This past week, my mother and I wandered into the alleys of the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. I did not want to dwell on the palpable loss, but instead to discover parts of myself. Enduring accomplishments of Armenians whose skills helped shape the soul of the city must be celebrated — yet they are so often forgotten.
As soon as we entered the bazaar, the thick air was filled with the smell of incense and roasted nuts. The yells of hawkers and the distant hum of hammers on metal permeated the air. The sun beamed through the skylights on the ceiling — dancing patterns appearing on ancient stone. As I walked along, I felt the pull of a vortex — retracing footsteps I’d never taken, but already knew.
“Do you smell that?” my mother asked, leaning close as we stepped into the first passage of the Grand Bazaar. The scent of leather and spices mingled in the air.
“Yes, it’s clearing the cold from my nose,” I whispered, glancing around at the bustling stalls. “Like every wall has a story.”
She grinned. “This is where your great-grandfather used to come. Armenians helped build this place. Our legacy is still here, if you look around.”
Her words followed me as I walked through the bazaar. A bell rang nearby as I passed a small jeweler’s stall where an elderly man filed a tiny filigree motif, a pendant in the making. His aging hands moved with quiet precision. He looked up. “Sevan Bıçakçı,” he said, smiling as if he knew I would recognize the name. I didn’t, but he kindly gave me a history lesson to make sure I would remember and hopefully tell others. He carried on to tell me about his reputation as a master jeweler of Armenian descent — his presence here felt like a universal message:
Armenian craftsmanship is not gone, it is very much alive.
Further down, my mother nudged me toward a shop glowing with gold. Young women peered inside. I suspect they were dreaming of future marriage gifts. “Look, to the left,” she said. Inside, Hraç Arslanyan worked at his bench beneath an arch. He practiced murassa, the ancient art of embedding precious stones into metal surfaces, an art passed through generations. The quiet tap of his tools was like a heartbeat pulsing with the cadence of the greater bazaar.
“Deni, you see?” my mother said softly. “This is how our people endured and supported their families. Through craft and generational skills that yield beauty, something we must continue to treasure.”
I nodded solemnly.
We moved, walking until we found Nick Merdenyan’s shop, where delicate dried leaves bore the inscriptions of prayers of where Christian, Jewish and Islamic goodwill were etched with reverence. I held one leaf in my hand, its veins carrying wisdom, feeling something stir inside me. My mother looked at me and said, “Co-existence lives here.”
The Bazaar’s carpets beckoned us next, a splash of color, texture and storytelling. I ran my hand over a Koum Kapi rug, woven with silk and gold threads. “Armenians wove these,” my mother said. “Every knot is a memory, every thread a prayer to keep going in good times and bad.”
I envisioned weavers of the past, sitting cross-legged, pulling stories from wool and silk, weaving our myths and survival into every image.
As I walked by a quiet courtyard, I pictured Armenian goldsmiths centuries ago opening their shutters after the Muslim call to prayer at dawn, calling every denomination to start their day. I felt their presence in the curves of jewelry, the geometry of a carpet and resilience in every move they made.
Weaving through, my mother and I ended up in an old tea house, and I realized — the city I was born in did not reject me. It carried the DNA of Armenian lives past, present and future.
It was on this day that I fully discovered how Armenians are a testament to resilience, and the Grand Bazaar is part of a story far larger than oneself, a story of identity, craft and belonging.
All photos are courtesy of the author
The few remaining Armenian artisans left in Istanbul should be encouraged to leave Turkey for Armenia, to contribute and teach their craftmanship to Armenians and and enrich Armenian talent, instead of Turks.
Dear Deni, Wonderful article. I had relatives The Baharyans, who worked in the Grand Bazaar as jewelers. When the Armenians of Marash were driven out after the Battle of Marash in 1920 (see my book: We Armenians Survived! Battle of Marash 1920,) surviving jewelers ended up in Syria. The pieces they created in Syria were absolutely incredible. I know as my mother, Evelyn went to Syria from Mosul, Iraq when she was engaged to my father, Sarkis in 1937. He gave her money so she could purchase bracelets, and other pieces. She left Mosul and went to Aleppo as the great Armenian jewelers were there.
This will be the most fateful election of Armenia since independence, and will be a choice between democracy or a full-blown Pashinyan dictatorship. Since dictators like Pashinyan don’t leave power willingly, democratically and peacefully, and will try to cling to it at all costs, mayhem is very likely lying ahead.
The descendants of the Armenian Genocide in the Levant can’t find any peace and tranquility. They are the most hapless lot in the Armenian Diaspora. War, destruction and death always follow them, be it in Mosul, Aleppo, Baghdad, Beirut or Tehran, only to be uprooted again, flee and start from scratch again in the West. I holidayed in Aleppo and Damascus in 2009, and befriended a local Armenian artisan and his wife in Aleppo, who had a shop in the famous Al-Madina Souq, and they showed me the sights of the city. They were so welcoming and kind, and their hospitality left such a sweet memory in me, which became bittersweet after the Syrian Civil War broke out two years later. When the Syrian Civil War broke out, they fortunately managed to flee with their two children to France in 2012, with only what they could carry. Their house, their shop, the historic souk was destroyed. They saved themselves and managed to find work outside Paris, but the loss they suffered has traumatized them. What they suffered, is shared by hundreds of thousands of Armenians, who had to flee wars and conflicts of the Levant the past five decades.
My early childhood education started there in the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul..?It was a the biggest University of the planet..?You have to learn everything…how to start from nothing to something..When eventually I took my diploma of life…there was nothing impossible in the business world.
God blesses..the soil and spirit of my old masters..who though me..how to be successful..in the journey of business world
The descendants of the Armenian Genocide in the Levant can’t find any peace and tranquility. They are the most hapless lot in the Armenian Diaspora. War, destruction and death always follow them, be it in Mosul, Aleppo, Baghdad, Beirut or Tehran, only to be uprooted again, flee and start from scratch again in the West. I holidayed in Aleppo and Damascus in 2009, and befriended a local Armenian artisan and his wife in Aleppo, who had a shop in the famous Al-Madina Souq, and they showed me the sights of the city. They were so welcoming and kind, and their hospitality left such a sweet memory in me, which became bittersweet after the Syrian Civil War broke out two years later. When the Syrian Civil War broke out, they fortunately managed to flee with their two children to France in 2012, with only what they could carry. Their house, their shop, the historic souk was destroyed. They saved themselves and managed to find work outside Paris, but the loss they suffered has traumatized them. What they suffered, is shared by hundreds of thousands of Armenians, who had to flee wars and conflicts of the Levant the past five decades.
Bravo, Deni!!!!
Dear Deni—
Your stories are precious to Armenians. I feel with each article you wrote you areare learning more about what it means to be Armenian. It’s a shame adults in the comments go off irrational tangents. You are our future!