The stories we have yet to tell

by Maria Titizian

Published: Saturday April 04, 2009 in Living in Armenia

Yerevan - Every Armenian family has a story to tell. I know that in my own particular family there are many fascinating stories, treasures that have been once told or perhaps tucked away to be told for a later time, that are now fading into the foggy memories of the elders of the family. Some stories have forever been wiped out, some have died with our grandparents.

How many times have I heard from a friend or acquaintance that they never got around to asking their parents or grandparents about particular episodes in their lives that coincided with sweeping historical events; the stories of their lives.

I have made some weak attempts at writing about my paternal grandfather whom I never met, based upon a bond we shared through letters, now long lost. About my maternal grandparents, I have written nothing because even while acknowledging the significance of their lives in the national mosaic of our people's history, I know very little. I know that my maternal grandfather was born in Urfa, sent on to the deportations with his family and ended up in an orphanage in Aleppo. He was told and believed that the rest of his family had been killed.

At the age of 14, escaping from the orphanage he makes his way to Beirut. Years later (the details of which continue to elude me) his older sister, who had also somehow survived, finds him through ads placed in Armenian newspapers of the day. They are miraculously reunited only to be separated once again in 1946 when his sister repatriates to Soviet Armenia. They parted in pain and disagreement, and never spoke to one another again.

I met my maternal grandfather's nephew, his sister's son, in Yerevan in 2001. He was an old, broken and bitter man. Exceedingly handsome, even at an advanced age, there was a constant and enduring rage that emanated from him that was at once frightening and at once familiar. That generation, whether in the diaspora or in the homeland, had seen so much pain and suffering. They had lived through abject poverty, sometimes illiterate, with very little tools to protect themselves against the harsh realities of life and against the memories that tortured them. They were survivors or children of survivors. Their suffering did not have a voice, rather it became a tangled knot trapped in their bodies and often times perished along with them.

My maternal grandmother, from Marash also survived the Genocide but spent the rest of her life battling the demons locked up in her memories. When she arrived in Canada following the outbreak of civil war in Lebanon, she was only 58 years old but you wouldn't know it from looking at her. She wore black clothes, had long white hair tied in a tight bun at the nape of her neck and was blissfully plump. She died before her 61st birthday, and although surrounded by her children she died a sad and haunted woman. I can't remember her ever laughing.

We have the ability, through the printed word to relay stories that have significance and substance. That give a voice to the suffering of that generation. Stories which will in their turn explain, impart, and record some of our collective history. The content, depth and humanity of what we write will affect our society and our communities dispersed throughout the world.

What we write serves as living history. What we write from Armenia allows our compatriots in the United States and other parts of the world to get a glimpse, capture an image of life in the homeland. It allows them to be carried along with the political and economic currents that flow through the veins of this organism we call the motherland.

It gives you the reader, insight and empowerment. From energy projects in the region like the Nabucco pipeline, to Armenian-Turkish relations, to the prospects of a peaceful settlement of the Karabakh conflict, to the domestic political scene in the country, we report on the events which shape our lives.  And we have so much to learn. We have investigated and reported on ethnic minorities that live in peace and harmony in Armenia. Whether they are Assyrians, Yazidis, Greeks, or Molokans, they have the ability to educate their children in their native tongue and practice their traditions unhindered. We allow this as a nation and as a state because we know what it means to be discriminated against.

We learn from those who repatriated to Armenia, whether that was during the Great Repatriation of 1946-48 or the modern repatriates. We report about the work they do in the country, about their dedication and commitment, and sometimes simply about their everyday lives in an emerging democracy, in a country struggling to define itself.

But whether we write about serious issues, or the lighter side of life, we do so in order to share and impart issues of substance and significance, of our shared values.

What we must do is continue to write the stories about us, about our families, our compatriots, our people, our nation. We must continue to slowly weave the threads of our individual experiences to create a living and breathing testament to what it means to be an Armenian today or a century ago.