Destined to Repeat

I’ve always felt a deep sense of pride for my family, not just because of their individual achievements, but also for the values they embody and the legacy they continue to build.

But there’s one story that sticks out to me among all the rest: that of a woman named Armenouhie Mallanian Mekhssian, who I’ve never met and don’t know much about, but of whom I am so proud. Her story, one I am just beginning to understand, deserves to be known.

My paternal grandmother, who I lovingly call my Meme, was born in Lyon, France on July 15, 1929 to Krikor and Armenouhie Mekhssian. (They would eventually change the spelling to Maksian after becoming U.S. citizens). 

My Meme described her mother as selfless and giving, as a woman whose entire life revolved around her family and children — the sort of mother who went hungry so her kids could eat. “The ultimate sacrifice,” were her exact words. 

Arev Dinkjian’s great-grandparents Krikor and Armenouhie with her Meme Araksi and late great-uncle Garabed

Then, in 1940, Germans occupied France, and well, we all know that story. For years, food was scarce, communities were torn apart, hatred prevailed, and darkness cloaked the world. 

My Meme couldn’t receive mail in a sealed envelope. She could only send correspondence on a postcard so that whatever she wrote could be monitored. 

She and her parents had to cover the windows in their home with dark shades or German soldiers would shoot at any light peeking through. 

Every night, sirens would ring, forcing them to evacuate, with Armenouhie dragging her youngest son’s cradle into a trench, waiting for the danger to pass. 

News was censored and unfiltered information became a deadly commodity. 

My Meme recalled having to carry an identity card with her at all times, something akin to a passport, with her photo, full name and proof of her religious status as a Christian — ironic, considering that perpetration not long before had hinged on that very detail. 

She also worried about her parents, who weren’t fluent in French, fearing that they might be wrongly identified. 

She described feeling “protective” over them, but her mother Armenouhie didn’t need protecting. She knew this story well — that history was destined to repeat itself, but this time, she would play a different role. 

In Armenouhie’s house was a small courtyard, and in that courtyard, a room they often rented out. By 1944, a young couple with their baby lived there after escaping Germany. They were Jewish and they were scared. 

My Meme recounts the family begging Armenouhi, “Please, don’t say anything to anybody that we’re here.” And the response? 

I imagine Armenouhie standing up a little taller, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. 

I imagine her looking upon this family — not with sadness or contempt but with determination. 

I imagine a mirror set before her, flashing a past too tragic in its reflection, a past that had become her present once more. 

I imagine that Armenouhie didn’t realize that some 80 years later, her great-granddaughter would read of this very moment in her family’s biography, and she’d be forever proud of her response:

“Believe me,” Armenouhie said, according to my Meme, “we have been through this before. They’re not going to hear anything from us.” 

The family would eventually depart for Switzerland, shrouded by darkness, praying for sanctuary. My Meme doesn’t know what became of them, but she says, “I hope they made it.” Me, too. 

It’s impossible to hear a story like this one and not wonder what we would do in Armenouhie’s place. When we read literature, watch movies or see similar events unfolding on the news — sometimes, dangerously close to home — we look into our own history, knowing what lies there, but hoping that somehow this time it will be different. 

We’d all like to say that we’d be brave. That we’d protect those who needed it. That we’d stand up, speak out loud, clear and without tremor in our voices. That we’d recognize injustice and be the first to denounce its evils. 

That we’d do anything we could, knowing that years from now, one of our descendants may look back at our actions and words, at how we treated others and what we allowed — or didn’t allow — to happen. 

Make that person proud of their family, of the stories that will be told of you. 

Arev Dinkjian

Arev Dinkjian

Arev Dinkjian grew up in an Armenian household in Fort Lee, NJ. She was always surrounded by art, sourced by her musical father and grandfather, Ara and Onnik, or her creative mother Margo. Arev graduated from Providence College with a degree in elementary and special education. She enjoys teaching language arts to her students and takes great pride in instilling an appreciation for literature in her classroom. She is a former member of the New Jersey AYF “Arsen" Chapter and a member of both the Bergen County ARS and the Sts. Vartanantz Ladies’ Guild. She also dedicated many summers to AYF Camp Haiastan, which she says remains her favorite topic to write about.
Arev Dinkjian

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3 Comments

  1. Dear Arev,
    Thank you for sharing such a profound story. Through serendipity, I am currently reading “In the Garden of the Righteous: The Heroes who risked their lives to save Jews during the Holocaust” by Richard Hurowitz (2023). The author asks the critical question: What would someone do in such a situation?
    I am trying to research the particular connection between Armenians, who had just survived the Genocide and had settled in Europe, and the Jewish community which was next targeted. Judaism is passed maternally, and since Armenian and Jewish features are often similar, it is possible that at least Jewish females could be hidden as an “Armenian”, and if they survived, would be able to continue their genealogy. Since Armenians as Christians do not circumcise males, it was not as easy to hide Jewish males who were immediately identified by the Nazis because of circumcision.
    The heroism of your ancestors is a story which you have rightfully preserved and now share with a broader audience. I hope that other Armenians whose families were able to heroically hide, protect and ultimately save the next generation of victims might likewise contribute their stories to yours.
    Blessings upon your ancestors for what they did in the past, and blessings upon you and your family for what you are doing today and going forward.

  2. A deep thank you for your ancestors’risk and sacrifice during the dark years of WW2. Bless your line to continue this heroic legacy, and perhaps do greater acts of mercy and rightness to the needy. God saw, and sees, and is pleased.

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