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