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TURKEY AND THE ARMENIAN GHOST, an English translation of the award-winning book La Turquie et le fantôme arménien, is a compelling portrait of the aftermath of the Armenian genocide and the enduring struggle to have it officially recognized.
Taking the reader into remote mountain regions, tiny hamlets, and the homes of traumatized victims of a deadly persecution that continues to this day, authors Laure Marchand and Guillaume Perrier reveal little-known aspects of the history and culture of a people who have been rendered invisible in their ancient homeland.
EXCERPT from Turkey and the Armenian Ghost:
“When you look at this peaceful village, it’s hard to imagine what happened here,” exclaims Nicole Matta. The Marseille-born granddaughter of genocide survivors is visiting her ancestral homeland for the first time. A sleepy town of two hundred, Düzyayla, in the province of Sivas, lies on a hillside irrigated by a river where a few cows come to drink. At the top of the hill, the Turkish flag flutters in the wind. A few elderly men with white beards pass the time of day on a stone bench in the shade of an ancient oak.
Tourists are rarely seen in Düzyayla, so when a minibus full of foreigners, cameras slung over their shoulders, rolls into the square, the children come running. “Hello! Hello! Wotsyorname?” they cry. Uncertain of their welcome, the visitors introduce themselves.“Our families came from this village,” they say hesitantly. “Children from this little hamlet, which used to be called Khorkhon.”
“Are you looking for the Armenian houses? There were sixteen or seventeen in all,” says a short, middle-aged man who has immediately guessed the reason for the visit of these yabancı (foreigners). “There was Vartouk’s house – his grandson comes once in a while. He lives in Germany; his name is Mehmet Şeker. There’s also a church over there, a little further down in the village. Come on, I’ll show you!”
Nicole and her sister Françoise gaze around, wide-eyed, filling their lungs with the clean air of Khorkhon, the little village so dear to their hearts, thanks to the stories told by their grandmother in the small church courtyard in Marseille. This was where their grandmother, just nine years old in 1915, used to run and play. And it was in this village that her family was arrested, that she and her little brother were placed in the hands of a Turkish farmer. In one of these old barns, the two children slept at night and whispered in Armenian.
Nicole keeps her eyes out for a farm that might fit her grandmother’s description. The villagers’ welcome is almost courteous, curiosity winning out over suspicion. The group of tourists is disarmed: the village’s Armenian past does not seem to be as taboo as they had expected. They follow their guide past dilapidated houses smelling like cowsheds to a pile of rocks covered with dirt and wild grasses. It takes the visitors a few moments to realize that they are looking at a church. Over time, the building has been almost completely buried. The front is the least obstructed, with inscriptions on a stone monument and the pediment confirming (if there was any doubt) that this was indeed an Armenian church. The main door is almost blocked by earth, leaving a gap of no more than fifty centimetres.
The visitors squeeze through and find themselves standing beneath a vault some fifteen metres high. From floor to ceiling, everything has been destroyed. A small hole in the roof opened by pillagers allows a ray of pale sunshine to enter. Only a few arches and the rounded shape of the chancel can be distinguished in the gloom. One member of the group stands quietly in a corner, stunned by the discovery. “It’s very moving. Our grandfather was baptized and married in this church,” whispers Rose-Anne, an American from New York. Her grandfather sailed to the United States in 1910, before the genocide, leaving his family behind and planning to reunite with them later on. But his wife and children were all killed in this village during the 1915 massacres. “He built a new life,” Rose-Anne says.
Of her family history, Rose-Anne had heard only a few vague stories. She knew of the grandfather who had left for America and of a greatgrandfather who had served as priest in the Armenian Apostolic Church in the Kayseri region. She wanted to understand, to see with her own eyes, to retrace the footsteps of those from whom she had inherited her Armenian identity. As with many members of the diaspora, born and raised far from their roots, her decision to return to Turkey was not an easy one. Right up to boarding time, she was filled with anxiety.
Turkey was the land of abundance, the land of creamy cheese made from buffalo milk, of walnut and cherry orchards, and of spinach treats baked by aunts and grandmothers. But it was also the land of ghosts and executioners: the scene of the crime.
To learn more about Turkey and the Armenian Ghost, click here.
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