The Two Sisters of Diyarbakir

They were young and radiated with innocence, born and raised in Dikranagerd before the Ottoman Turks ran roughshod over their land.

The year was 1915 and they watched in horror as members of their family were put to death outside their door.

Vergeen was a dancer who could beguile any crowd in her village and, later, in what we call the diaspora. Ojen took the back seat, comfortable being in the background.

Together, they were the two Hekimian sisters of Dikranagerd/Diyarbakir.

Ojen escaped the brutality by hiding in a well before taking refuge with a Kurdish family. Vergeen was corralled with thousands of others on their harrowing trek toward persecution.

Fortunate for them, the sisters survived along with their mother Vartouhi before being reunited in Marseilles, France, and eventually set up residence in Greater Boston. The story of these two young girls is the story of our people as we approach the 100th anniversary of the Armenian Genocide.

They settled first in Newton Upper Falls and later Somerville, Mass., raising their families and cultivating a lifestyle that kept their proud heritage intact. At hantess-es and other cultural soirees, the applause usually rang loud and clear for Vergeen.

Despite her limp, up she rose to dance, twirling her arms and body to the rhythm of her music. A permanent injury to her leg had left the woman handicapped but not debilitated. She always found that surge of vitality whenever it came time to do a solo or lead a line dance.

As immigrants, the family sacrificed their means in the new world. The teenaged sisters became young entrepreneurs in Davis Square, operating a confectionary store together with extreme diligence, helping their parents with whatever meager income they could raise.

The scars and emotion of having survived an onslaught did nothing to extinguish their spirit. When Ojen’s husband opened a coffee shop, you usually found Vergeen helping behind the counter.

They took their families to Revere Beach and visited their departed together at the cemetery each Memorial Day. One’s joy was another’s pleasure. In sorrow, they grieved together.

Eventually both became widowed and lived a mile apart. They would visit one another with diligence. Being three years ahead, Ojen upheld her role as the “big sister.” She was the designed driver.

They infused the language and heritage into their children, gave them a spiritual presence as Armenian Catholics, and kept the embers burning to a fine ethnic glow. When Ojen buried a son, Vergeen was right by her side offering solace.

The dancer danced, bum leg and all. The wallflower was an admiring spectator. It was that way for 90 years.

At Vergeen’s birthday party, she rose from her seat and took to the dance floor. The Roger Krikorian Band was entertaining at the Karoun Restaurant in Newton. Roger was a dear family friend and knew Vergeen’s penchant for dancing. But this was a switch. It was Ojen who took to the floor first for a rare occasion. She was the birthday girl and wasn’t going to be upstaged on this day.

You had to be there to see this spectacle. The two sisters—ages 90 and 87—were peerless in their dancing mode. It attracted a beeline finally as other octogenarians took to the floor. A cerebrated fraternity of lifelong friends joined in the music.

It wasn’t the Club Omar Khayyam or any other Oriental hotspot, but rather their very own kef time soiree.

When asked about her longevity, she’d wink an eye and say, “Join a health club and hang around people young enough to be your grandchildren. That’ll keep you young and fit.”

Ojen did just that. At 90, she was the oldest regular at Healthworks Fitness Club in Cambridge. And drove herself to the gym.

At age 95, Vergeen was reluctantly taken from her home and placed inside a Haverhill nursing home. A few months later, Ojen was transferred to a similar facility a mile or two away.

One week Ojen would visit Vergeen and another week, they traded places. They would sit and talk about the bad times in Turkey and the good times in their adopted land.

They would chat and smile about their children and their grandchildren. On occasion, Ojen would remind Vergeen about her dancing.

“You could always excite the crowd,” she would say. “Bad leg and all, you put on a show.”

“You weren’t a bad dancer yourself,” Vergeen retorted, “when you wanted to be. After all, how many people 90 years old can even leave their chair?”

Vergeen preceded her sister in death. She was my aunt. Ojen was a month shy of her 99th birthday when she followed in repose as the last remaining genocide survivor in Haverhill. I was proud to have her for my mother.

Together, they were the two sisters of Diyarbakir…

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Tom Vartabedian

Tom Vartabedian is a retired journalist with the Haverhill Gazette, where he spent 40 years as an award-winning writer and photographer. He has volunteered his services for the past 46 years as a columnist and correspondent with the Armenian Weekly, where his pet project was the publication of a special issue of the AYF Olympics each September.

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