Our public discourse as a community is often serious—and for good reason. The future of the Armenian homeland, assimilation in the diaspora and our political disunity are just a few of our constant concerns. For a people talented enough to prosper but ever mindful of the survival journey, there never seems to be enough time to enjoy what we have developed as a civilization. The threats and challenges seem to consume us. However, sustaining our commitment also requires us to take the time to laugh, to enjoy and to remember.
Nostalgia, in the correct doses, helps us recall the people and experiences that shaped us. It personalizes our collective history, and we pass down these moments to succeeding generations as part of our family stories. Each of us has the ability to overlay our personal history onto the general history of our global nation. This is what builds sustainable identity. While our families’ experiences during the genocide are a common theme, our lives in this country, the Middle East and Armenia offer a more contemporary perspective on how we build identity in response to global events.
My generation, commonly referred to as baby boomers, was particularly fortunate to have grandparents who were part of the survivor generation. Grandparents are an essential element in the uniqueness of the Armenian family. They instill the foundations of our ethnic and religious identity. They usually have a special relationship with their grandchildren, opening doors to knowledge. In sharing a particular story about my grandparents, it is my hope that you will find a common theme of remembrance—one that warms your heart and can be passed down to your own children and grandchildren.
Like many of you, we grew up adoring our grandparents. In addition to their kindness and love, their wonderful accents reminded us of our connection to the Armenian homeland. Each had stories of survival that they were naturally reluctant to share but wavered under the urging of their beloved grandchildren. Our parents were essential, but our grandparents held a special bond—they were our vanguard for family and ethnic identity. My maternal grandparents were such examples. Both arrived in this country before the genocide. Grandpa Takvor, born in the Dardanelles, escaped harrowing circumstances to reach these shores. Grandma Nevart emigrated from Cyprus as a child. They met, married and settled in New Britain, Connecticut, becoming charter members of St. Stephen’s Armenian Church.
Grandpa was an original trustee, and Grandma was very active in the Armenian Relief Society and church guild. For 50 years, Grandpa ran his own shoe cobbler and repair business. I was amazed that he was able to support a family of three children with that business through the Great Depression and a World War. Grandma worked in a garment factory to help with the family’s needs. They purchased a three-decker home in New Britain, living on the first floor—a home we visited frequently and where we built incredible memories.
New Britain is a densely populated community with many two and three-family homes. Yet, our grandparents’ backyard offered serenity from the busy streets. It seems like all our grandparents’ yards were perceived as more entertaining, with amenities we didn’t have in our “modern” homes. This was our magic kingdom. The three decker was on a fairly narrow city lot, but literally every square foot was utilized. The front yard was small and hedge trimmed to the sidewalk. We hardly ever spent time in the front. The backyard was our sanctuary.
A long driveway to the garage ran along the right side of the property. A side porch served as the main access, and the backyard was divided into two sections. Near the back of the house were two grassed and hedged areas, divided by a sidewalk that led to a rose trellis that served as the entrance to the “Garden of Eden.” This area was lined on the left by tall hedges that offered walled privacy. We called Grandpa’s backyard the Garden of Eden because he had planted every imaginable fruit tree in his backyard—apples, peaches, plums and cherries, to name a few.
Along the driveway, 125 feet of Concord grape vines provided a perfect border, their bounty turned into jelly, preserves and refreshing summer juice by Grandma. A vegetable garden flourished alongside, providing us with a great yield for family gatherings. At the center stood a large apple tree, shading us from the sun while also providing shelter from the rain. Beneath it, Grandpa built a fireplace for kebabs, strategically placing chairs around it. It was here where I first listened to his wisdom and humor while many lamb kebab dinners were prepared. Grandma Nevart would come out with her apron on (didn’t all our grandmothers wear aprons all day?) to check on the grilling and time the pilaf’s readiness.
At the rear of the property adjacent to the garage was Grandpa’s chicken coup, which provided us with fresh eggs. The reddish soil of Connecticut remains vivid in my memory—I recall helping my grandfather till the land or pull weeds. Sometimes, my sisters and I would climb the tenant stairwell to help Grandma hang laundry on the clothesline, but to be honest, more often than not, we were mischievously peering down from above.
We were taught to greet and hug our grandparents before starting any of our youthful adventures. This was never an issue because we loved being with them. Inevitably, we would excuse ourselves to the backyard where a world of excitement and challenges awaited us. We probably felt most comfortable because the area was secure and “cozy”—largely shaded, except for the garden areas, with natural borders on both sides.
Our parents were happy because we were safe. We were thrilled with the freedom. There was always something to do in the garden. Grandpa had laid a network of water pipes that created easy access for hoses to water the plants and trees. Aside from the “chores,” there was ample opportunity to learn—whether about cooking, family history or simply to relax with the “adults.” Often, after dinner, when the adults stayed inside, we had the garden to ourselves, playing until darkness fell.
Our grandparents brought a bit of the old country with them into their backyards. All of these gardens grew eggplant long before it became fashionable in American cuisine. String beans were a common staple for fasulia stew. Our parents emulated their parents, which is why the backyard garden is still prevalent in Armenian homes. In the midst of this natural beauty, our grandparents would tell us stories of their youth and how they came to Connecticut.
On Sundays, we always went to church. My grandfather was a gentleman who would walk the 125 feet up the driveway to get the car and pick up Grandma and the rest of us at the side porch. St. Stephen’s only has street parking, so it was my good fortune to stay in the car with Grandpa after the drop off and park the car. It was always a proud moment for me to walk into church holding his hand. After church, we would return to their home and the backyard sanctuary.
Thankfully, many of the current generation have loving relationships with their grandparents. I feel a bit of sadness when I come across Armenian families challenged by distance. It is particularly impactful when one considers the influence of grandparents in this turbulent world.
Regardless of location, we have many common themes: the garden, the fire pit, the comfort, the stories and a bit of our past preserved. What I have learned from those wonderful memories is not just nostalgia.
I have been to many “grandparents’ backyards” over the years. Regardless of location, we have many common themes: the garden, the fire pit, the comfort, the stories and a bit of our past preserved. What I have learned from those wonderful memories is not just nostalgia. It was a lesson in values and establishing our personal foundation. During times of adversity, I think often of those who provided the love, comfort and security that grew our self-esteem and confidence. It is true that we had fun and built great memories. It is equally true that these backyards are where the generational transfer of values took place. This is why our memories of these times endure.
Several years ago, my son and I took my mom and her sister back to New Britain to visit the places of their youth. The house was still there, with the backyard reasonably intact. But about two years ago, I returned and was astonished to discover that the house was destroyed by a fire—the backyard, now an empty lot. I walked through the lot, mentally mapping out where certain landmarks once stood. The only reference point was the pole where the grapevines began.
Yet, as I stood in the emptiness, I realized that the “Garden of Eden” was intact in my memory. Yes, the land may now be barren, waiting for the next generation, but I could still see the fire pit, the garden and the fruit trees, smell the kebab and hear my grandparents’ voices. Those are experiences deeply etched within my memory and have an eternal place in my heart. I would encourage each of you to recall those moments in your youth, consider their impact and share them with your families.
Each generation has unique experiences that significantly influenced their lives. This was one of our moments. Share it with others. It will warm your heart, inspire others and strengthen your family identity. While we deal with the struggles of our current reality, take the time to laugh and remember. It will energize your soul.
Stepan Piligian
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Born from Mother Escaped Genocide
I was born from Mother
Escaping known genocide.
Astonishingly, by great luck,
That was a miraculous crack.
My mother always prayed and said,
“Some are born to live
No one can take souls to sharks.
Even to a devilish devil flying in the dark.”
Grandfather Mehran,
The director of the customs department in town,
In a government job—Empire of Ottoman,
A graduate of college and a respectful man,
Walked to work at dawn Never came back to mourn,
Has been taken from there,
Slaughtered unsown.
When my grandma Zaruhi,
Twenty-four spring years, then
Heard that her husband had vanished,
With most relatives’ kin keen,
Started thinking
how to protect her four kids
Within her heartbroken domain.
Grandmother—innocent, simple-minded,
Confused, how to secure an elder daughter’s life.
She took my mother, Victoria, to her great uncle’s hive (Garabed Dabaghian,*
famous lawyer in town),
In high-ranked areas,
Thinking the child will survive.
My mother started crying,
Obsessed to return home—dive.
As she was only four years old,
Attached to Mother’s Park,
The tiny blond girl had fear
Of nightmares and the dark.
She said I had real luck.
My obsession kept me alive to lark.
[My grandfather named her Victoria as she was born in the Victorian era.]
After she returned home
From her uncle’s family dome,
Old women, brides, children, toddlers
Vanished the next day at the “earliest crack at dawn.”
The gendarme invaded at night and stood at the door
After counting all households, one by one in the core.
More than thirty humans, living in a large house. So no one can leave,
no one can escape rouse.
They took them in carts, nobody knows where,
Disappearing from Diyarbakir’s century-home mare.
Who were the gendarmes?
Not government men?
Was he not Turkish?
Probably a spaceman!
He was a police officer
sent from police headquarters
To the influential families
to kill and confiscate
As much as their hands can catch;
Hence, from a small pin to a large ranch.
Written to be halal**
in their fatwa***
known the Hamidian.****
Killing, raping, searing,
even hanging, torturing,
Using belongings
of massacred Armenians,
Adding literary books,
burning treasured words down.
Grandma was terrified and started escaping
From hand to hand, from roof to roof,
Bribing endlessly
the Turks aloof,
To keep their lives hidden— just a few days more;
Prayers were not to reach the “genocidal cart”—
To be thrown in Der Zor desert to starve and die!
Till they arrived in Aleppo to a safe Arab land.
All her jewels were gone, with Ottoman Liras in gold,
Started working
in a factory stitching clothes;
To look after four kids—
diseased, hungry, shocked.
With her, old Mother Manoosh
lamenting sons, daughters, relatives, and neighbors she lost.
My uncle Haig
was only a few months old; Grandma used to cover
his mouth with a cloth
To stop the baby’s crying sound, loud and odd,
So the gendarme
cannot hear come close to kill;
As he was hungry,
breast milk dried alone;
He remained small and short with starved bones.
Another child,
Eugene, she was two years old;
She vomited continuously for days
Died later on, reaching Syria, maybe from cholera!
These are my childhood stories, hearing them every night;
We never heard stories
of a happy fairy-tale land.
But was replaced by murderers, the way that they killed,
The ways they raped
innocent girls, angels, sweet,
Incised the throats
of young lads clever and dear.
For sure, every gendarme
was one by one paid,
Bribed by the well-known Ottoman government,
Killing every Christian, swiftly head after head.
How we can forget
disheartening childhood stories!*****
Our brains impregnated
with endless fears since!
Dreaming, the devils like in excess greed
After hearing tales that impede the heart-beats
From Granny, so kind and cherished,
More accurate yet horrible than recent movies.
In that era,
there was no TV to watch, near to cheer,
Other than a large radio on a high table to hear…!
From my Recent Historical Poetry Book,
“Pedicide ISS Genocide is on Amazon 2024
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*Garabed Dabaghian: A very clever lawyer; he used to win almost every court case. He returned confiscated lands to real owners. Since real owners won the court with his help, they used to give him a piece of land, as they could not meet the expenses of the Ottoman Lira, which was gold currency. For that reason, he became the owner of a vast amount of land in Diyarbakir. We still have all the documents (called ‘taboo’ in Turkish) signed by the Ottoman Empire. Can we claim our lands back?
**Halal: Accepted by religious law.
***Fatwa: A formal legal opinion or religious decree issued by a Turkish Islamic leader, which differs in every ethnic Islamic community. For example, Arab leaders never issued such a fatwa to kill Armenians. On the contrary, the king of Arabia, King Husain bin Ali (king of Makkah), on month Rajab 18, 1336 AH (July 1918), issued an order to all Arab princes, specifically to Prince Faisal and Prince Abdul-Aziz Al Jarba (Sheikh Al Shammar) to look after Christian Armenians, ease their problems and supply them with anything they need. He said, “You are courageous and able to do so, and God will help to complete your guided mission.” King Hussain was at war with the Ottoman Empire, facing endless atrocities, as they ruled Arab lands for 400 years.
****Hamidian Massacres of Armenians (1895–1898): named after Sultan Abdul-Hamid: “The Red Sultan,” known as a great assassin.
*****Hovanes Ouzounian: My grandmother’s brother-in-law. He was a merchant, surviving by his intellectual ability till the end of the massacres. In the end, when he saw all the relatives escaped and killed, they advised him to change his religion to become Turkish Muslim. When he decided to change his religion, the Turkish authority refused because his wife, Gadhar, could not conceive. He decided to adopt my elder uncle Khosrof to be his son so that his conversion to Islam would be accepted. He then came to Mosul, north of Iraq, and opened a wine factory (Hadba Wine Co. sometime in the 1920s). The factory continued production till it was closed in 1964.
The Turkish fatwa, or legal opinion at that time, indicates that even if you want to change your religion, you can’t do so if you don’t have offspring. In the end, many Armenians started to become Muslims, but some were not accepted unless they gave their daughters or sisters to marry the governor’s son or to become a second wife. It was well-known that Armenian girls were pretty, educated, and good homemakers; when their kin refused, they were deported or killed. Such laws are never written in Arabic religious books.
Thank you, great Armenian Stepan Piligian
for your hearty contribution…
Encouraging us to write our unforgettable stories
that we suffered in our childhood days
TILL TODAY, no escape and
till we die, may after we die…!!!
Healthy wishes for you to contribute more and more…
Sylva
Stepan, we may not see each other often, but we are family and we have the same memories
We were taught to never forget. How can we?
Thank you Pam…. Indeed… Hope all is well.
Thanks for sharing wonderful memories with us.
That was beautiful and heart warming 💞