm sure most of these are already known factors, but sometimes hearing it from someone else is helpful.  Especially when this was so unexpected and took us all by surprise.  Of course, everyone is different and so is every child.  Some of these may not work for you, some of them might.  I hope some of it is helpful and that everyone stays healthy.

Thailand @1985

Visiting New Found Cousins in Turkey and France - Part 1

I finally made it to Europe.  One more thing off my bucket list.

It had to happen, it was going to happen, I made it happen.  I wanted to see my mother's birthplace and follow her path of immigration to the United States.  I wanted to meet relatives I had never met before.  And I did.  I was not able to follow her true path, that would have taken months, but I did manage to go to two countries.

Relations between Turkey and the United States had been on edge and visas to Turkey were on hold.  Then one day I read that they had resolved their differences and opened up visas.  I went full speed ahead and ordered a ticket to Istanbul, Ankara, back to Istanbul and then to France.

With new found cousins, Seljuck, Tayfun, and daughter Windy

It was April, the end of winter and beginning of spring.  My daughter, Windy, decided I shouldn't go alone so she met me in Istanbul.
When I got off the plane, Windy was there with our new cousins, Tayfun and Seljuck.  This was the first time any of us met.  They were the nicest people.  They took us to dinner, showed us around the area including St. Sophia and the Blue Mosque.  The next day they took us to the airport where we were to catch a domestic flight to Ankara.  I was so excited because we were traveling on a suspension bridge over the Bosporus and one of the wonders of the world - a city divided between two continents.  Europe and Asia.

Seljuck and Tayfun kindly stopped so we could relish the moment, naturally buying us Turkish coffee to warm us up since winter was still in the air.  And wherever you went, someone was selling coffee.  No Starbucks to be seen.

Make-shift "carnival" attraction 

 I was flying high and just couldn't get enough of all the sights and smells and meeting new cousins.  We would remark about our similar features that we were sure we shared with our respective grandmothers who were sisters.  Can you see the resemblance?  The instant bond we formed through our blood relations was amazing.

There was a Kurdish man who set up his own
 make-shift attraction of shooting balloons with a BB gun.  Not sure if there was a prize, but I was happy to help and pay him the small fee to participate.  The conditions were quite windy but I managed to pop one balloon.  Mom 1 to 3, Windy 0 to 3

We arrived that evening on a small commuter plane in Ankara.  There was a lot of turbulence with a storm brewing. The pilot had a hard time and had to make three passes circling the airport before finally landing.  We all let out a collective sigh of relief and gave the crew a round of applause.

This is just the first part of a very fast, whirlwind trip visiting relatives I had never met before and my parents and grandparents homeland.  I wish I had given myself more time but I thought I needed to get back to work so I kept it short, unfortunately, which means I will have to go back.