A Memoir: Reliving a Horrific 90-Year-Old Memory, the Armenian Massacre

[Previously: ‘One Woman’s Tragedy: Why My Mother Scorned Red Dresses,’ June 23. Keyword: Rosemary]

A day before another booksigning, when we had an exhibition of the paintings, I decided to show the few needle works that were left from my grandmother.

My mother brought me three little pieces of fabric with the Iranian National ID card of my grandmother.

When I opened the fabrics, I was surprise. I wondered why she had kept these unworthy pieces all these years.

My grandmother did not collect any objects since the massacre.

The Turks and others had practically robbed her of her objects; she had learned to detach herself from all materials.

The few remaining things that were left for her, she had offered to her sister and brothers. To the oldest brother, by respect, to the youngest because he needed assistance, and to her younger sister who had seen so many horrors at such a young age and was orphaned.

When I opened the pieces, I saw the two of them, made of silk material. (In those years, the city of Khoy was one of the best silk producers in the country).

As I am an expert in silk, I was surprised by the quality and color of the fabric that I had in my hands. After almost 90 years, the two silk pieces looked as fresh and sparkling as new.

The artwork and the print quality were amazing.

But the third piece was a triangular simple white lace woven with very tinny design like chicken wire.

I asked my mother why her mother had kept the three pieces of cloth.

She replied that for many years she also asked herself the same question, especially about the white scarf.

Significant Family History

Then she explained: “The first colorful silk, which is just a little round piece with beautiful bright colored roses, is the piece your grandmother wore under her cotik (the hairpiece, like a crown that is worn in traditional Armenian costumes) on her wedding night.”

The famous hand-sewn hat that I had was executed by my grandmother for the wedding of their son. Naturally, it was worn by my father on their wedding night.

“The purple silk,” she went on, “is a part of my mother’s apron that is also worn on the traditional Armenian costume. But I am not sure when she had used the white lace and why she kept it.”

At the end, both of us had no answer as to why she kept the triangle lace.

Later when I was placing the three pieces on the board, I started pinning down the lace on a black colorboard to give it a better look.

An Epiphany

Suddenly all of my hair raised. I felt a cold drop falling down my spine.

Tears were in my eyes, and now I understood the reason that my grandmother had kept the lace so close to herself till her death.

As I was placing the lace on the blackboard, the real witness of the 90 years of horror appeared for the first time.

Yes, there were three spots of a very pale red-brown color on the lace.

They were the last blood drops splashed on my grandmother’s scarf, the final remains of a lost life.

Now We Know

That is why my grandmother had kept it for such a long time.

Maybe it was just to remind herself of a strong, young and loving husband who was killed in front of her young innocent eyes for no reason other than being a Christian and an Armenian.

Sometimes I look at the three blood spots, and I want to create the image of my grandfather with the faded colors.

The only result that I can get is the feeling of hot red blood mixed with the clear tears of my young grandmother.

Sometimes I think of sending the piece for DNA testing, at least to learn what my grandfather’s DNA was.

Then I wondered, What will I learn? Maybe I will discover how much of his DNA is present in my being.

Then I ask myself if I need to know it scientifically.

His DNA has covered all my being; he has been present in my life as much as I remember living in this world.

It is true that I do have a face in my memory. But by looking at my mother and my grandmother, I have tried to create an image of him.

Now I know that the face, the DNA and all the wealth he had are not important for me. The only real fact that I know of is that the Ottoman Turks came to Iran for no reason, killed my grandfather and all our family for no reason, robbed us, destroyed lives and left.

While my mother was on her death bed, I was looking at her, asking myself, Why did she go through so much?

How many childhood memories had stayed and tortured her all her life, knowingly or unconsciously?

It is true that my grandfather was the victim of the atrocities.

But being witness to the lives of my grandmother and my mother, I know well that the survivors were bigger victims.

Even I was a victim, as I lived the massacre’s aftermath. My mother died in February 2005 just four months before her 90th birthday.

She faced death bravely and with the same smile that she had lived her life, as both an orphan and a survivor.

She died happily as she had achieved almost all that she had worked for.

The only sadness and disappointment that she carried to her grave was that she never heard any remorse from the Turkish government of what had happened to her, her family and thousands of others almost ninety years ago.

She tried to show and to conduct her own notion of justice by helping many orphans in Armenia.

Yet, she herself never received justice.

When she was critically ill, and we were sad, conscious that soon she was going to leave us, I had but one comfort.

I knew I was able to imagine the moment that soon she would face her father for the first time.

I had tears in my eyes, but a smile at my face as I could see her falling into the arms of her father, like a young girl, hugging and being hugged by the father she had missed all her life.

I was also happy that two important clues were resolved by the paintings. In a way, she made peace with her memories as the book had a closing effect on her.

On the day of her funeral, I asked the Serpazan Hayr and the priest to also conduct another prayer for my grandfather and to bury him with my mother for the first time.

Yeprem was killed in front of his wife Arousiak and his daughter Liana in 1918 in Khoy by Ottoman Turkish soldiers.

His feet were attached to the tail of a horse, and he was dragged by the soldiers through all the streets of Khoy until nothing was left on the cord.

The streets of Khoy became the graveyard of my grandfather.

But finally we found the proper time in the United States to pray for him, honor and burry the memory of a father and unite him with his daughter after ninety years of separation and suffering.