Tracing my grandmother’s footsteps in AfyonKaraHisar
My grandmother, Annig Abroyan, was born in AfyonKaraHisar sometime around 1900. She didn’t know the exact date—or even the year—and would say that those things weren’t important where she came from. The elderly Armenians in Syracuse, New York, during the 1960s and ‘70s were not forthcoming about what had happened to them in “the old country.” I grew up knowing nothing of the Genocide or what they had survived.
It wasn’t until I was a young adult that I began to learn about what my grandparents had endured. My grandmother lost her entire family—except for one brother, who she found in 1970 (a story for another time). She survived because she was attending nursing school in Smyrna and escaped to England a year before the city was burned to the ground. There’s so much to her story, and the more I learned—long after she had passed—the more my heart ached for her.
My first trip to Turkey was in 2004, on a “Footsteps of Paul” tour led by my pastor. I was very excited to go. My Armenian friends and family, however, were not so excited for me. My elderly uncle said, “No! They will kill you!” I patiently explained that it wasn’t like that anymore, and that I was going as a pilgrim, not as an Armenian. Little did I realize that Armenian DNA is not so easily dismissed. Though I am half Armenian, I always say that Armenian DNA always rises to the top.
The uneasiness began as soon as we left the Istanbul airport. Our guide had Armenian eyes, and as we drove to our hotel, I could see traces of Armenian design and architecture everywhere. Late that night, I was awakened by a loud commotion in the streets. I bolted upright in my bed, my brain screaming, “The Turks are coming!” I assessed how secure I’d be from the third-floor balcony. As I sat there—terrified beyond reason—the noise faded, and my heart slowly calmed.
The next morning I asked our guide about the noise. He explained that a wedding had spilled into the street, and the guests had banged pots in celebration. At breakfast, I ate a roll that brought tears to my eyes. It had a flavor I hadn’t tasted since my grandmother’s cooking—black sesame seeds! As we traveled through Turkey, even the dust itself spoke to my feet and my soul. I felt called to this strange, yet somehow familiar land.
By 2024, I made five more trips to Turkey with a group that engages in prayer and friendship, mostly in Muslim-majority countries. Whenever we venture off the tourist path, we’re greeted by literally everyone we encounter—with welcoming smiles, food, invitations and authentic happiness. I usually divulge my Armenian roots, which often sparks stories of Armenian friends or, more discreetly, confessions of Armenian ancestry, whispered into my ear. Many, especially in the cities, know the truth. A Turkish woman once got on her knees, took my hand and asked for forgiveness for any part her family might have played in the Genocide.
In May 2024, our group of four traveled to AfyonKaraHisar (the locals run the words together). Like much of Turkey, the scenery is magnificent, and I understood why our ancestors wanted to stay in spite of so much persecution. The name of the province, “Afyon,” means opium—I guess that’s what this region was once famous for. “Kara Hisar” means Black Fortress, which sits atop a rocky mountain above the city. Probably originally Armenian, the fortress has been modified a lot over the years.
I was pleasantly surprised to see the restoration of Ottoman-era homes. The city is quite charming, unlike so many places in Turkey where everything is left to deteriorate. This was the neighborhood where my grandmother lived.
Thanks to Google Maps, we were able to find the locations of three Armenian churches. The first church we set out for was the Protestant church, which would have been the one my grandmother attended. All that’s left is a gate, which opens into what once was possibly a lobby area. Crumbling walls disappear into newer structures.
A locked door leads to an area that is now under a school. We prayed there, and I left a small cross in a spot where it wouldn’t be found. Behind the church, we found a pile of material that had been gutted from the church, including a baptistery—possibly the very one my grandmother was baptized in. I can’t tell you the depth of mixed emotions—walking through the ruins of my grandmother’s church—holding joy, sorrow and everything in between in my spirit.
Next, we visited the Armenian Orthodox church. The front wall was still there, with a locked side door. I found an Armenian inscription and cross. The church is proudly labeled for the benefit of non-existent tourists.
We found an unlocked side door, leading to a crumbling staircase, an area overgrown with grapevines, a small ruined house and a broken wine press—perhaps once used for communion wine. Pushing through the overgrowth, we stepped into what would have been the sanctuary.
I spotted a corner of a carpet sticking out of a pile of dirt. I pulled it out and unfolded a clean, beautiful piece that I desperately wanted to bring home, but I left it. I didn’t know if the carpet was discarded or sacred, and I had no room in my luggage.
Coming back through the area of the wine press, we felt the need to share communion. I felt so privileged to be there and wondered when communion had last been celebrated in that sanctuary. As we concluded our little service, an angry man burst in. He yelled at us for trespassing on “his” property and asked if we had stolen anything. Our leader, who speaks Turkish pretty well (but Google Translate is a godsend), explained that I was Armenian and wanted to see the church, and asked if we could pray for him.
Totally disarmed after realizing that we weren’t there to steal any of his rubble (I was very glad I had not picked up that carpet!) he softened. He explained that this was “his” property, which had been “gifted” to his family long ago. I tried not to imagine what his grandfather may have done to receive an Armenian church as a “gift.”
He informed us that we were standing in the church garden—and we were very moved to realize that we had taken communion there. After praying for him, we asked about a place to do some shopping. He offered to walk us there. Along the way, he pointed out homes where Armenians still lived. I regret that I didn’t knock on those doors to see if anyone would be willing to talk to me.
Continuing along the cobblestone streets, our new friend took us to a “bedesten,” or covered market, where he knew someone to give us good prices. We bought some beautiful scarves, and as is the custom, were served çay and lingered for conversation. After shopping, we said goodbye to our “guide,” who really did not want us to go. He even offered lodging at his home, which happens frequently when we talk to Turks.
For lunch, we ate at a little gözleme cafe–gözleme is like soft lavash bread, filled with your choice of ingredients. The proprietors, an elderly couple, were curious and had many questions for us. We told them that I’m Armenian, and this was my grandmother’s hometown. The woman was visibly moved by my story. I asked if their family had lived here for generations. Our cook answered yes, and I said that our grandparents could have played together as children.
As we hugged goodbye, she had tears in her eyes. We were so caught up in the moment that we forgot to pay! They did not mention it as we went out the door. Thankfully, our leader realized it later and returned to settle the bill.
After lunch, we found the remaining Armenian church, listed as Catholic on Google Maps. We were very sad to see that there is absolutely nothing left of this church. A school now occupies the ground. We prayed over the site—that it might someday be a church again.
We spent the remainder of the day walking the streets and conversing with curious and friendly locals. I collected a few pebbles and broken tiles to bring a piece of my grandmother’s hometown home.
Ann Lea Hall
Latest posts by Ann Lea Hall (see all)
- Tracing my grandmother’s footsteps in AfyonKaraHisar - April 10, 2025
Thank you for your touching piece, Ann Lea. The kinds of dynamics you describe are fairly common in many previously Armenian-inhabited places in Turkey.
A man from Afyon, considering himself a Turk, and saying he is not racist, contacted me over internet a couple of years ago, asking if I know why all 14 wards of the city had had Armenian mayors in about the year 1910. I had to admit that I had no family connections to Afyon and no satisfactory explanation to his question, either. One could speculate that Armenians being more literate, and possibly more conscientious, were preferred for public service duties of this sort, even by the Muslims.
By the way, on the rusted door, it says, PROHIBITED / DANGEROUS / DO NOT TOUCH.
Part of my Armenian ancestors come from Afyonkarahisar. My family history is unfortunately very vague, but from the very few and incomplete Ottoman records I found, they go as far back to the 1830s until the 1890s. They emigrated to the United Kingdom and the United States in the 1890s, presumably before the Hamidian Massacres. Apart from names, surnames, birth years and death years, sadly nothing else exists from them, neither photos, let alone graves.
The very sad ruinous state of the Armenian church and other Armenian artifacts strewn like trash in the courtyard, in this part of Turkey, needs no further introduction – and precious few exist as ruins, even less so intact – anyway across that country. Photos of Armenian heritage that still exist in Turkey, are almost always ruins.
I have been to Istanbul and to the last Armenian village of Vakifli, during my only trip to Turkey in late March/early April of 2005, which are the only places left with Armenian communities and active Armenian churches and cemeteries, and that was a rather sad experience, because the local Armenians were guarded in their behavior and some of them praised the “tolerance” of the Turkish state, also because there were Turkish guides, who could not be trusted. I didn’t dare ask them about the systematic discrimination they are subjected to by Turkish officialdom, which is well known, let alone ask them about the Armenian Genocide, which would have put them and me in a risky situation, especially because mentioning the Armenian Genocide, is punishable under Article 301 of the Turkish Penal Code, under the very broad interpretation of “Denigration of the Turkish Nation”.
I have never visited Western Armenia, but from accounts of friends who have visited the region, they returned depressed for the abovementioned reasons.
Here is the English machine translation of the Turkish text about the Armenian church on the plaque via Google Translate:
« Kilise Kalıntısı
Afyonkarahisar’da geçtigimiz yüzyıllarda yaşayan Ermeni azınlık tarafından 1500’lü yılların sonlarında yapıldığı bilinmektedir. Zaman zaman tamir edilen binada 1. Dünya Savaşı sırasında çeşitli cephelerde esir edilen ANZAK askerleri kalmıştır. Meryem Ana Kilisesi olarak isimlendirilen kilisenin halk arasındaki adı Yukarı Kilise’dir. Şehirde bulunan Ermeni azınlık Kurtuluş Savaşı sonrası işgalcilerle birlikte Afyon’u terk etmiştir. Farklı amaçlarla 1960’lı yıllara kadar kullanılan kilise binası bu tarihlerde yıkılmıştır. Günümüze sadece dış kemerleri ve ana giriş kapısının bir kısmı ulaşabilmiştir.
Bu eser korunması gerekli tescilli kültür varlığıdır.
Afyonkarahisar Belediyesi »
« Church Ruins
It is known that it was built in the late 1500s by the Armenian minority who lived in Afyonkarahisar in the past centuries. The building, which was repaired from time to time, housed ANZAC soldiers who were captured on various fronts during World War I. The church, which is called the Virgin Mary Church, is known among the public as the Upper Church. The Armenian minority in the city left Afyon along with the invaders after the War of Independence. The church building, which was used for different purposes until the 1960s, was demolished around that time. Only the outer arches and part of the main entrance have survived to the present day.
This artwork is a registered cultural asset that needs to be protected.
Afyonkarahisar Municipality »
The description about Armenians on this plaque is surprisingly tame, because usually hostile language is used about Armenians and Greeks, especially concerning historical events such as World War I, on plaques, in museums, in brochures and in books in Turkey, in English language versions, which I have seen and glanced.
The other two words written on the rusty door, apart from « Yasak » (« Forbidden »), are « Tehlike var » (« There is danger ») and « Dokunmayın » (« Do not touch »).
Very interesting, as I have been to AfyonKaraHisar. If I had known that Armenians had lived there, I would have looked for evidence of their former presence. I did, however, notice some houses in that part of Turkey that reminded me of Greek architecture. (But being neither Armenian nor Greek, I don’t know much about these things.) I climbed up to the fortress, but felt a little dizzy on top of that rocky outcrop – with the clouds seeming to pull me in one direction while the earth pulled me in another. I was happy to descend to the town and, later in the day, to take a bus to Konya. Days later, in an antiquities shop in Beyşehir, I found Christian relics, including church bells, being offered for sale. I asked the proprietor how he felt about the Christians who had once lived in the area, but he said he didn’t want to comment. So that there would be no hard feelings, I bought a cow bell.
Hi Ann Lea,
My grandmother was born in Afionkarahisar as well. She also did not tell us much about her ordeal and I hesitated to ask her not wanting for her to relive the past. Your story brought me to her home town. Thank you.
About the curch Virgin Marry. The table translation via google is irrelevant. I wish you have asked your guide. It is written the curch was used for the captured ANZAKs (soldiers coming from Australya and New Zealand) during the FWW I. Armenian minority left the city with the invaders after Turkish independence war . The curch was used for different purposes till 1960s. After then it collapsed by the time.
Dear Ann, I read your article with great interest and found myself filled with emotion as I always do when reading about our people, our past and plight. I never had the desire to see, of what I would often refer to Turkey as that “Godforsaken” country, until recently. I feel the need to touch the dirt
and smell the air of that place before I leave this earth. I am the daughter of an orphan of the genocide. I am looking for a group of Armenians that
would be traveling to Turkey that have a similar interest. As you have made several trips , I would appreciate it if you kindly direct me if you know
of such organizations. I thank you for your time and effort. I live in Jenkintown, Pennsylvania 19046. email: apolizzi1630@yahoo.com.