John Minassian - Surviving the Forgotten Genocide: An Armenian Memoir

W HEN I TOOK THE BOAT for the New World, I realized a dream of my childhood. I had a close association with Americans through my school and church, and I admired their ideals, their humanitarian efforts to serve, to help, and to uplift. This had made an indelible impression upon me, and I wanted to be one of them someday. Nothing could stop me from coming to see and live among these people.

I brought with me the few closely packed pages of notes that had faded during the desert chase. But like the wounds on the bark of a tree, memories of the past grow deeper year after year. At first, they paralyzed me, and I was unable to work on them. Within a few years, however, while I was working for the Ford Company in Detroit, I collected my notes and put them together under the title of Forgotten People. In 1926, in New York, I also collected some notes under the headings Vartan, the Reverend, Makroohi, Krikor, and Please Look Up. I then decided not to inflict any sad memories on others.

These were stories of the past, and I wanted to forget them all, but the political situation remained the samedark. In addition, there was the war in Vietnam. This, and the encouragement from friends, induced me to write. I did not want to preach a soft sermon but to shout loudly to the heavens and warn others of the big storm coming, for I had experienced such a storm before. If in doing so I have kindled the fire of compassion and enhanced the chances for brotherhood and peace, I shall be fully rewarded for my pains.

Yet this book is not complete, for there is no way to measure the depth of the sorrow, the misery, and suffering of the human heart. Words cannot adequately explain the pain, deprivation, and humiliation suffered by the thousands of victims of the cruel force of military might.

Dear Aziz:

It has been a long time since we said good-bye. We were students at a college in the hills of Hoktar in the city of Sivas. American missionaries had come to Sivas to teach the gospel of love, democracy, and the better things in life.

You said you had come to learn English. Your father was liberal enough to send you to a school where you were the only Turkish boy among Armenians. You were brave. One day I passed you while you were sitting alone, watching bigger boys playing football. You smiled. I passed you, and I came back and I asked you if you were Aziz. You were encouraged and smiled again, happily. I was the first boy who greeted you. We talked in your native language. We did not say much, but we knew we were meeting on the same ground regardless.

Our friendship continued. We conversed about different thingsour future destination, our hopes and our dreams. We had secrets and we talked about impossible things, like taking you to an Armenian church to hear the Mass on a holiday and you would take me to the Mosque to see Islamic praying some Friday. I also told you the story of the little boy Jesus. That was the year of 1913.

When school closed for summer vacation, we promised to see each other more, regardless of what happened. We would continue our friendship forever. You were sincere and noble. I was the only one in school who noticed your nobility, because I was the only one who was friendly to you. I always enjoyed your company. You were charming, an aristocrat. Later you wanted to learn Armenian so you would be able to say paryloos and converse with me in my language. It was fun. Each day we added more Armenian words. You were happy, too.

This did not last long. Summer came, and I went home to spend the summer with my parents in Gurun, a small city south of Sivas. On foot we traveled for three days, passing many Armenian villages with wheat fields. Peasants were getting ready for the new crop. My parents were very happy to see me. They were proud of me with the expectation that soon I would graduate from school and would be a useful citizen and a man.

When I went back to Sivas the following autumn to continue my education, I was informed by our principal, Mr. Partridge, that the school would be closed that year because of war. Then I returned home. Winter passed in isolation. But spring came, and spring in the Valley of Gurun is paradise. We all were busy doing our daily gardening chores. Later in April we were told to be ready for deportation. After many days of traveling on foot, I found myself separated from my family, friends, relatives, and neighbors. I was lonesome and in search of shelter. In Aleppo a good man gave me shelter and food, but he died soon, and I was orphaned again. Later, when I was in the Mesopotamian desert, I worked for the Baghdad railroad as a clerk.

Late in 1918, I arrived in Aleppo with an orphaned eight-year-old boy. In Aleppo I placed him in a British orphanage for Armenian orphans and left for Constantinople. The city was jammed with many returning deportees and many Russian runaways from the revolution. They were all desperately in search of work, all wanting to start a new life.

Many months after I found a job in the British Army as a clerk; my Turkish helped me. Many working there were Turks. I often thought of you, but there was no chance to see you. I wondered if you joined the army in the Dardanelles. I hoped not. I wondered if you were killed in action. Nobody would kill you if they knew you. But it was war, and nobody thinks during war.

I also thought I wouldnt be in the Mesopotamian desert in search of shelter if there were more like you in high places. Thats why the memory of you never left me. You made me learn to love someone who is not supposed to be loved. Your sweet smile, your noble self, your greeting of inchbess es.

In Constantinople I met a young boy, Mustafa, who was desperately trying to support his mother, who was a war widow. He was jailed while he was working for me. I got him out of jail. When he returned to work, he bowed and tried to kiss my hand. He wondered why an Armenian would do this for a Turk. He did not know my secret: I knew you.

I tried very hard to enter a school in Constantinople. I was turned down so finally I left the country of my birth, country of my boyhood happiness and misery. I came to the country of my dreams. It was not a strange country. People were kind to me, and they were friendly. New York City was the only city where I was not afraid of the police. I desperately tried to enter a school but I was unable to concentrate on studies due to the tragedies of the past.

Finally, I got a job at a Ford factory, laboring hard for a living. This was all I could do. I was deprived of the opportunity of a normal boys education. Sleepless nights, dust and smoke from the foundry, and the smell made me sick. Now I am gray and live with my wife in Santa Barbara, a city near the ocean, with stately mountains behind it.

Our grandchildren wanted to know about my past, reviving old memories. That is why I am writing this letter. I am sure you will be glad to know that I am comfortable. I hope this letter will reach you somehow. When you read it, do not cry for me. I am well-adjusted [sic] in a country that stands for peace, freedom, and happiness, but I miss you, dear Aziz.

One last thought. On the Fourth of July our flag flies proudly in our yard, telling everybody that we are one of them.

John Minassian,

October 8, 1984

I N 1914, AT THE AGE OF NINETEEN, I was ready to enter my second year in college. One morning, late in August, I prepared for the three-day horseback ride from my home in Gurun My family had been up since early morning, both excited and upset because I was leaving. At breakfast, Father, with great serenity, graced the table and asked Gods guidance for my safety. My mother wiped at her tears and suddenly looked at me full of love and suffering.

You take care of yourself, son, she said, God will be with you. I promised, with an artificial smile, acting brave; inside, I was sad and afraid. But I was happy, too. I was one of the fortunate few who could go to college. It was a great adventure to learn from teachers who had already been out and abroad.