Shahken Setian in Prapert near Sivas
The Armenian Church in Prapert
Kharpert
Kharpert
Kharpert
Surp Kevork Monastery overlooking Lake Van (Garjikan District)
Bardizag College Building
Shahkeh Setian
September, 1997
Approaching Istanbul by plane for the second time in a year, I take in the sight below me. Red clay roof tops give way to myriad minarets pointing to heaven. Citadels to Allah from which calls to prayer inspired a life well lived--or incited unthinkable acts of violence against our people. After my pilgrimage last year to walk the path of my parents and the martyrs who suffered the genocide, why am I here again?
This second trip, followed a few weeks later by trips to Armenia and Karabagh caught me in a paradox of deep gratitude for the opportunity to walk our historic lands, and of exquisite pain for the reminders of our tragic losses. How to describe what was going on in my mind and heart? Sylvia Iskenderian of Australia whom I had met on my first trip to Eastern Anatolia and spent time with in Armenia and Karabagh, found the words to express the feeling that I shared with some other traveling companions. Sylvia said, "We left our souls in Armenia." I had left a piece of my soul in each of the parts of the world where my people had suffered.
One of our first stops in Turkey was to Surp Kevork Church in Samatya which was built as a Greek church before 1453 and rebuilt in 1820 after a fire. The church bell rings at 8:00 A.M. every day for mass, and for funerals and weddings. There are 33 functioning Armenian churches in Istanbul. Surp Kevorkr stands in a large courtyard, among a complex of buildings which includes the Sahakyan School. There are two school buildings on the grounds: one for older students and one for younger. We visited a language laboratory in one of the schools where English is taught. Up to the fifth grade, students learn Armenian and Turkish.
In the basement of one of the buildings, we were shown a tiled area where spouts carry water from an underground spring of Byzantine times. In a comer, next to the water, there was a large, conical, Byzantine stone that had a number of holes cut out of it to hold candles. Legend has it that the stone was moved to another place, and mysteriously returned to its original spot near the water. People now practice a ritual of lighting candles and circling the stone three times.
The legend and ritual do not seem as unusual as they might have had I not gotten used to the many blue beads that I was presented with on my last visit to Eastern Anatolia, and had I not been intrigued with the endless legends that accompanied many of the sites that we visited. Something of the rational mind was moved to an acceptance of superstition, legend and myth as natural partners of history. Such acceptance deepened my understanding of the wisdom that threaded itself through the lives of the people who wove in and out of my life on these trips.
As we crossed the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge, leaving the European side of the Marmara Sea, for the rural area of Bardizag on the Asian side, I realized that on this trip I was alert and energized in a different way than I was on the trip of the previous year. Much of the energy of the previous year's trip was generated from the anticipation of the unknown. This year, the energy was generated from the anticipation of what I knew was ahead. It was knowing that my senses would be sharper and deeper than anything I had experienced in America, because here, history would be so alive, that it would again take my breath away--in awe, in anger, in pain, in paradoxical gratitude for being here. Leaving Surp Kevork and its living reminders of our Armenian heritage, I knew as we crossed the bridge, that later, when we would go deeper into Eastern Anatolia, I would see the remnants of our destroyed homeland, and worse, the deadly absence of evidence that Armenia existed on this historic land. And so it was in Bardizag.
Bardizag was the site of the well known American missionary college. Its pastoral setting attracted intellectuals, artists, and writers in the summer. What remained was the abandoned missionary building which had deteriorated to use as a place to raise chickens- our first taste of what lay before us as we went on to pay homage to sites in Eastern Anatolia--from isolated Armenian villages of the past, to historic sites that once stood proudly in Armenia's days of glory.
Adana! Another visit to my mother's birthplace. This time I had more time to explore. I walked the streets in the old Armenian residential section, the old market-place, the grounds of the American Missionary school where I believe she went to school until the age of eleven, into the beautiful and historic hamam where I believe she bathed with the females in her family. I remember her stories of enjoying the ritual after their baths--of eating together the food that her mother had prepared for the occasion. My mother died in 1984 at the age of 82. Never was she closer to me than that day in Adana.
The genocide begins and ends every Armenian's life story. I need not go into the history of Adana's massacres. It is a story that was repeated many times over. Attempts to erase the presence of Armenians in villages have mostly succeeded. Evidence of Armenia's ancient glory is disappearing from the landscape. But remnants of magnificent fortresses stand in mute testimony to the glory of ancient Armenia. East of Adana, we stand in awe at the Snake Castle Fortress (Yilan Kale) built by King Levon. In ancient Giligia(Cilicia), it was part of a network of approximately 200 castles and fortresses that were all in view of each other so that signals could be sent back and forth. North of Adana-Kozan, we admire the Fortress of Sis in the ancient capitol of Cilicia. In Kharpert, we were disheartened by the rubble and ruin we found on the site of the former English speaking American College (the Euphrates-- Yeprat College). Only the remains of a small wall section of Surp Hagop Church remain nearby, next to the hillside where Armenian homes once stood. Modem condominiums stand on a hill overlooking the ruins. We left that funereal hillside to view the fortress in Kharpert, built about 800 BC, in Urartu days. Again, we stand in awe at another stunning reminder of Armenia's historic majesty. Our trip has taken us beyond the genocide, to a time before our parents' time--to a time when perpetual vigilance protected and preserved our culture and our land. We honor and mourn the past, including the days of our parents. Our commitment to be witness to the unholy history of the 1915 genocide cannot be erased.
Zareh and Yeran Tchelikdjian of Quebec, Canada , worked as a pair, photographing and recording all the sites that we visited. In Fenesse, Yeran's parents' village, we were invited into a home that once belonged to an Armenian family. We went through the courtyard gate and up the stairs leading to a seating area that took me back in memory to my childhood. Here we saw two young children sitting on a seder (couch-like seat) covered with a carpet--a moving reminder of the seder in the kitchen of my childhood home. We were impressed with the beautifully carved wooden friezes in the two parlors of the home and the carved wooden doors of cupboards in the parlors. We thought the cupboards might store bedding for the rooms that were probably also used for sleeping quarters. The ceiling of one of the parlors was constructed of row on row of rounded logs. It was the original ceiling. In villages, towns, and cities, we were generally treated with warmth and welcome--with mutual curiosity and questions about one another. It was difficult to stretch my mind to imagine a time when Armenian and Turkish neighbors lived in peace with one another--a time before the precursors to genocide, calculated by the Ottoman government, took the treacherous path to its cataclysmic end.
Our trip to Everek, also part of Yeran and Zareh's personal heritage, brought us to the viewing of another site that was getting to wear on us in its insidious repetition. We visited Surp Toros Church which was converted into a mosque. I went through the process of taking off my shoes and covering my head before I went inside. When I came out, a group of men started asking me questions in Turkish. Jemal, our Kurdish driver and adjunct guide, whom I had met last year, came to my rescue. He is a spiritual, gentle and caring man; an extremely competent driver; and a man of knowledge and street savvy. He also sang, and read and wrote poetry for us on the long bus rides--collecting wild flowers on our rest stops to decorate the front of the bus and or present to one of us. Jemal translated the conversation. The men wanted to know why we were there. It was all I could do to restrain myself and not tell Jemal to ask them why they were there.
Armen Aroyan, founder of Armenian Heritage Society, organizes and conducts these trips. He had told us that we would find ourselves experiencing feelings that would be new to us, and that memories would surface that were just below the surface of our consciousness. He was right. He also told us that these trips were important to him because it was his personal mission to document the history of Armenian presence in Eastern Anatolia. He is very focused, organized, and a wealth of information. His contacts and knowledge about the political and cultural facts and nuances of the places we visited seem endless.
An example of the fun part of Armen, is his taking us to dinner soon after our arrival, to a restaurant named "Develi" because that is what the Everek and Fenesse area have been renamed. Last year he reserved a room in the Antep hotel where we stayed, as a surprise for Harold Mgrublian of Pasedena, California. We had arrived late at night. When Harold opened the blinds in his hotel room in the morning, he saw before him, St. Mary's Church--the mother church of Antep--where his grandfather had served as priest. We rejoiced and laughed with Harold when he told us about it. Visiting the church tempered our happiness for Armen's thoughtfulness to Harold. The church, of course, had been converted to a mosque.
Last year I visited Surp Krikor Lusavorich Church in Kayseri. Workers were working on the outside of the church and on the interior. It looked like a daunting job to bring the church back to anywhere near its past condition. This year I saw the church brought back to a striking rebirth of its former beauty under the auspices of the Patriarchate, and donations from Armenians all over the world. I fought the spark of hope that flickered in my heart for the rebirth of Armenia's glory on this land that had been damned by the Ottoman Turk. The parameters of the genocide still circumvent my life. How could I dare hope? Because Surp Krikor Lusavorich Church stands in Turkey--glorious in its beauty--symbol of faith--symbol of our Armenian heritage.
Next stop, Prapert, my father's birthplace. I walked again, as I had last year, throughout that magical village--surrounded by mountains of indescribable beauty. Villagers in their colorful dress welcomed us as before. I met villagers whom I had met last year. I felt at home. We talked by way of an interpreter. An elderly village friend whom I met last year told me the names of Armenian families in the village that he remembers hearing about: the Mangasars, the Merigs, the Khatchars, the Aykans.
The most astonishing news that I heard was that the village fountain was named after my father's family. Because I was stunned by the news and found it hard to believe, Armen Aroyan asked various villagers the name of the fountain and they all confirmed that it was named after my father's family. What really convinced me was when he asked a group of children the same question and they all gave the same answer. To add to that exciting news, Armen asked one of the children if she would sing a song for us, and she sang about the beauty of the mountains. I could not stop my tears as she sang. The depth of emotion from which those tears flowed is hard to explain. I look at the picture I have of the group of children who were with us at that moment. Do any of them have Armenian blood? How would they know?
On a lighter note: A woman villager follows me--chattering happily in Turkish-- I catch the word "para" which I know means money. I ask Armen what she is saying. He tells me that she wants to know what an American woman who must have a lot of money is doing in their little village. He tells her that my father was born here and that I wanted to visit his birthplace. She looks at me and with a serious face, simply says, "hmm". She understood.
In Divrig, some of us climbed over a stone wall high up on a on a ledge overlooking the town. We wanted a closer look at the intricate and beautiful carvings on the walls bordering the front and side doors of the 1350 Seljuk mosque which was behind the wall. Some think that the building might have been built by Armenians. That possibility, coupled with the exquisite artwork displayed in the exterior carvings was enough to motivate us to climb the wall. It was also an excellent vantage point to see the ruins of the fortress of Divrig with houses on the hillside below it.
We were caught up so often by unexpected reminders of the desecration and destruction of our land and people. In Gurun, outside of a small store, we saw a group of three Armenian gravestones piled up on top of each other. The gravestones were being used as a seat. The news is that the town is planning to make a museum of the abandoned Armenian church in town. Is there reason for celebration?
We moved on to Lake Hazar and looked into the waters where Armenian bodies were thrown. The now pristine water gives no evidence of the horror. Then we went on to Ichme, where Ray Ajemian of Bridgewater, Massachusetts visits his mother's birthplace and finds the spring at the site where the Armenian Apostolic Church of St. Nicholas once stood. His mother, who lives with Ray and his wife Chris, does not know that Ray is visiting Eastern Anatolia. Ray did not want to worry her. She had told him that when she lived in Ichme, they had cooled madzoon in the spring. On this day, we find a case of soda cooling in the spring. The church is gone, the spring is still used to cool food and drink. We leave Ichme deep in thought. On our return to America, we had a reunion at Ray and Chris' house, and with his mother, watched a video of our trip. What a privilege.
In Khuylu, we celebrate with Ken Kizirian of Hanover, Massachusetts as we join him in eating the grapes from the vineyards his father had told him about. Later we picnic in an enchanting grove with a brook nearby and a covey of birds chirping in the trees. We marvel over the sweet, juicy melons that the residents of Khuylu gave to us as we left. Ken echoes what I have heard many times from others visiting their parents' birthplaces that their parents had told them how much more delicious food was in the old country how they thought their parents were exaggerating--but now they see that their parents were right.
I took a picture of Liberty (Libby) Baronian in one of the cabbage patches for which Kesserlg is famous. She and Rosalie Kizirian were now in the town of their parents' heritage. Although we laughed about cabbage patch stories and could appreciate the hesitant anticipation that each of us felt as we approached the places each of our families' stories, we also shared the stop of a heartbeat when we witnessed with Libby and Rosalie, the mound of earth that was all that remained of the Surp Mamas Church. History records the fact that Ohan Yaghjian was the architect of the church--that Surp Sarkis Church also stood in Kesserig at one time-- that Armenians and Armenian schools once were here. What will history write of pilgrims such as Libby, Rosalie, and all others who walked the land of Eastern Anatolia—of historic Armenia--who sought validation of the existence of their peoples--who in the seeking, came to honor them?
In Kars, where the Russians and British, the Marlboro Commission, met to decide how to divide Armenia during the 1917 - 1918 era, we visited the Church of the Holy Apostles built in the 930’s AD by King Abbas Pakraduni. On the exterior, the twelve apostles are depicted in carvings around the dome. Someone who for the past few years has been photographing Armenian architecture throughout Eastern Anatolia for documentary purposes joined us in Kars. Thanks to him, we probably were the first tourists to see the ruins of St. Mary's Armenian Church which was located high up from the modern city at the base of the Fortress of Kars. He estimated that the church was built around the 10th century, and rebuilt during the 12th century. The building was in a bad state of deterioration; nevertheless, we were captivated by the khachkars and Armenian writing we found inscribed on some of the remaining walls.
On the Kars museum grounds, we viewed the railroad car where the Treaty of Kars was signed when the Soviets gave Kars back to Turkey after it belonged to Armenia for a short period of time. It is testimony to Turkey's relentless efforts to obliterate any evidence of Armenians from Eastern Anatolia. Our guest documentarian told us that he has photos of the railroad car taken at this site three years ago. At that time, the car had Armenian writing on it. It has been painted over.
Inside the museum, we saw another example of Turkish destruction of Armenian culture. We painfully viewed a beautiful wooden double door with intricate carvings that included two large crosses and Armenian writing inscribed on top (we could only make out, "In memory of ... "). The side arms of the crosses had been cut off. There was, of course, no reference to Armenian in the identification of the work of art.
On my visit to Ani last year, I took pictures of workers repairing the outside walls. This year, some progress was evident. I had also taken a picture of an insignia high up on the back wall of the entry tower. It was an old Indian symbol for "eternity." Still reeling from the anguish we experienced at the Kars museum and other sites, I thought of the symbol for eternity as a mockery of what had happened to our land. I had not counted on the mystical power of Ani to carry me immediately into her spiritual grace. I walked down the steep path to the 1215 A. D. Church of Surp Krikor of Tigran Honents on the precipice of the ravine that separates Armenia from Turkey. From high up, through a window in the Menucehr Cami, the first mosque to be built in Anatolia, by Seljuk Turks in 1072 (which some think was an Armenian palace converted into a mosque), I had a stunning aerial view of the remnants of the Marco Polo bridge over the gorge that carries the rushing waters of the Akhuryan River. I was drawn into the kingdom of Ani and the reminders of her majestic history, which transcends mortal experience. I learned the truth in the saying, "We are not human beings trying to be spiritual, rather, we are spiritual beings in human bodies". I had cause to believe that Ani will live on into eternity.
From Ani's ethereal kingdom, we moved on to the small village of Oguzlu. Who could have guessed that in this remote and isolated primitive village, we would come across the ruins of a complex of Armenian church buildings? A crowd of village men surrounded us and eagerly engaged in conversation with our Turkish speaking guides. As usual, we got excited about the Armenian writing on the outside wall of one of the buildings. I was captivated by a remaining niche that was delicately fluted on the top inner portion. We were in the presence of centuries old, Surp Astvadzadzin Church, circa, 9th century.
Our adventure to remote, obscure areas continued. Can you imagine a large touring bus crossing a small river stream, over muddy dirt roads, with a group of Armenian pilgrims, who by this time, simply put all their trust in Armen and our driver? Again, we were rewarded with an unexpected discovery. This time, in a location between Ani and Igdir, we were gifted with the sight of Garmir Yank (Kizil Yank), an impressive monastery building constructed of red stone, hence, its name--"Garmir" in Armenian, and “Kizil" in Turkish--meaning "red".
When I awakened in Igdir, on our first morning there, and stepped out to the terrace of my hotel room which was on the top floor, I could not believe my eyes. I had to phone Armen and ask him if what I was looking at was what I thought I was looking at. He confirmed that I was looking at Mt. Ararat. On this beautiful, clear morning, Massis was a stunning sight. When the rest of the group came up, we took in the sight of the symbol of Armenia that is so familiar to all of us--and then we danced to music from Yerevan that Armen had found on his radio. In addition to the elation we felt in seeing the enduring majesty of Mt. Ararat, and our joyful dancing in celebration, we learned a little bit about Igdir. Igdir is the fastest growing town in Turkey. In preparation of the border opening between Turkey and Armenia, they anticipate their current annual trade of $1 million to grow to $50 million when the border opens. From Istanbul to Ani, Oguzlu, Garmir Vank, and Igdir--famous--obscure--infamous--hallowed--historic sites all along the way--and more to come.
Muradiye provides us with an opportunity to revel in a beautiful picnic setting. Streams of water from Muradiye flow into Lake Van. Set in one of nature's special places, with a rushing waterfall and lush greenery before us, we prepare ourselves for a tranquil break in Muradiye, away from the physical and emotional intensity of our journey. There is, of course, a small hitch. To reach the picnic pavilion on the other side of the waterfalls, we have to cross a long suspension bridge that is swaying before us, built of questionably sturdy wooden slats, with ropes strung along the side to hang onto for support. Well, Armen had also told us that we might be challenged to take some risks. And we accepted the challenge by helping each other (read--hanging on to each other)-- Armen Aroyan's special way of giving group members the opportunity to bond.
This year's visit to the Island of Aghtamar revealed a positive and a negative side. The positive side was that a newly created sign was posted along the stone steps to the Church of the Holy Cross (Surp Khatch), the cathedral church of the independent Armenian kingdom of Vaspurakan, which was built in 915-921 by King Gagik. The sign acknowledged the Armenian history of Aghtamar. The negative side was that new signs of vandalism were apparent. Through neglect, the Turkish government continues its efforts to destroy tangible evidence of historic Armenian architecture.
Lake Van's azure blue beauty followed us as views of it wound in and out of our sight along the way to Van. After walking the old section of the city, we went on to walk the ancient settlement of Van with its imposing two mile long fortress which was built over a rock formation. We saw the 1,000 stone steps that wound up to the top of the fortress. We looked at the rubble and barren land. Approximately ten thousand people had inhabited this land at one time. The Dziranavor Church was reduced to a collapsed mound of stone. Just as I had last year, I crept into an opening and took photos of the remaining khach kars--as if repeated picture-taking and touching of its remaining walls would validate the existence of our ancestors on this land.
The next place that we visited was an unexpected adventure and discovery. Our guest documentarian was still with us. He told Armen that on a previous trip, he had found an ancient Armenian monastery in a remote and isolated area. Our group agreed to explore the possibilities that lay ahead. To Armen Aroyan's knowledge, it would be another first for us--the first tourists to see this monastery. It turned out to be an arduous drive through bumpy, dirt roads of two villages, accompanied by a Kurdish village guard. We drove across the crater floor of an extinct volcano, and climbed up one side of the volcano and down the other. When I reached the top of the first ridge, I turned and looked back, down to the crater floor which was now cultivated into farming fields. From that distance, the pattern of row after row of dark soil and green plants was a stunning sight.
We continued down the other side of the volcano wall, hiking across rough, rocky terrain. It was at this point that I noticed a teen age boy with a weapon that I thought was a hunting rifle. As we got closer, we saw that it was a Russian assault weapon. He was the nephew of the security guard, carrying his uncle's gun for him. We learned that the security guard's job was to protect his village from marauding Kurdish rebels from the mountains. By the time we learned that we were in a risky situation, we were within a short distance of the monastery. We had reached an exquisite cove. Thoughts of danger disappeared. Lake Van and the Sipan Mountain lay before us in a panoramic scene that took my breath away--and just beyond was the Surp Kevork Monastery from the 10th century, sitting on a ridge at the edge of Lake Van. It was a moment in time when thought is suspended and only emotion resonates to what Abraham Maslow describes as a peak experience.
And then on to my second visit to Diyarbakir. I visited, again, a small, hidden Armenian chapel that is no longer in use. Unused choir robes hung from pegs on a wall. The altar stood in quiet, lonely beauty. A 62 year old man named Antranig who spoke to us in Turkish, said that he was the last Armenian in Diyarbakir. He lit a candle and knelt in prayer. I too lit a candle and said a prayer before we left. Outside, we met a young Turkish woman. Armen learned that she knew a few lines of the Hayr Mer. An Armenian priest had taught her the words a few years ago. She sang what she knew for us, and then said she did not understand the words.
We walked a short distance to Surp Giragos Church which was in a terrible state of disrepair. The church is approximately 300 years old. The roof has caved in and what was the floor of the church is overgrown with weeds. But the magnificent columns, seven altars, and the long balcony that runs the width of the church speak to its former glory. We were heartened to hear that the prelacy intends to restore it.
A visit to Urfa (renamed Sanliurfa) takes us to Abraham's Pool, set in a bustling picnic area. Here we admire the poolside palisade with its archways and stone columns. We watch the swarming sacred carp thrashing around in the water. But this is of peripheral interest to us. On the grounds is the Armenian Evangelical Church, built in 1882 and converted to a mosque in 1959. We paid our respects at the site. Last year we visited the Urfa Armenian Apostolic church, St. Mary's. It was also converted to a mosque. The abandoned Armenian altar and the Islamic prayer niche (the Mihrab) on the adjacent wall in St. Mary's are cause to wonder. I believe in and use the Eastern greeting, "'Namaste": The divine in me honors the divine in you. In the presence of the symbols to these two world religions, which I have seen repeated over and over in my travels, the meaning of the greeting is savagely corrupted.
Last year in Urfa, we also toured a hotel/restaurant that used to be an Armenian home. The lay-out of the house with its central staircase; stone walls and floors; and the courtyard, reminded me of how my mother had described her childhood house. This, added to the other reminders of the Ottoman Turks’ efforts to annihilate the Armenian people and usurp our land and culture, are to say the least, difficult to experience. How can these visits to such reminders serve to help me make peace with the facts of our history? Two visits to historic Armenia, a visit to the Republic of Armenia, and a trip to Karabagh, only served to affirm, that when lessons of history are not learned, history repeats itself.
In Antep, we met Dr. Barclay Shepard, the grandson of the Dr. Frederick Shepard who had befriended the Armenians of Antep whom he witnessed being massacred from the American Hospital located on one of Antep's hills. Dr. Shepard came to Antep over a year and a half ago from the East Coast where he spent his educational and professional.
Dr. Barclay took us into the basements of the homes surrounding the hospital grounds and showed us how Antep houses were connected by natural tunnels which were used as cellars. During the self-defense of the Armenians in Antep in 1920, the tunnels were joined together by tearing down the walls that separated each cellar so that the tunnels could be used for underground mobility. This good and decent man did more than serve as a guide for us. He exemplified compassion, commitment, and being true to the good in life. We sorely needed to be reminded of goodness after walking the landscape of Turkey--the graveyard of violence and brutality.
As we were saying our good-byes to Dr. Shepard, we asked him to translate the Turkish words that were engraved on a sign above the entryway to the hospital. The words were from the 93rd Psalms: "God is the one who forgives all transgressions and heals all." For Armenians who believe in the words of the Bible, and understand that genocide is unforgivable, there is no contradiction to these words of God as written in the Bible. Even God could not have imagined the evil that the Ottoman Turk perpetrated against our people.
We walked the places of Armenia's glory—of Turkey's shame. We walked these lands, never forgetting for a moment our ties to this sacred soil. And so, I returned to America. And yes, I left part of my soul there. That is where part of me will always belong.