In 1912, Armen Tigranian wrote the beautiful opera “Anoush,” based on Hovhannes Tumanyan’s poem of the same name, which became the most beloved opera in Armenia. “Anoush” tells the tragic love story between a peasant Armenian girl, Anoush, and her shepherd boyfriend Saro. Their love affair ends in loss and death as a result of a conflict between Anoush’s brother Mossy and Saro. “Anoush” is a testament to the passion of Armenians, and demonstrates that we are like the rest of the world in matters of the heart.

In the story, local and ethnic customs come into play when at a village wedding Mossy and Saro engage in a wrestling match, an acceptable local custom. With his macho bravado, Saro oversteps his boundaries and commits a no-no by pinning Mossy to the ground, humiliating him. Mossy vows to destroy Saro, now his enemy. He shoots Saro, leaving those of us who filled Detroit’s Music Hall on the evening of Oct. 31, 1981, shocked at the actions of our hot-blooded ancestors.

Anoush becomes insane with grief and throws herself off a cliff, ending her life.

Michigan Opera Theater Director David DeChiera produced “Anoush” for local audiences that year. DeChiera was persuaded to undertake the project by a friend, noted Detroit music lover and pianist Alice Haidostian. Many Armenians eager to showcase Tigranian’s talent made generous donations to help make the production possible.

It was a smash hit; emotionally intense. It gave local Armenians another reason to be proud of their roots, represented by the talented Tigranian.

***

“The Sandcastle Girls”

[SPOILER ALERT: The Sandcastle Girls] The play’s storyline reminded me of New York Times best-selling author Chris Bohjalian’s The Sandcastle Girls, staged in the aftermath of the Armenian Genocide. In the book, Armen, the protagonist, is separated from his wife and child. Years later, he falls in love with a non-Armenian aid-worker caring for Armenian refugees. Armen’s wife resurfaces and sees Armen with his new love, and their apparent devotion to each other. In her despair, she throws herself from a bell tower.

Bohjalian agonized on how to write this sad ending; I wish it had ended differently. Of all the sorrow in this book, as an Armenian woman, I was deeply hurt by Armen’s fate—falling in love with someone else, leading his wife, who had been abused and tortured by Turks and Kurds, to end her life just before reuniting with her husband.

Happy endings: Are they made on earth or in Heaven? The good news was that “Anoush” was a big hit.

***

[SPOILER ALERT: ‘The Bridges of Madison County’] In the film “The Bridges of Madison County,” set on a farm in the 1960’s, were you not dismayed when Meryl Streep’s character, Francesca, hops into a stranger’s truck to show him the way to the Roseman Covered Bridge? The stranger, Robert Kincaid, a Life Magazine photographer, had driven down a long, dusty country road until he discovered a willing Francesca, who fortunately came to no physical harm due to her rash decision to get into the stranger’s truck. Did she expect to find love?

The stranger offers her a cigarette; she accepts; after which they go to the bridge where he shoots footage for a film. When they arrive back to her farm, she offers him iced tea, and they even dine together.

She is restless; she had expected more from her union to her husband, a farmer. She describes him as “clean,” indicating that he is a nice and uncomplicated man. Obviously, boredom has set in for Francesca, the mother of two teenage children, a boy and a girl, who had gone off to the Illinois State Fair with their father for several days.

A Life photographer, a dusty farm road, a man with an interesting life who, like Francesca, enjoys jazz— well, the steam in the kitchen was not just from boiling corn. They dance and become affectionate. He wants her to leave the farm and go away with him. She is tempted, but morality rears its head. Duty to family comes first in her mind; and when her family returns, they resume their tedious life.

It’s a rainy day. Kincaid is waiting for Francesca to join him in town. She is sitting in the family truck with her groceries. She sees him and firmly grasps the vehicle’s door handle wanting to join him. He gets out of the truck, is soaking wet, and looking at an anguished Francesca who is torn between Kincaid and her family. You sit there hoping she jumps out of the truck and runs to the photographer. She does not.

The love they have is rare and enduring. For her, it seems this is not enough. She stays with her husband in the truck, filled with remorse, as she has sacrificed her happiness.

Kincaid’s life ends, and a box is delivered to Francesca, now a widow. In it is a copy of his book dedicated to her, the one she had encouraged him to write; a religious medal that had once belonged to her; his ashes; and his I.D. bracelet. It is all too sad and romantic. They had truly loved each other.

Francesca leaves behind a diary of her affair with Kincaid, which shocks her son, while her daughter understands. The mother leaves instructions that when she dies, her ashes are to be combined with Kincaid’s and strewn from the Roseman Bridge. Her son and daughter stand on that symbolic bridge and scatter the lovers’ ashes into the wind which blows into the meadow surrounding the bridge; they are finally together. Another lamentable ending. Does Heaven await lovers?

***

Casablanca

[SPOILER ALERT: ‘Casablanca’] “Are you ready, Elsa?”

“Casablanca” is an all-time favorite love story for many. Humphrey Bogart plays Rick, an American cafe owner in the North African city of Casablanca, where refugees arrive with the hopes of taking the plane to Lisbon and freedom, in the face of a likely German takeover of Europe. Elsa, played by Ingrid Bergman, is Rick’s love interest; she left him stranded at the Paris train station when she discovered that her husband, a leader in the underground freedom struggle, Victor Laszlo (Paul Henreid), was alive. When Elsa walks into the cafe, Rick displays deep bitterness at her presence in his shop, but his love for her resurfaces when she explains why she abandoned him. Strains of the song “As Time Goes By” run through the film’s background. Even the hardened Rick has heard of Laszlo’s courageous leadership and admires him.

The star-crossed lovers embrace tenderly. Elsa wants two plane tickets to Lisbon for her and Rick. She still loves him, and tries to use their former love affair as the basis for obtaining papers of transfer guaranteeing air passage to Lisbon. Rick turns out to be a patriot and, though he and Elsa do briefly rekindle their romance, he devises a plot to get Laszlo and Elsa to meet at the airport instead. Rick tells her the two of them “don’t mean a hill of beans on the scheme of things” and that it will be Laszlo and Elsa boarding the plane. Rick looks in Elsa’s eyes and tells her how important she is to her husband’s work.

In the film, Elsa expresses concern for Laszlo’s safety saying, “Be careful, Victor.” Her concern is real, but what does it mean when Laszlo embraces her and his kisses land on her cheek not her lips? He is a sophisticated man, not a fool. He is aware his wife was previously in love with Rick. Laszlo looks at Elsa, while holding her arm, as they walk toward the plane. He utters lovingly, “Are you ready, Elsa?” She looks bewildered, and responds, “Yes, Victor.” Then, she looks back at a grim Rick.

The plane lifts upward in the darkness of Casablanca’s night, separating yet another pair of lovers.

***

The Godfather

[SPOILER ALERT: ‘Godfather’] In the “Godfather” film, Michael Corleone’s daughter Mary falls in love with her first cousin Vincent, who by design is destined to assume the aging Don’s position as godfather. Michael tells the ambitious Vincent that the price he has to pay to become Don Vincent Corleone is to give up his daughter. Vincent agrees. Mary is heartbroken. She says to him, “You are just like my father.” Oh, how it hurts to hear him say to the young Mary, “Love someone else!”

The family is exiting the Palermo Opera House when gunshots ring out. They were intended for Michael but instead Mary is mortally wounded. She calls out, “Dad!” He, in turn, holding his daughter, shouts, “Mary!” Vincent too shouts her name, “Mary!” Mary dies, deprived of her Vincent. My tears flow every time.

***

[SPOILER ALERT] I won’t even go into the ending of “The Way We Were.” Hubbell Gardner (Robert Redford) and Katie Morosky (Barbra Streisand)—once wed college sweethearts, now divorced—see each other across a busy New York City street. She runs to him smiling, and it is clear that they still have a spark for each other. She was just too intense for him. They hug; she runs her hand lovingly to smooth his blonde locks from his forehead; and they remember the love they once shared. He crosses back to the other side of the street to his female companion, and admiringly watches Katie, who is a leftist political activist, hand out flyers.

***

“When I saw you, I fell in love. And you smiled because you knew.” –Arrigo Boite, poet

The post Lamenting Love Story Endings appeared first on Armenian Weekly.

Some things are meant to be, like the blind date meeting of Julie Karadian and Raffi Der Manuelian. Romance arrived for them and bloomed when Raffi knocked at the door of his future in-laws, Julie’s parents Steve and Anne Karadian of West Bloomfield.

Raffi had come to Michigan from Lexington, Mass., after graduating from the University of Lowell with a mechanical engineering degree. He soon started his professional career at the AC Spark Plug Division of General Motors in Flint.

While working at AC, Raffi was also attending the University of Michigan for his MBA. Taking the same class as the young engineer was a close childhood friend of Julie’s. The friend recognized Raffi’s last name as being Armenian and asked if he had a girlfriend; he did not. With her permission, the friend gave Raffi Julie’s phone number.

The knock at the door would culminate into 25 years of marriage and 3 children: David, 21, a math and physics major at Oakland University (OU); Christopher, 19, a computer science major also at Oakland University; and Emily, 17, a senior at Rochester High School who also plans to attend OU next fall, following in the footsteps of their mother and aunt.

All of the siblings are high academic achievers and were on the first robotics team at their high school, where their father has been a mentor for eight years. Together they have traveled to many cities for robotics competitions. The Der Manuelian children were involved in various school clubs, activities, and sports during their high school years and still managed to be at the top of their class academically.

“It is a parent’s dream for all three of our children to receive scholarships to Oakland University. They are great kids and are driven to do well in school,” their parents say.

Steve Karadian was known to have said many times that Raffi was like a son to him. The Der Manuelians and Karadians, although separated by hundreds of miles, frequently traveled the distance to be together.

Raffi is currently a lead engineer in the Fuel Systems Group at GM and the couple resides in Rochester Hills. Before marriage, Julie had a position with a real estate management company. She became a stay-at-home mom chauffeuring and catering to the busy needs of her children.

The family, including sister Stephanie Karadian, all pulled together in the daily loving care of Ann and Steve during their illness. A more devoted family you would be hard pressed to find.

Julie and Raffi, mindful of their own upbringing, enrolled their youngsters at an early age in the St. Sarkis Sunday School program in Dearborn. They wanted to expose their children to Armenian history, culture, and tradition at a young age, disregarding the one-hour drive to and from church.

The distance to church in Dearborn was not daunting to these parents, who readily admit, “Being Armenian is in our blood.”

The Der Manuelians are pleased that schools are deciding to discuss the Armenian Genocide in their history classes and that their children are already up to speed on the subject by virtue on what they learned in Sunday School.

Having grown up in families with strong ties to their ethnic roots, Raffi and Julie have shared the stories of their exiled grandparents. The miracle is that David, Chris, and Emily actually listen intently to the stories and absorb them.

In these three intelligent young Armenian-Americans is a storehouse of inherited history, love of learning, and a strong unshakeable foundation.

This family is tied to Western Armenia, starting with Julie’s parents, Steve and Ann Karadian. Steve’s parents were Sahag and Yeranouhy (Tombalian) Karadian, Boursetzi. Ann’s parents were Bedros and Vera Varoug (Bagian) Keshigian, of Govdun, Sepastia.

Raffi’s parents were Vahram and Catherine Der Manuelian. Vahram’s parents were Barouyr and Veron Der Manuelian, of Chemishgezek. Catherine’s parents were Oscar and Catherine Bedigian

***

August is Dream Cruise time in Michgian, but cruising picks up speed in May and the Der Manuelian Team is right in there with Raffi’s prize-winning mint 1968 Dodge Charger. The family cruises together going to car shows and various classic events, which are frequent in this car loving state.

The family has vacationed in 42 states, sharing their love of travel around this scenic country. They tour national parks, presidential birth places, and cemeteries, exploring places off the beaten path, occasionally throwing in an ocean vacation.

The Der Manuelian kids have enjoyed stays at Camp Haiastan in Franklin, Mass., where they have collected many wonderful experiences and memories.

Recently, the Armenian Weekly featured interesting details about what is called the Armenian Orphan Rug. Steve Karadian’s mother, which is Julie’s paternal grandmother, Yeranouhy (Tombalian) Karadian, a Boursetzi, worked on that rug as a genocide orphan. Steve was so proud of that, and rightfully Julie is too. Dr. Hagop Martin Deranian wrote the book President Calvin Coolidge and the Armenian Orphan Rug, which includes a picture of the young girls that worked on the rug, including Yeranouhy.

Julie remembers her grandmother telling her she worked on the animals. “It would be very moving to walk up to that rug and see the little animals her hands made,” Julie said. “I’ll need a few tissues for that one.”

“Raffi and I have now lost our parents and many family members. It is probably the hardest thing we have had to go through in our marriage. We look back on only happy memories, though, never the sad times. We move forward, hoping and praying for good health and a long happy life.”

How could their story be any better? And it all started with a dashing gentleman’s knock at the door.

When Julie and Raffi wed in August 1990, it was a wish-come-true for both families. They were joined by many relatives from Massachusetts and the East Coast to celebrate the happy event.

Julie recalls the wedding day: “All our deceased grandparents were on my mind that day. I hope they were all dancing right along with us. We named our children David Vahram after Raffi’s dad, Christopher Stepan after my dad, and Emily Vera after my maternal grandmother.”

“I wish Raffi’s dad could have known the kids. He passed away exactly a year before David was born.”

The Der Manuelians’ life lesson: “Our parents instilled in us strong family values, the importance of getting a good education, the value of hard work, and of course the importance of finding an Armenian spouse!”

The post The Der Manuelians: A Love Story for the Times appeared first on Armenian Weekly.

The Metro Detroit area has sustained another devastating loss with the passing of a devoted Armenian activist, Avedis George Mishigian, 73, of Tecumseh, Mich.

Avedis George Mishigian

Avedis stood out in this community not only for his fair hair and height but for his extreme dedication to the wellbeing of Armenia and to the Armenian Revolutionary Federation (ARF) Detroit “Azadamard” Gomideh, of which he was a member since 2001.

He was born in Jaffa, Palestine, to Kevork and Takouhi (Miledjian) Mishigian and was one of five children. The family moved to Amman, Jordan, in 1956 and when Avedis was 14 they immigrated to the United States, settling in Waukegan, Ill.

George Michigian attended Carthage College in Wisconsin and served in the Foreign Service, stationed in Korea. He was conversant in several languages.

He married Sona Dakarian in Chicago in 1975, settling in Ann Arbor, Mich. Their union was blessed with daughters Talin, Tamar, and Teny, who have been involved in Armenian community affairs, much like their parents.

After earning his bachelor’s degree in business administration, Avedis continued on to post-graduate studies at Eastern Michigan University.

His professional career included working as a production control manager for DST Industries in Clinton.

Avedis used his strong business background to then become a proprietor of Warren Sheldon Mobil in Canton. He later purchased M&D Automotive Service in Saline, and successfully ran it for 22 years. He traveled extensively after retiring in 2010.

The warmth of his outgoing personality and cordiality, coupled with his witty sense of humor and intellect, endeared him to many. He was one of a kind. His love for Armenia and Karabagh knew no bounds.

Avedis was a member of St. Sarkis Church in Dearborn. He was a firm believer in the Armenian Cause and a  supporter of the Armenian National Committee of America (ANCA).

It was his passion and pride in his Armenian heritage that led him to take several trips to Armenia and the Republic of Nagorno Karabagh (Artsakh). The family trip to Armenia and Artsakh in the summer of 2013 was by far his most memorable.

It seems destiny controlled  his final trip to the homeland, where they visited cousins in Yerevan. Avedis contacted the Karabagh Mission Office in the U.S. asking what suggestions they had about what he could take to Karabagh. They suggested that since a Youth Sports Complex was planned to be built in the capital of Stepanakert, some sports-related items would be appreciated.

Remembering his own youthful days, his big heart generously purchased duffle bags full of soccer balls, basketballs, and tennis rackets, including air pumps, since he deflated the balls himself for ease of transport. He delivered these much-needed items to the Sport State Committee Office in Stepanakert.

Avedis was an avid backgammon player who frequently attended events, especially picnics, to enjoy the challenge of seasoned and novice players alike. He had a competitive spirit but was eager to teach backgammon to anyone willing to learn.

Friendliness was only one of his fine characteristics. He was talkative, entertaining, and knew how to make people happy. He possessed a God-given disposition to embrace the spirit of humanity with a sincere heart. His absence in our midst will certainly be felt. And one cannot help but wonder if the children who received his generous donations know the value of the benefactor they lost.

Avedis’s funeral was held on Wed., May 6. Memorial donations can be made to the ANCA Endowment Fund.

Avedis George Mishigian is survived by his wife Sona, daughters Talin, Tamar, and Teny, sister Madeleine Loughran, brother Dikran Mishigian, and many nieces and nephews. He was predeceased by his parents Kevork and Takouhi Mishigian, brother Dr. Edmond Mishigian, and Vahi Mishigian.

Rest in peace, dear Avedis.

* * *

I was sad to learn of the passing of a very dear and proud Vanetsi born in Watertown, Mass., Liberty Miller, also known as Azadouhie Amerian. Libby passed away at age 95 on July 4, 2014, in Northbridge, Calif.

What a beautiful name “Azadouhie” is—the feminine of “azad,” meaning “freedom.” Libby was the niece of famous Armenian-American artist Arshile Gorky, who was featured in this column a few years ago thanks to much personal information and insight she provided. Libby happily resided for many years with her daughter Cher and son-in-law Michael Sesma. She was a long-time employee of the United States government, and moved with her family to California during World War II. It was always a joy to hear her voice. Her laughter was infectious—a give-away of her charming, delightful, and upbeat personality. Have you ever known of a Vanetsi that was not proud of their ethnic origin? Libby belonged to the fraternal Vanetsi organization and attended many of their conventions. She was well known and a dear friend to many Detroit-area Vanetsis.

She traveled extensively with her daughter to many parts of this country. It is always gratifying to know of someone who lives a long and happy life before passing on to their reward. I will always remember her and treasure our friendship.

The post Avedis George Mishigian (1942-2015) appeared first on Armenian Weekly.

Robert Joseph Kessel, 80, my husband of almost 52 years, passed away March 1 leaving me reeling with sorrow and loneliness.

He left me to go to his Heavenly home. Bob, of Catholic German-Irish ancestry, took Extreme Unction and made his confession to a Catholic priest. It was his request to have a private, dignified funeral attended by those who were loyal friends to the end. Very Reverend Father Abraham Ohanesian, a longtime friend, performed his Armenian Orthodox funeral. He was assisted by Ken Khezarjian of the Simon Javizian home in Pleasant Ridge.

It is of great solace to the loved ones he left behind to know he can now breathe freely, and is pain free. He can now fish all he wants.

Bob was born in Pontiac’s West side, called Indian Village. His father was a Pontiac Motor metallurgist, his mom a homemaker.

According to him, his mother made the best lemon meringue pie. I deferred to Marguerite on that one item.

From early childhood the family spent summers at their cottage in Attica on Elk Lake. His memories of sun-filled days of fishing and swimming led to our return visits there every year to reminisce. Bob attended Pontiac Senior High School before entering the army. He served two years in the U.S. Army during the Korean War, fortunately stationed in La Rochelle, France, building permanent housing for soldiers.

The metro Detroit community knew Bob well as the quiet man who attended Armenian functions regularly. Every year on April 24, he and I would travel to the Martyrs’ Monument in Detroit to place a dozen roses at its base in memory of my fallen grandparents and the other Martyrs. They referred to him as “ABC,” Armenian by Choice.

He learned Armenian history from his father-in-law, my dad, Mamigon Apigian. He respected his in-laws and they in turn loved Bob for his quiet manner and how he fit into the family.

An American Legion Honor Guard stood poised to meet Robert’s flag-draped casket as mourners filed into the committal shelter at the Great Lakes National Cemetery in Holly, Mich. Honor Guards stood on each side of his bier as three volleys were fired in his honor by the Davison based American Legion.

The folding of the American flag is a touching part of the soldier’s funeral service. The flag and the shells are then presented to the serviceman’s widow.

“Taps” were played and mourners were all visibly moved.

Soil from Armenia in the shape of the cross was sprinkled on the casket and blessed. The “Armenian by Choice” was taken to his final resting place where soon a white marble cross will bear his name and the inscription, “Beloved Husband, Father, and Grandfather.”

We had visited the National Great Lakes Cemetery for the first time last year and found it to be a very impressive place of beauty and serenity. Both of us are patriotic Americans and were in awe of the entrance to the grounds. Both sides of the drive were filled with American flags. What a glorious sight it was to see the symbol of freedom and democracy greeting you as the flags waved in the breeze. Here there is uniformity, a beautiful lake, green flowing hills, and quiet, very quiet. You are struck by the vastness. The white marble crosses are symbols of devotion to country.

Bob and I decided this is where his remains would be put to rest while his beautiful soul would belong to God. The smile on his face and the confirmation of our love for each other sealed our decision, but I did not expect him to suddenly die.

I went from my parents’ home directly into a marriage of 52 years. The only time Bob and I were without each other is when I made a two-week trip to Ireland with a real estate girlfriend who was a Dubliner. I wanted Bob and I to make that trip together.

It was fitting that Bob was laid to rest with those who served their country, like fellow serviceman Merlin Sina and Larry Pfeffer, a childhood friend.

Well-meaning friends tell me I am a strong woman made of steel, who should move forward with my head held high, that I am needed to continue writing my Armenian Weekly column in dedication of our martyrs, that I still have much to live for. I know they love and care about me, but I still cry. Who will share a $5 dollar pizza while parked in Birmingham, who will walk with me in Shane Park, who will take me to the farmer’s market and my greenhouses?

Who was there nursing me emotionally through cancer scares, through fire bombings of our party store, through the fire that destroyed our beautiful apartment, and the one that years later destroyed the guts of our place of business? Who got up from the floor after being shot in the chest defying the criminal element trying to keep us out of business? Who ran a 15-hour 7 day a week business for 18 years?

So, Lucine, Jack, Edward, Mary Jo, Nanore, Khatchig, Karin, Sally, I remain vigilant in your advice to push forward; after all, I can’t allow my steel frame to get rusty. Bob was my Number One fan in my writing endeavors. He loved the Armenian Weekly and was proud of my column and encouraged me to be a strong, vocal Armenian.

His Hokejash was a celebration of his life. Everyone present sated on wine and a fine meal. Each one spoke of the Bob they knew.

As the Rod Stewart song refrains, “Times when you’re going to be lonely, times when you’re going to be sad, don’t let the blues make you bad. Remember somewhere, someday, we’ll spend a lifetime together for parting is not goodbye.” It is “Tsedesoutioun.”

In a flicker of the eye 52 years scurried by.

I’d like to thank Simon Javizian and Associates for making the sadness of this occasion bearable. In lieu of flowers was to the Armenian Tree Project.

Pesa, amousin, vosgorneret hankeesd ellan. May you rest in peace forever.

The post There Are No Goodbyes appeared first on Armenian Weekly.

My mother was known to be an excellent cook and baker, but one day at the dinner table, when a youngster, I uncharacteristically piped up complaining, “Ma, do you have to put grass in everything you cook?” I was ignored as I used my fork to remove parsley from the Armenian potato salad. It was no use complaining. She was liberal in her use of herbs for cooking.

All this I remember as I sit at the kitchen table now plucking mint leaves one by one from their fibrous stems, placing them on the clean white linen dishtowel to dry for future use in cooking. I find it both relaxing and comforting. I did the same with a large bunch of dill so fresh, green, and exceptionally fragrant.

A mental visual of our large family dining room table emerges. It’s filled with white linen dishcloths laden with herbs in the drying stage for winter cooking use. All mom had to do was reach into the cupboard to get the dried herbs stored in empty peanut butter jars to put into tutmaj abour, and she had better not forget to put garbanzo beans in the soup, my father’s very favorite.

I can see her standing in front of her gas range adding the dill she dried in June to go into the lemony rice and onion filling for the sarma she was preparing in December for the Christmas celebration. There was no emergency run to the grocer for herbs because she was experienced and prepared ahead of time.

Our parents’ generation was way ahead of the cable TV cooking programs nowadays of how to enhance the taste of food by adding fresh or dried herbs. They had discovered the magical flavors of basil, chives, oregano, parsley, dill, thyme, and rosemary. Our moms knew all those decades ago, and one wonders if that talent was carried over from the Old Country or learned here in the free world.

Little by little, year by year, I began to mimic my mother, and my use of these herbs increased when I established my own household. What is Armenian potato salad without a liberal sprinkling of parsley and dill? I always add parsley to my cheese beoreg filling and basil in meatloaf. Lamb chops and lamb kabob cubes liberally dashed with oregano are unequalled for flavor. Cheekufta requires lots of fresh parsley and green onions.

“Yes, aghchigs, ‘grass’ goes well in many recipes as you now in your adult years have discovered.”

A bundle of fresh herbs lying beside a plate of deviled eggs or on an antipasto platter gives much eye appeal. Fresh mint leaves floating in a pitcher of iced tea or lemonade is simply inviting to look at.

I remember seeing my father leaning precariously forward in his garden, using a boning knife to remove what I thought was a weed from the cracks in the sidewalk, but what he called “per per,” or purslane by the English-speaking world. Out it came from its lonely position in the terra firma. I could see the happiness mom and dad both shared in this rare summertime discovery. The per per was a welcome unplanned crop that was a bonus to Armenian cooks. It was like a minor gold discovery, and they waited for its appearance every year. Whereas green beans, cucumbers, tomatoes, and peppers had to be planted, per per sprouted on its own and was nature’s bonus gift to the homeowner.

Dad filled the colander with the per per, digging up all he could find. Mom washed it carefully, removing all evidence of sand. She then proceeded to steam it with onion and butter. It appeared on the dinner table to accompany the meat and potatoes topped with homemade madzoun (yogurt) infused with a mashed clove of garlic, salt, and pepper.

At the time, I thought it was an Armenian thing to dig up that flat growing edible weed for dining consumption. When it appeared on the dinner table, I waited for my father, the fussy eater, to take a portion. He topped the per per with garlic-infused yogurt. He clearly the fruit of his and mom’s labor. I had complete trust in my father and commenced to copy his indulgence. I became a believer, per per is delicious.

Years later, I felt the same euphoria as my parents when the purslane sprouted in my own garden. I too copied the steps of my parents in its preparation. Last year, I found it available at our local Oakland County Farmer’s Market grown by an Asian farmer. It may have been more easily available purchased at the market, but the thrill and excitement of the discovery could not match that of suddenly finding it popped up in my own backyard garden.

Our parents left us with many fond memories of family life. Having lost most if not all their family to the genocide, they felt family closeness was of the upmost importance. Female children were especially protected. A young lady was expected to behave in proper conservative fashion.

“Tdzaner getseer, don’t draw attention to yourself. Loorch getseer,” was another frequently used admonishment, reflecting parental expectations of lady-like behavior at all times.

The hundreds of grape leaves Dad picked from his secret growing places were at first washed, and the bundles were soaked in hot salt brine and put into jars. In later years, mom learned that grape leaves could be bundled and placed in the freezer without the brining process, thus eliminating the once tedious process.

I learned so much by observing mom and dad, including how to be a gracious hostess. They entertained often; our house was frequently filled with laughter, good food, and a lot of Armenian political conversation. I knew that is how I wanted to be when I grew up, and so it was. I grew up tall, Tashnag, and as a good Armenian American. Life was good.

Mom never had a cookbook to refer to. She didn’t need one. She must have learned some recipes from her own mother and later from her Keghetsi family by marriage. Everything was permanently recorded in her head after only hearing the recipe once.

Occasionally I still find a handwritten Armenian recipe tucked away in the drawer that she got from an Armenian girlfriend, usually a new cookie recipe she wanted to try. These finds are precious discoveries, but having no daughters leaves a feeling of emptiness about what’s going to happen to all the recipes she gave me, especially the ones in her Armenian handwriting.

Her friends too were excellent cooks and bakers. Deegeen Sarah and Deegeen Makrouhi made perfect pakhlava from scratch using their own homemade dough; Deegeen Elsig was known for her bastegh and roejik; Deegeen Yeranouhi for her rose petal jam; Deegeen Victor’s canned pears were unequaled; and Nevart’s pineapple upside down cake raised the roof at Sunday picnic gatherings at the “little park” on Commerce Road.

My memories are many and pleasing to recall. I may not have been born in the Old Country, but the thousands of miles from Armenia to the United States have been eradicated by customs, culture, and the desire to emulate that wonderful generation of people who survived the genocide. They live on in all of us. We are the fortunate ones who try to carry on the traditions that they worked so hard to instill in us, their children born in the free world.

God remains our last line of defense but being blessed with exceptional parents is a gift from both God and the fathers and mothers who created us. I consider myself more than fortunate to have had Mamigon and Takouhie for parents. I find myself knowing how important they were to me all my growing years, and just how much I still need them, even now.

Anytime I reach into a jar of herbs to sprinkle some into a dish, my face cracks into a smile as I remember how I used to say to mom, “Do you have to put grass in everything you cook, Mom?” Thank God she did.

The post ‘Grass’ in Everything: It’s a Good Thing appeared first on Armenian Weekly.

The purpose of this column over the next few weeks is to establish an historical record of conversations I had over 30 years ago with my mother, Takouhie Charverdian Apigian. I located what I loosely call my family archives, related mostly to my mother’s side of the family. This information is taken from precious notes and tapes dictated to me by an Armenian female in exile, Takouhie Charverdian, from her days in Dovrag and Zonguldak, Turkey, to 1989 when she passed away.

It is especially historical because it includes the first names and surnames of family members who, during the 1915-23 genocidal campaign by the Ottoman Turks, were denied their rights as members of the human race by scoundrels incited to rape, loot, dismember, and murder. There was no mercy.

I cannot even imagine the horror, fear, and degradation our ancestors felt in those killing fields of Historic Armenia. Rivers flowed red with the blood of Armenians. Mountain chasms were filled with the bodies of people who committed suicide to escape.

Mind you this, deniers: “We shall never forget, we demand reparations” is our battle cry.

Unknown cousins are now roaming the earth, hopefully as useful citizens, unaware that their cousin Takouhie, now deceased, and her daughter remember them in the Armenian Weekly, even after 100 years.

These faceless names represent my lost family of aunts, uncles, grandparents, and a multitude of cousins who, because of the heinous Ottomans, I never got to know. The historical oral account of these people, my family, the innocents who were killed or escaped if fortunate, are remembered by an exceptional woman. Perhaps someone somewhere reading this account will recognize the names and a connection will be made, God willing.

Takouhie is the Armenian word for queen, and it suited my mother just fine. She was born on Aug. 13, 1906. Armenians equate that date with the holiness of the Blessing of the Grapes, one of our five major Feast Days. Mary is the new Eve and Jesus is the new Adam.

I don’t believe my mother’s birth at this auspicious time was an accident. I can only say she was a spiritual person, a believer, a person with a kind demeanor enabling her to be admired for her warmth, charm, and loyalty to family and friends.

I was a very young child when she taught me to cross myself, and in childlike pronunciation I repeated, “Ahn-eh-hor, vevert-voh, surpoh, ahmen“—incorrect, but it remains with me to this day. Since then I have continued to pray on a daily basis.

May 1 reminds me of how Takouhie always had her girlfriends over on May Day for “gatov sourj,” strong Armenian coffee made with milk substituted for water. On this day, her friends would arrive at our house, all the deegeens like Sarah, Victoria, Makrouhie, Elsig, and Yeranouhie. They’d sit in our living room sipping gatov sourj and dining on pastries wearing neat housedresses and sensible shoes with their legs crossed lady-like at the ankles. Deegeen Makrouhie even taught a few of the ladies to smoke in their battle to shed unwanted weight.

Mom always said, “Gatov sourj was the custom in the yergir.” The yergir for my very traditional Armenian mother was Dovrag and then Zonguldak, on the Black Sea north of Bolis (Constantinople). She was born in Dovrag; then for safety’s sake her family moved to the French-operated coal mining town of Zonguldak.

I love and very much miss my mother. She was my advisor, my grnag (backbone), my strength, and my confidant in safe times and in troubled times. Her passing away at age 84 in 1989 left an emptiness in my heart that has never been filled.

Mother’s Day? She would be nicely dressed, makeup on, hair freshly permed, her face fragrant with Coty Lorigan powder emanating a sweet aroma when you kissed her cheek. Her dining room table was a banquet set for her family. She was attractive, very fair skinned, with auburn hair. She was my father’s queen, the youngest daughter of Nectar (Keshishian) Charverdian and Ohannes Charverdian. His birthdate is unknown. He married my grandmother Nectar when she was 25 and he was 55. He died at age 78, apparently of natural causes. He was very tall, had light hair and blue eyes. He married late because he raised a widowed sister’s children, a most admirable gent. My grandfather was a saloon owner.

Nectar Charverdian Apigian died in 1939 at age 68 of a heart attack at our home in Pontiac, Mich. She also had high blood pressure. Both ailments run in our family to a degree still today. She is buried in Oakhill Cemetery in Pontiac as Nectar Apigian because she was brought to this country as Mamigon Apigian’s mother for immigration purposes, rather than as his mother-in-law. My father was her sole caretaker and means of support during her life in Canada and the U.S.

It is important to note that grandma’s stay in the New World was not without problems. On three occasions, Armenians turned grandma into the immigration authorities as an illegal alien. My father had to return her to Brantford, Ontario. He found her room and board until they chanced her return across the border to our home in Pontiac. Armenians did this three times. My frustrated father threw his hands up in anger saying, “I am the one taking care of her, she is not a burden to the U.S. Do what you want with her!” They in turn said, “It is your own people reporting her. We don’t care at all that she is here.” At that point, grandma was left in peace to live with my parents. She died when I was nine months old. She is lovingly remembered as she served as a nurse/caregiver to many Pontiac Armenian women after giving birth.

Her grave marker says “Nectar Apigian, erected by Grandson Abe.” My brother Abraham sent home money from his World War II army earnings to erect the marker. Dad put flowers on her grave every Memorial Day and throughout the summer. I agreed to fulfill that duty when he passed away for both grandma and aunt Haygouhie Palulian.

After my father died in 1972, my mother accepted a cousin’s invitation to vacation at her San Diego home. I was surprised that a lady who had never left her husband’s side could fly to California; she even visited Las Vegas and Mexico. A lace mantilla and yellow bangle bracelets remain as her gifts to me from that trip. My yearning and need to still be in mom’s company has never diminished. Over tea and choreg, she would tell and retell many stories into the late hours of the evening. She had excellent memory retention even until death. I never tired of conversation of the yergir with mom.

This column will continue to recount from my notes. I can still hear her loving voice talking to me. “I love you, Mom,” is all I can say. You were wise, patient, and an exemplary lady, and an excellent hostess. I hit the jackpot when it came to having fantastic parents who were in love and well-suited for each other.

For the sake of history, I intend to include everything just as she told me.

The post Her Name Was Takouhie appeared first on Armenian Weekly.

I feel blessed that I have in my possession the notes and tapes of many long conversations with my mother, Takouhie Charverdian Apigian, which contribute to this series of columns. My family history has now become a permanent record.

I was 12 years old, standing behind the counter of my father’s grocery store on Ferry Avenue in Pontiac, when Margaret Kevorkian entered. She was the sister of Dr. Jack Kevorkian; the Kevorkian family were friends of my parents and lived a short distance from dad’s store. Much to everyone’s surprise, Margaret had just become engaged to a young Armenian gentleman from Racine, Wis.; she had met him at an Armenian Youth Federation (AYF) Mid-West Conference. It was a whirlwind marriage of short duration.

She knew I was the youngest of the four Apigian children, separated from the next youngest by almost 10 years. Margaret smiled and said, “Betty, you are destined to be the comfort to your parents in their old age.” Funny how her words came to fruition. I’ve never forgotten what she said, even though as a 12-year-old you don’t think of your parents ever really getting old.

I have no regrets that my mother, Takouhie, and I spent many long hours talking about the yergir of Dovrag, where she was born, and then about her family’s move to the French-run coal mining town of Zonguldak on the Black Sea.

I had the habit of at least once a week having my mother over for dinner, or I would drive the few miles to her house for tea and fresh boereg, choreg, or cinnamon nut-filled Ishlee cookies. Mom would talk, I would take notes. Many interesting subjects other than family history came out of these talks. For instance, she told me that at home they would sometimes make katah and then take them to a local baker who would bake the katahs, eliminating the tedious hours needed to end up with that delicious mainstay of an Armenian’s diet. Mmm…warm rose jam and katah.

She interjected many other interesting facts in her stories. It seems divorce also took place in the old country. I laughed when she told me the three reasons for divorce, according to her: if a woman could not produce children, if there was adultery, and if someone had bad breath. Given the chauvinism of Armenian society, men probably had the advantage.

She said another common practice was local unmarried men traveling to a neighborhood village to select a wife and bring her back to live with his mother and family. And as we know, that young wife had to be subservient to her mother-in-law (woe is me).

Takouhie Charverdian was the daughter of Nectar Keshishian and Ohannes Charverdian, a saloon keeper. Grandpa Ohannes had the only business in Dovrag selling wine, whiskey, and cognac. The local police chief asked him not to leave because he was well liked by the Turks who called him “brother” and “oozendai,” saying no harm would come to him and his family.

In 1899, their first son Senekereem was born. He is fondly remembered for loving to ride horses, but unfortunately he rode the family horse long and hard to its death. He died at age 18 while serving in the Ottoman-Turkish Army. This was the fate of many young Armenian men. As Armenian citizens of the Ottoman Empire, they had to serve in the Ottoman-Turkish Army. Apparently you could avoid serving if you paid a bribe. Armenian soldiers were driven to the warfront first or were herded, with other men, into the outskirts of town and slaughtered. This left Armenian cities and villages under the protectorship of old men, young children, and women totally vulnerable to the whim and savagery of the Turks and Kurds.

I include these details, familiar to most of us, because it is the 100th commemoration of the Armenian Genocide this year and as Armenians we have vowed we will never forget the slaughter and exile of the Armenians from their ancient homeland.

Although I have little knowledge of my father’s family history, I’m proud of my paternal grandfather, Abraham Apigian. The biblical name of Abraham translates to “Father of Nations” in Hebrew. My dad’s middle name was Abraham as well, and my brother was named Abraham after our grandfather. Many Armenians have names relating to the Bible.

As the granddaughter of Serpouhie and Abraham Apigian and of Nectar and Ohannes Charverdian, it is my duty to take an active part in continually drawing attention to the Armenian Genocide. The Turkish government is very aware of the Armenian people’s demand that they acknowledge the genocide, and I expect demands for reparations will go on long after the Centennial.

Hagop Charverdian, the second son, was born in 1900. He would eventually resettle in Marseille, France, marry, and have three sons. Hagop was fair-haired like his father and looked like actor Lloyd Bridges. He died of kidney trouble; upon his death, his widow took her sons and moved to Yerevan, then part of the Soviet Union and it certainly was not the paradise it was purported to be.

In 1903, Hripsema was born. She wed Khoren Apigian in Bolis (Constantinople), a man older than herself. He won her favor when he showered her with gifts and pretty dresses. She died of cancer in Niagara Falls, N.Y., where they had raised their family.

Takouhie Charverdian was born on Aug. 13, 1906. According to my notes, Takouhie’s grandfather on her father’s side Hagop Charverdian, married a woman named Hripsema. Hagop Charverdian’s father came to Dovrag from Persia, city there unknown. The surname Charverdian was equated with a highly respected and wealthy family in Persia, associated with the Shah (Charverdian is derived from Shah).

Though the following details may seem tedious, they are the history of thousands of other Armenian families, too. What happened to the people listed here? Somewhere I’m certain I have lost relatives. Lost are Takouhie Charverdian’s grandmother on her mother’s side: Anitza Keshishian, who married Chalaby Keshishian, and had seven boys, Melkon, Levon, Krikor, Toros, Karnig, Mehran, and Roupen, and then three girls, Nectar, Dirouhie and Serpouhie (twins), of whom I have a photo.

Takouhie’s grandmother on her father’s side Hripsema (maiden name unknown) married Hagop Charverdian (whose father came from Persia). They had three boys, Ohannes, Garabed, and Tavid, and three girls, Zemroot, Takouhie, and Maryam.

In 1915 in Dovrag, the Turks issued a decree in the newspaper that all Armenians must take a Turkish first name or be killed. My mother had to go to the local city hall to assume the Turkish first name of “Fakria,” but was allowed to keep the surname Charverdian. In 1918, a Vartabed by the name of Dajad Vartabed arrived in Dovrag and said to the Turkish authorities, “My people must resume their Armenian identity.” They then dropped the Turkish names. Out of fear and insecurity, my mom’s father moved them to Zonguldak in 1918. On Sept. 28, 1922, they were exiled to Bolis. Mom, Aunt Hripsema, and Grandma Nectar never went to the Muslim mosque, although many wealthy Armenians did to protect their financial interests. Eventually they all resumed their Armenian identity.

The Charverdian family left Dovrag in 1919. The Ottomans had already wiped out 1.5 million Armenians from Historic Armenia, and were moving westward to expand their killing fields. The family moved to Zonguldak, 30 miles from Dovrag (7 hours by foot). Ohannes Charverdian remained behind seemingly safe because the Turks liked him. They called him “Ouzoundyee” because he was tall and had blue eyes; it means “Tall Uncle.”

The family had two weeks to vacate their home and sell their goods. The Turks knew they could get everything without paying for it. Grandpa stayed in Dovrag until he sold out his stock of spirits. In 1920 he, too, left for Zonguldak. He sold the house for much less than the value. The livestock he owned on the farms tended by Turks also became a loss. The Turks only turned over to Ohannes 50 lambs and 9 cows. He herded the animals halfway to his destination and a Turk offered to buy the livestock.

The family had been living in a rented house during the year they were separated from Ohannes. When her husband arrived, Nectar insisted they build a house, against her husband’s better judgement. My grandfather only lived in that house for one year before dying in 1921. He is buried in Zonguldak in an Armenian cemetery. A French engineer hired Hagop to care for his horse, the only available transportation. He lived with the family for six months or up until the Turks removed the Armenians from that area. My family’s then-newly built house is in the hands of the Turks illegally. The community in Zonguldak, as in Dovrag, was a mixed community of French, Turkish, English, Jews, Greeks, and Armenians.

On Sept. 22, 1922, my mother and her family boarded a ship in the seaport town of Zonguldak; the Turks had just issued a decree: Armenians had two weeks to sell their homes and belongings. It was traditional for an Armenian church to include their school under the same roof as the church. In 1918, the Turks closed the Armenian church and school in Dovrag and filled the school with wheat, used it as a storage house, and turned the church into a Turkish Army hospital. At this point, Armenians could only go to Turkish schools, so they decided not to attend them. In Zonguldak, there was no Armenian church; services were held in a house, and school was too.

The freighter left Zonguldak at 9 p.m. and arrived in Bolis at 4 p.m. the next day. They were not treated badly, but before they boarded they were searched and if they had any gold it was taken away and replaced with paper money. They were greeted in Bolis by an Armenian committee from the church who then transported them in horse and buggy to local churches and schools that were vacant for housing. In this one big schoolroom lived my mom’s family, which included Hagop, Hripsema, Nectar, Takouhie’s aunt’s family, Serpouhie, and Baron, their sons Noubar, Bedros, Garabed, daughter Aghavani, Nectar’s deceased brother Karnig’s children, their mother Serpig, daughter Arshagouhi, Ohannes, Hagop, and Denchalouhi. Arshagouhi’s children were Zakar, Miran, Melix, and Vahan, last name Tertzagian. Most of them stayed in Bolis; they were about 10 years younger than Takouhie. Denchalouhi’s children, two boys, names unknown, were about one and three.

The school was in a section of the main metro area called Besheegda. They lived there together until they left for France, surviving on their savings.

Yegheayan. This is my mother’s father’s sister’s married last name; the family was very wealthy and remained in Istanbul after they moved from Zonguldak. They were in the yard goods business and it was profitable because all clothing had to be custom made. You selected the fabric and had it sewn on the premises.

Mom does not remember her aunt’s first name, but does remember the names of her sons who were all Hadjis: Antranig, Sumpad, Nishan, Khatchig, and Boghos. These cousins at the time were at least 20 years older than mom. The prefix Hadji indicated they had made the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the Holy Land. These relatives of my grandfather remained in Istanbul. (We have no relatives of his in France. Grandma Nectar’s relatives are the ones we are related to in France.)

Our relatives in France are Aghavani Koshkoshian Karzarian and Kevork Keshishian, who was grandma’s nephew’s brother’s Levon’s son. Aghavani’s mother and my grandma Nectar were sisters. Aghavani’s mother was one of a set of twins, Dirouhie and Serpouhie. Serpouhie was Aghavani’s mother. She had three boys and one girl. The boys died in France. Mom said that because Aghavani was the only girl she was “shpatzadz” (spoiled). Aghavani’s father was called Baron. He was very wealthy, had a large home, always lived in Zonguldak, and had acres of vineyards and many varieties of fruit trees and flowers. All was lost to the Turks. Serpouhie, a thin wiry woman, lived to be 90 and died in France. Her sister Dirouhie came to France but did not like it and returned to Istanbul.

Grandma Nectar and grandfather Ohannes could not read or write Armenian. When she corresponded with her sister Serpouhie, her daughter wrote the letters. Mom, aunty Hripsema, and uncle Hagop and Senekereem could read and write Armenian, with the two boys being high school graduates.

How many generations emanating from the many names above succumbed to a horrible death at the hands of the Ottoman Turks?

The post Her Name Was Takouhie (Part II) appeared first on Armenian Weekly.

It was the latter part of November 1922 when my mother, still Takouhie Charverdian, 16, and her sister Hripsema, wed to Khoren Apigian, left Bolis by ship for Marseille, France. By Christmas they were residing together in an apartment. Hripsema was expecting her first child and feeling quite ill, therefore her sister Takouhie did the cooking, washing, and cleaning.

Takouhie Charverdian left Marseille the latter part of April by train for Paris, where she remained for three days. She offered no explanation to me at the time of our conversations for how she managed this travel arrangement by herself. In Paris, she boarded a small boat that navigated the river one and a half hours to Cherbourg. She stayed there one day and then boarded the ship “The Normandy.” Miss Takouhie Charverdian was now on her way to Canada to meet her future husband, Mamigon Apigian, cousin to Khoren Apigian, her sister Hripsema’s husband. Khoren had written to Mamigon that his wife had a young, attractive sister. Takouhie got her visa easily because she was then “engaged” to a Canadian citizen. There were not many Armenians on this boat. Oskenaz Maloian, later to be from Detroit, and her brother Sarkis, brother and sister to Nishan Gerjekian, took care of my mother, protecting her honor from the French workers on the boat.

Expectant parents, Khoren and Hripsema Apigian immigrated to Canada in August where their first daughter Baidzar (Clara) was born on Aug. 13, 1923, which happened to be her Aunt Takouhie’s 17th birthday. Clara was born one week after her parents arrived in Canada.

Takouhie’s trip from France to Canada took 12 days without incident of sea sickness. She said she landed in Montreal, then took the train directly to Hamilton, Ontario. She got to Brantford on May 7, 1923.

Takouhie’s mother—my grandmother Nectar—and her son Hagop Charverdian, Serpouhie, and Baron came to Marseille one year later.

In Hamilton, Takouhie went to the home of Hagop Mooradian, which she described as “very nice.” Mardig Apigian, her future husband’s cousin, picked her up and took her to Brantford by train, to the Market Street house. This house is no longer there. Her future husband Mamigon greeted her at the train station with his relatives, Margarat (nanna) now wed to Mardig Apigian, Tom the lad with the red hair and blue eyes, Bill, Vahram, Arousiag, and Eddie. Together they walked home to Market Street.

Nanna was the first to speak, saying she was happy to see her. Mamigon Apigian, who was much later to be this writer’s father, shook hands properly and asked Takouhie, “How is cousin Khoren, and Hripsema?” Ma’s first impression when she saw dad: “Ohh!” She liked him because he was young, tall, and handsome, but skinny. “I didn’t know anything about love,” she told me. “I was a piece of dummy,” an honest but truthful way of putting it. She had been warned by her sister, “If the man wants to marry you is old, don’t marry until I get there. If he’s young and you like him, get married, but if you can wait for me until I get there.” Takouhie wanted to wait to get married so her sister could be there, but nanna and Mardig insisted that Mamigon and Takouhie marry soon. They said it was dishonorable to live in the same house under the same roof without benefit of marriage. (That seems ridiculous with all the people that were living in the same house at that time.)

Being respectful of their elders, Mamigon and Takouhie got married. She had gotten to Brantford on May 7, 1923 and married three weeks later, on May 28, 1923, which was Armenian Independence Day.

The ceremony was at Grace Episcopalian Anglican Church in Brantford. Dikranouhi and Khazar Posigian were the godparents. He was from Dad’s village of Tzarman, in Keghi. We are not related to either one. The newly weds honeymooned in Niagara Falls and dad gave her a new fur coat.

In Armenian tradition, the godparents are to be highly respected and honored. Whoever stands up at the wedding must stand up as godparents of the children born from the marriage. They are held in very high esteem.

Six months after Mamigon and Takouhie wed, they moved to Pontiac, Mich., where Mamigon had an uncle, Ousep. They left Brantford because nanna had put all the responsibility of cooking, cleaning, and hand-washing the laundry of seven people on the very young Takouhie, even though the newly married couple were paying room and board. It seemed that nanna, also called “Kechel,” often took to the couch for a lay down claiming headaches, taking advantage of the youthful Takouhie.

The move to Pontiac put physical distance between sisters Takouhie and Hripsema, now both wed to Apigian men. Khoren and Hripsema lived in Niagara Falls, where they raised Clara, Suzie, and Nishan.

Mamigon and Takouhie had four children: Abraham born in 1924, Khasvart (Alice) in 1927, Nevart (Norma) in 1929, and Serpouhie (Betty) born in 1938. All siblings were named after dad’s slaughtered family.

Mamigon and Takouhie were devoted to each other. They saw their first child and only son Abraham serve in the U.S. Army during World War II; he was in France and took part in the Invasion of Normandy. He saw service in Belgium and Germany, earning a Purple Heart for serious injury when a boulder fell on him after a bomb explosion broke all but one of his ribs. In addition, his body was filled with shrapnel. Those were worrisome years for the Apigians until Abe returned home.

Mamigon passed away in 1972, Takouhie in 1989. The devoted couple is sorely missed.

I proudly follow in my father’s footsteps. Dad taught Armenian school in Brantford, joined the Armenian Revolutionary Federation (ARF) when he was 18, and was a member until his death. He notably went door to door in Brantford selling the Hairenik Daily. I’ve been a contributor to the Hairenik Association’s English-language Armenian Weekly for over 25 years in remembrance of my father, my martyred grandparents, and the 1.5 million Armenians who perished in the genocide.

Dad had a proud fedayee funeral; his casket was carried out of White Chapel Cemetery on the shoulders of his ARF ungers singing revolutionary songs to the fallen hero and carrying a floral tribute basket of red, blue, and orange flowers symbolic of the tricolor Armenian flag. It was a fitting farewell to the tall, handsome, but skinny young man who had greeted a young lady named Takouhie at the Brantford train station in May 1923.

He was a gentleman who applied to become a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman but was turned down because he was too thin. He was the intelligent young man who was sent out of Armenia by his parents to get an education in the New World but instead, at age 13, found himself setting pins by hand in a Brantford bowling alley, and later worked as a moulder. I have a studio photograph of the dashing 18-year-old Mamigon standing proudly beside his Indian motorcycle. I remember him as the game 60-year-old racing with what he called “Young Jacks” down Woodward Avenue in Bloomfield Township and beating them in my brand new 1960 Catalina convertible!

I am writing this family history of my mother’s, and I never truly expected to accomplish anything except to establish an historical record of one special “Queen,” my mother Takouhie. And then this happened: Within hours of writing this third and final installment and reading the April 25th edition of the Armenian Weekly, I was astounded by the article written by R.P. Sevadjian on page 9 and the photo, courtesy of Aida Shahbaz, at the bottom of the page, of a group of community leaders in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Now, 93 years later, because of a photo and article in the Armenian Weekly, I believe I have located a close relative of my mother’s, Hadji Boghos, who at one time lived in Ethiopia.

Standing in the back row on the left side was a gentlemen named Boghos Yeghiaian. I repeated the surname to myself several times. It was a most uncommon name, and it was like a miracle: It was Hadji Boghos, my grandfather’s sister’s son or grandson, whom I had written about in Part II of this odyssey. The article says he was a successful businessman but that most Armenians fled Addis Ababa during the 1970’s revolution. How strange it seems to discover an exiled Zonguldak relative of my very own. Where he went to I do not know, but somewhere I do have cousins—Yeghiaians—and that was another major reason why I wrote Takouhie’s history. In our talks, mother mentioned the surnames of Palandjian, Tertzagian, Keshishian, and that unusual one of Yeghiaian; none of these names represent any relatives I am aware of. I am certain many of us have survivor relatives out there somewhere.

My message to Turkish President Erdogan and Prime Minister Davutoglu: Your predecessors, the soulless Ottomans like Talat from which you inherited the black stain on Turkish history, tried and failed to eradicate the noble Armenian people from the face of this earth. We have sprung up and prospered in the four corners of the world, and we will forever remain a thorn in your side until we regain our historic land, Mt. Ararat, and are rewarded reparations. Instead of extinguishing us, we have flourished. In the darkness of the past 100 years, Takouhie and I light a candle for all the silenced Armenian voices who died needlessly.

The post They Called Her Takouhie: A Surprise Ending (Part III) appeared first on Armenian Weekly.

How did I find alteration maven Anahid Gharibian in Harbor Springs, Mich., one of the prettiest cities on God’s green earth?

I have learned that no matter how desolate, remote, or isolated the location may be, it is not impossible to discover someone of Armenian heritage residing there if you search hard enough.

So it is with Anahid Gharibian, who is self-employed in the sewing business in her own piece of heaven at the corner of State and Lake Streets in Harbor Springs—at “Anahid’s Alterations.”

Harbor Springs is located on a beautiful portion of Lake Michigan called Little Traverse Bay. There is nothing little about it, not in its beauty or its prices for real estate, which are not for the faint of heart. The smell of wealth permeates the air.

It is the rich man’s northern paradise and for Anahid it has been a happy experience living in this paradise since 1983.

She arrived in this country from Tehran, Iran, where she still has relatives, though she says she has no plans on visiting her native place of birth. She is completely happy where she resides. She speaks English, Armenian, and Farsi.

Anahid has three brothers and two sisters, most of whom reside in Glendale. “I like Glendale because everyone on the street speaks Armenian,” she said. “It is a friendly town. That’s what I miss about living in Harbor Springs—the big Armenian family gatherings.”

Anahid is the mother of three sons, ages 31, 27, and 24. The boys were born and raised in Harbor Springs with mother proudly saying her youngest son holds the state of Michigan’s cross-country running record.

“Sometime I still visit the high school track even though my sons are beyond those years, just to see the kids competing,” she said. “I do miss being a part of it. The track coach laughs when he sees me watching the kids running track. Those were happy memories for me.”

One of the important things she loves about being self-employed is that she could always arrange her work schedule to accommodate her sons’ school-related conferences and sports activities.

Anahid learned the art of sewing from an older sister. She went on to do alterations in the upscale shops in Harbor Springs, and opened her own business in 1989.

How does the pretty, petite brunette feel about being self-employed? “I like it for the freedom it offers, and it enabled me to spend quality time with my boys. This way I am the boss, independent and responsible for it all. I am very happy this way.”

You’d have to be an expert at your craft to please the well-heeled customers she caters to. Harbor Springs is like the Gross Pointe of the North.

The sign in the window says Closed but a gentleman customer walks right in through the supposedly locked door. “It is a safe environment,” Anahid said. “That’s how it is here. They try the door even though the sign says Closed and they just come in. I don’t mind.” She rises up to lock the door for certain. It is Saturday and she has closed for the day to talk to me.

I found her by accident in late spring when I visited a nearby business selling fresh morel mushrooms.

When the owner discovered I was of Armenian heritage he volunteered that there was a 100 percent Armenian woman in Harbor Springs who did alterations.

Anahid is a delightful, quiet-spoken woman with a self-assured calmness about her.

She acknowledges Harbor Springs as an ideal location that flourishes with the very wealthy taking up summer residence in their waterfront condos and mansions. Yachts fill the marinas and the shops are elegant and expensive.

The houses that dot the streets of Harbor Spring are painted optic white—so pristine, bright, and elegant. They are surrounded with lush flowers and landscaping, and antique white wicker furniture fills the porches.

Harbor Springs is only a few miles from another beautiful Northern Michigan haven, Petoskey, located on the other side of Little Traverse Bay on Lake Michigan. It too is a tourist destination, and has an Indian-run casino as an added attraction.

It is obvious it takes big bucks to live here in these gracious, immaculately maintained homes. Who said money isn’t everything?

Anahid to her credit completed three years at Northern Michigan College majoring in computer science in Marquette, Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

She told me that all the women in her family maintained their maiden name even after marrying. She thought all Armenian women did the same. I agreed it was a good idea for a woman not to lose her Armenian identity. She occasionally enjoys visits from Armenians from downstate who have also discovered the Hye Deegeen in the snowbelt.

Her comments about her life in Iran were frank. “Shah Reza Pahlevi did a lot of good for the country but a lot of people ended up in prison,” she told me. “The Shah was a dictator. There was no freedom of speech. As long as you didn’t criticize the government you were okay. The Islamic regime that followed the Shah’s departure from Iran made life worse.”

She laughed when I asked what her hobbies were. “Sewing takes care of hobbies,” she said. That indicates a happy shop owner.

The population in Harbor Springs diminishes in late summer but there is a noticeable increase in new businesses and shopping strips springing up. It is the luxury of downtown Harbor Springs that is the showcase.

There is a well-maintained airport conveniently located a few miles from town that provides very long runways to accommodate the private planes that belong to the summer residents who live in far-away places but make “The Harbor” their retreat.

Cooking, she told me, is not at the top of her list of favorite pastimes. “So,” I said, “you were not out there picking grape leaves like a good Armenian dan deegeen?”

Again she chuckled, saying, “The grape leaves that I have I purchased from the store, and they are in a jar that is still half full.” That’s OK, Anahid, I still can’t sew a stitch and no one ever gave me a gold medal for being a good cook, but my freezer does have a respectable stash of grape leaves I picked in the wild.

“Life is slower up here,” she told me. “And safer too.”

Her window flower boxes are flourishing and the bright colors of the blooms match the warm personality of the Iranian Armenian who is Anahid’s Alteration.

Pay her a visit on your next visit to Northern Michigan. And tell her, “Michigan Hye Beat sent you.”

This is a story about what an Armenian mother will do for her son. Nothing is impossible. Ask and you shall receive. And the reply I got when I asked my first-born son what Armenian food he really loves? “That soup made with yogurt.”

“Do you mean tutmaj abour?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s the one. You made it with seashell pasta, chickpeas, garlic, and I think mint. You said it was also Grandpa Mac’s [Apigian] favorite.”

“The other thing I loved was that dish you and Grandma Takouhie made with a lot of layers of lavash hatz, melted butter, and tahn.”

“You mean Keghetzi seroun,” I asked.

He smiled and rubbed his hands together in acknowledgement and in anticipation of pleasing his palate and satisfying the hole in his tummy.

We’ve all heard the term “golden Armenian son” in reference to the royal treatment being given to sons born to parents of Armenian heritage. I am here to say that slogan is still a truism that carries a lot of weight.

Gathering ingredients for tutmaj abour was not a problem. Plain yogurt, chicken broth, etc., is easily found in supermarkets. But where was I going to get lavash hatz, the round, supple, thin bread needed to make Keghetzi seroun? That was one Armenian food item I had never attempted to make.

Phone calls to Armenian churches and to known women who bake katah, choreg, and lamahjoun for sale as a home-based business came up flat.

I never give up a challenge. With my hand under my chin I began to think hard, “What do I do about finding a suitable substitute for traditional lavash to make aromatic, garlicky Keghetzi seroun for my son?”

I explored the supermarket bread racks searching for a suitable flat, thin bread. Finally I hit pay dirt in Cheboygan, a city about half an hour from the “Big Mack” bridge no less. This is not what you call Middle Eastern inhabited territory. I came upon a rectangular, flat, thin bread made in Lawrence, Mass., four pieces to a package. I selected two and crossed my fingers. All I could do was experiment. My son had a taste for seroun and it was my goal to please his taste buds before he returned home down state.

On Labor Day weekend, my son, the avid fisherman, arrived at his cottage on Mullett Lake in Indian River. He dipped the soup ladle into the tutmaj abour. Mmm. He is the big, strong, silent type but his satisfaction for the soup was apparent by the scant remainder in the bottom of the pan. The soup was a success.

I gathered the utensils and ingredients for the seroun. I buttered the 9×13 glass baking dish and saucepan, another with the warm yogurt slightly thinned with water, added a little salt, and two mashed garlic cloves.

I began layering the bread in the baking dish, generously brushing butter thoroughly on the surface. The next layer was the warm tahn, which is the yogurt sauce mixture, alternating each layer ending with the top tahn layer. It looked great and the aroma was wonderful reminding me of seroun’s from the lovely past. I sliced it into serving pieces, drizzled a little more tahn on top and the remaining butter. I was satisfied with how it looked. I baked it for 30 minutes at 375 degrees. And voila!

The cottage was filled with the delicious fragrance of authentic Keghetzi seroun; it was just like being back in Keghi in Historic Armenia. For me, recreating authentic Armenian recipes connects me to the homeland of my ancestors and my Grandmother Serpouhie’s kitchen. I never had the benefit of knowing her and readers acquainted with the Armenian Genocide know that hideous history when Armenians were slaughtered and exiled from their homeland.

I have seen pictures of Armenian village women sitting on the ground baking dozens of lavash hatz. One woman would be rolling open the circles (koontz) while another would be baking each hatz (bread) on the tonir (fire pit) in front of her. This was part of everyday life in Keghi.

I envy the yergir (Old Country) women for their dedication to tradition and family. We must remember that they passed on the art of cooking to the survivors, who in turn gifted all those fabulous recipes to us. How fortunate we are. I had no such ordeal to go through. It was all just too easy to make the tray of seroun. For my son, it brought back happy memories of Grandma Takouhie’s kitchen and happy family gatherings celebrated around a banquet table abundant with Armenian food. Those are now faded memories.

Our family has unfortunately shrunk and no one takes the initiative to gather the clan together. I’ve always done my share and now I am resting on my laurels, fulfilling special requests only.

These centuries-old Armenian recipes have an important place in our culture and our homes, and though the alarm has been sounded about healthy eating and cholesterol has reared its ugly head, the occasional indulgence in buttery Keghetzi seroun and of course pagharch (about which I have written several times) makes life worthwhile, connecting us to our heritage.

The fisherman cuts into the tray of hot, buttery seroun and for a while standby pizza becomes a passing fancy.

My roots are in Tzerman, Keghi, in Historic Armenia and that is where my spiritual being will travel when the silver cord is cut. Then I will sit on the ground in front of the tonir fire pit and bake lavash happily to my heart’s desire.

Magic moments like Armenian village music and dance, and baking lavash hatz in my native village of Tzerman, may exist only in my mind, but it does exist because my parents, who were exiled from their ancient homeland, instilled many traditions in their children.

I have often wondered what nationality I would choose for myself given the opportunity: French, Irish, Spanish, Jewish? The answer remains the same: Armenian. Armenian American I shall remain.

I made a phone call to Joseph’s bakery in Lawrence, 24 miles north of Watertown, and spoke to Joe Ganem, one of the owners. He told me the history of the bakery, and because of the bakery’s location, I had a feeling an Armenian was involved and I was right. Joe Ganem went to Tufts University and became an attorney. He is of Lebanese and French ancestry. He and Joseph Boghosian, who dropped the “-ian” from his name to become just Boghos, together started the bakery. Joseph Boghos came from Damascus, Syria, in 1950 and together with Joe Ganem started the bakery. Ten years ago, Mr. Boghos drowned and his grandchildren took his place in the bakery. Joe Ganem left his law practice to help run the bakery. The bakery has 250 employees. And the bread, which among other things contains flax, oat bran, and whole-wheat flour, is distributed in many parts of the United States, including Trader Joe’s, Whole Foods, and Walmart in Michigan—and perhaps soon to be in Meijers, another major Michigan based supermarket chain.

What an interesting discovery because of my odyssey to find lavash to bake Keghetzi seroun for my son. For me it seems one thing always leads to something Armenian. And that’s a good thing.

An extraordinary feeling of Armenian pride swelled up in me as I read—and re-read—the interesting article written by Birmingham, Mich. resident Harry Kezelian III (University of Michigan Law School alumni, 2010) that appeared in the fall 2015 issue of the U-M Armenian Studies Program Newsletter.

University of Michigan (Artist: Jasper Francis Cropsey, 1855)

I was amazed that as a native Michigander, it was 1960 before I had trekked the 30 or so miles north to Flint from my Pontiac home, while my fellow Armenian countrymen had been much more adventurous, traveling thousands of miles from their homes: Boghos Simonian from Palu and Khachadour Nahigian from Hussenig near Kharpert were the first two Armenians to attend U-M, according to Kezelian. They were “Michigan Men” long before “Bo” Schembechler, Mark Gavoor, and Dr. Jack Kevorkian. Simonian and Nahigian had both graduated with B.A.’s from Armenia College, the American school in Kharpert, later renamed Euphrates College in 1888 by government order.

Simonian obtained his M.D. from U-M in 1889. Nahigian attended U-M for the 1886-87 academic year, listed only under “Students Not Candidates for Degrees,” studying natural science and mathematics. A prominent Armenian Protestant, Nahigian returned to Armenia College to teach algebra, geometry, and trigonometry. The college had 7 full professors, all Armenian, but in 1915 they were arrested like hundreds of other intellectuals and killed. Nahigian was killed on June 20, 1915 in a group that included two of the other professors. Four others were murdered, two died in jail of disease, and one was spared. Thus began the Ottoman Turks’ genocidal rampage of the Armenian nation.

Another friend recently told me there were plaques displayed in downtown Petoskey in the Gaslight District dedicated to Armenians who had become prominent and respected local businessmen over 100 years ago. And so I began the long search to follow the trail of these daring and brave Armenians, who became fluent in the English language and opened businesses in the snowbelt of Northern Michigan.

My sleuthing began by information willingly researched by Mary Beauchamp of the Petoskey Library and Karl Crawford, superintendent of the Greenwood Cemetery in Petoskey. He forwarded me a vast amount of information, including genealogical reports, newspaper obituaries, death certificates, and a photo of a G and A building—Gulesarian and Altoonjian were members of several “Persian families” in the community at that time who constructed that building in 1907.

The documents told of the fine craftsmen in the area on Lake and Petoskey Streets in 1920-40: “Vaughn Gulesarian was an expert on oriental rugs and gems. Mr. and Mrs. Dick Gulasarian created jewelry, rugs, and embroidery. Their sons Aram and Martin also practiced in Petoskey. The Altoonjian family ran the Persian Bazaar on Lake Street.”

What was the attraction to this location by these very early Armenian settlers?

Petoskey is located on beautiful Lake Michigan’s Little Traverse Bay and attracts thousands of well-heeled resorters each summer season. The population of Petoskey soared during the warm months of summer then as it still does now. The Gaslight District even today features many fine clothing and home furnishing stores, restaurants, and ice cream shops catering to a very large tourist population.

The Petoskey Normal School and Business College was housed in the Gulasarian block at 307-309 East Lake St., with room for 300 people. Even today the faded bricks visibly identify this as a business college.

A note of historical interest says the brick block corner of Mitchell and Howard Streets was sold for $10,000 to Asadoorian and Simonian, so apparently the business acumen of the Armenians had led to financial success.

Among the vast array of information I was sent by Karl Crawford was an amazing full-length photo of a heavily mustached Asadoorian wearing a head-to-toe woven and embroidered jacket, trousers, and headdress, smoking a very long pipe surrounded by huge oriental carpets, throws, table covers, and slippers—a photo the likes of which I had never seen before.

Many of these early ancestors of ours are buried in Petoskey’s Greenwood Cemetery, their markers containing Armenian names that have withstood the test of time. Their names are quite visible and astonishing and chilling for me to witness. As soon as the snow melts I absolutely will visit these gravesites with flowers to pay my respect.

These early settlers traveled—and are buried—thousands of miles away from historic Armenia, but surely at their will their spirit will freely travel to Hussenig and Palu. Their hearts, like those of all Armenians, will always belong to Haiastan. The Turks of then and now can never destroy that.

Much more information will be included in the next Michigan Hye Beat column about the Armenians of northern Michigan. Many more Armenians crossed the oceans and settled up north. Their names appear in the volumes of information forwarded to me. They were 100 years ahead of their time, the 1890’s version of “Shark Tank” proving that neither Sultan Abdul Hamid, the treacherous murderer of Armenians in 1894-96, nor Talat Pasha, one of the architects of the 1915 genocide, could suppress the entrepreneurial spirit of tenacious Armenians.

Of future note, one of these Armenian families in Petoskey raised a local American youth, that interview also will be forthcoming.

There is no doubt that the Armenian Genocide of 1915-1923 remains a raw, gnawing open sore on those of us who will never forget the horrible stain on human history.

It was the murder of Armenian journalist Hrant Dink by a Turkish gunman in front of Dink’s newspaper office in Istanbul in 2007 that was the impetus in Kasbarian’s career as a political cartoonist

Lucine Kasbarian’s Perspectives of Exile was the final exhibition in the Kiss the Ground Series-Yergurbakootyoon organized to examine and celebrate contemporary Armenian art commemorating the Armenian Genocide. It was a six part series in which fourteen other Armenian-Americans participated at the Cambridge School of Weston in Mass.

Todd Bartel, Gallery Director, and Curator Thompson Gallery, The Cambridge School of Weston states, “I am most thankful to have had the great fortune of teaming up with Lucine Kasbarian, who helped our school audience understand the power of the observations and cultural juxtapositions that her art so compelling explores.”

Kasbarian is a second generation American-born woman of Armenian heritage who in her writing and cartoons is outspoken about the injustice of the Armenian Genocide by its perpetrators, the Ottoman government and its successor state of Turkey. The New Jersey and Massachusetts resident has been the beneficiary of her American-Armenian born parents and her survivor grandparents who dedicated themselves to passing on to her the customs and language of her ancestors which included humor, politics, and the arts.

It was the murder of Armenian journalist Hrant Dink by a Turkish gunman in front of Dink’s newspaper office in Istanbul in 2007 that was the impetus in Kasbarian’s career as a political cartoonist. Dink advocated Turkish-Armenian dialogue to foster human and minority rights in Turkey and it became his downfall culminating in his cowardly assassination.

It was only a short time before Dink’s death that many Detroit community residents had the privilege of meeting the affable gentlemen at a lecture and reception at the Armenian Congregational Church.

It cannot be denied that Kasbarian’s lectures and cartoons have become very valuable tools demonstrating the struggles, frustrations, and arguments about the intergovernmental politics she and her fellow Armenians navigate on a daily basis.

Kasbarian’s now has dozens of cartoons in her portfolio, chronicling Armenian political affairs and they are becoming well-known and sought after. Her work expresses the frustration and anger possessed by Armenians world over by the lack of respect shown to the first genocide of the 20th century.

One of her most compelling cartoons is entitled, “One Man’s Terrorist is Another Man’s Freedom-Fighter.”

Kasbarian’s cartoons are an exceptional collection of her thought provoking art form. There are different forms of free speech and Kasbarian’s use of cartoons are hard-hitting to the point, edgy. Bravo to Lucine for bravely not remaining silent.

As a woman, writing about another female I am continually haunted by the history of the rape and sale of Armenian girls and women into slavery. The anger and abomination towards the savages who did this never evaporates.

Kasbarian is an amazing woman. She is Zabel and Joan of Arc rolled into one. Her cartoons hit your nerve more than just enlightening and being thought provoking.

Among the books written by Kasbarian are The Greedy Sparrow, Armenia- A Rugged Land, and Enduring People. She is a journalist, activist, as well as cartoonist.

She has a Bachelor of Arts and Journalism, Minors in Studio Art and Political Science, with graduate courses in Cartooning, New York University.

Kasbarian’s cartoons are an exceptional collection of her thought provoking art form.

It needs to be said: Turkey remains a cauldron of hate against Christian minorities as represented by the genocide and the murder of Hrant Dink. Its murderous activates even extend to its Kurdish citizens.

Even though my residence is on Mullett Lake, I often retreat to a park on Burt Lake. I was submerged in familiar sorrow unaware rain had started to fall as I read Kasbarian’s words telling of her group tour to Der Zor, the Syrian Desert where Armenians were forcibly walked in their diseased, starving, thirsty condition and on death’s trail. Lucine said, “As I stood apart from the group, I knew we had been given the rare opportunity to viscerally sense the thirst, hunger, and agony that our martyrs and survivors had endured.”

She added, “Many voyagers has scratched the surface of Der Zor and found the skulls and bones of the murdered Armenians, I stared at the sand and through my tears quietly stood saying ‘hank-jeh-tsek’ (may you rest) an Armenian repose of the soul.”

It is difficult to digest Lucine’s following words:

“Our group gathered on a bridge over the Euphrates River. Local Syrian boys seeking respite from the heat jumped into the river, the same river into which we tossed flowers remembering all the Armenian girls and women who committed suicide, flinging themselves into the same waters during the Genocide to avoid rape and abduction by the Turks.” At this point, I looked up from my reading to witness the raindrops, like tears, gently flowing down my windshield just as years ago I had witnessed “the tears” dropping gently from the urn atop the tall Martyrs Monument at Detroit’s Woodlawn Cemetery.

The tears are a sign, they represent our collective Armenian people, the martyrs and those living who mourn and privately sob for ancestors we never knew and yet as women we have to endure to let the wrenching of our souls continue because we toil to obtain justice for our martyrs and the Armenian Mt. Ararat that will always belong to us.

Perspectives of Exile can be obtained from Lulu.com ($24.00). Enter the book’s title. This is a small investment for a keepsake book with a thorough explanation about the ravages of the Genocide, including a chapter on the year 2015: “Where We Have Come, Where Are We Going.”

There’s a song that rings out “You’re never too young or too old,” and under the circumstances, those lyrics are quite appropriate.

The fellowship club of the St. Sarkis Armenian Church of Dearborn, Michigan, seeks to bolster membership to continue its valued service to the community.

St. Sarkis Armenian Church of Dearborn, Michigan

Membership only requires a little work on the part of a member, such as helping out at the annual Blessing of the Grapes picnic, or hosting interesting lectures, and can be as rewarding as a bus trips to casinos, summertime club picnics, trips to Holland, Michigan for the Tulip Festival, or a trip to a cider mill for a colorful, spectacular treat of cider and donuts. There is fun to be had, leaving the driving to the bus driver as you gaze out the window taking in “Pure Michigan,” or just taking a relaxing snooze.

Armenians have always risen to the need to causes and events that constantly require their attention and financial support and manpower. Donation envelopes for worthy causes are not strangers to their mail boxes.

The Fellowship Club promises to not leave a dent in your pocketbook; membership dues are $10 annually. This is an opportunity to serve the church, have community camaraderie and fellowship.

The St. Sarkis Armenian Apostolic Church Fellowship Club is actively seeking to increase its membership and is reaching out to you to join this congenial group. The church is the anchor of the Armenian community established by the survivor generation. It is where marriages, baptisms, hokehankists, dan garks, funerals, and various Armenian celebrations take place. It must succeed, to be a footnote in our Armenian history.

The Fellowship Club started out as the Mr. and Mrs. Club, but in fairness to surviving spouses, it became more serviceable to the church community welcoming everyone to join regardless of marital status.

There is strength in numbers; you can help this worthy Christian faith-based organization. By joining, you are not only performing a noble service to the perpetuation of the legacy of your heritage. In addition, you’ll be stimulated by new friendships and activities shaped for your personal enjoyment.

The group meets every even month on the third Thursdays of those months, at 12 p.m. Meetings have been followed by deliciously prepared dinners; but it was decided to switch to the service of a caterer. Occasionally, meetings are held after church on Sundays when speakers are invited. Afterwards the fine art of playing Scambile is available to novice and experienced card players. Scambile was a favored card game played by the survivor generation and you too can thump the card table as hard as possible like they did. You too can learn the secret eye and facial winks and contortions to alert your partner.

It should never become tiresome or repetitive to hear about this card game played as a reminder of our painful history. It’s up to succeeding generations of people, whether members of St. Sarkis Church or not, to rise to the occasion, to carry on the traditions and responsibilities as did the generation that settled here post 1915.

The club has an Executive Board and meetings consist of an agenda any organization would have. Adjournment is followed by dinner, camaraderie and a Scambile card game. Meetings are held in the Lillian Arakelian Fellowship Hall adjoining the church located on Ford Road.

In far too many cases, 2nd and 3rd and following generations have no recall of where their ancestors were from. The names of these cities, villages, and counties are lost to so many. Come back to your church home; it is after all supposed to be your family too. It could help you discover missing links to your past.

When you are asked by someone, “Where are your ancestors from?” or perhaps a physician asks, “What did your grandparents die from?” doesn’t it distress you to have to say, “I don’t know. They died in the Armenian genocide.” It doesn’t take a genius to realize Armenian faith and traditions shouldn’t perish as the Ottoman Turks wanted.

A great deal is owed to the survivor generation. Their sacrifice gave us churches, community centers, and organizations. We survived these thousands of years as a small nation because we come from Haik, Sourp Gregory, Mesrob Mashdots, King Tiridates, and Khrimian Hayrig.

Lord Byron (1788-1824), born in England, travelled the continent which included a stop for some months in Venice, the home of the Mekhitarist Congregation of Armenian monks, where he attempted to learn the Armenian language. There, at San Lazzaro, a room is dedicated to Lord Byron, where he collaborated with the monks in publishing a grammar of English and Armenian as well as translating some works. Lord Byron took an active interest in things Armenian.

Do you have room in your heart to perpetuate something Armenian as represented by the St. Sarkis fellowship club?

Revelation 22:12: “Then Jesus said to me, ‘When I come, I will come quickly, and I will reward everyone for what he has done.’”

Thank you, Mr. President, oh, yes we are.

Each year Armenians wait to see how the leader of the free world will describe the events of April 24, 1915, with hope in our hearts that his pre-election promise will be fulfilled with a declaration that the egregious events that took place in the Ottoman Empire and later Republic of Turkey constituted a genocide.

Barack Obama (Photo: White House)

Our fellow Christian minorities, the Greeks and the Assyrians who suffered the same fate, are waiting too. Again this year, it was too much to hope for, but what does stand out in our president’s statement is his description of the Armenian character: “Armenians are resilient,” he declared.

We’ll take credit for that; we deserve his apt assessment of the Armenian character.

What kind of people are the Turks who ripped open the stomach of an expectant mother while gleefully displaying the unborn fetus on the tip of their sword, bearing gleaming teeth and a lascivious grin? Who can forget the knock on their door when their father and brother were hastily taken away to the edge of the village and killed? Who can forget young Armenian girls trying to escape to the barley fields, chased on horseback by savages bearing down on her determined to rape the gouys (maiden) and or carry her off to forcibly become his bride, bear his children, and accept Islam. Run, scream, try to hide, watch as they nailed the local priest to the church’s front door. Try to run east to the Russian border if you can; travel by nightfall to get to a missionary orphanage, or try to get to Batoum to escape the unspeakable horror.

History cannot be rewritten; the Turks are undeniably guilty. Gradually more and more of their present-day population are becoming aware of their sinful past.

Perhaps “resilient” is just not enough to describe what those that escaped and survived suffered mentally.

It was the Armenian immigrant generation of that genocide who witnessed women and girls throwing themselves off mountain cliffs to their death rather than be captured by Turks or their accomplices, the Kurds.

It was their eyes that saw rivers running red with the blood of their people, rivers that also became jammed with the bodies of Armenians drowned by force or by their own choice.

Yes, Mr. President, we became “resilient,” maintaining our sanity, perhaps “resilient” even to a fault. Do records exist revealing the anguish, the mental state—even madness—foisted on the Armenians because of the Ottoman Turks’ hatred of their Christian minority? How many Armenians suffered the madness that befell Komitas Vartabed, whose statue in downtown Detroit on Jefferson Avenue so perfectly describes his identification with the slaughter and plight of his beloved Armenian people?

The Turks instilled one thing in the Armenian mindset, Mr. President: the blinding force to survive as a nation of people in order to seek JUSTICE.

Exiled, deported, stripped of dignity, a homeland, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, and extended family, these “resilient” Armenians who were fortunate to escape a “Turkey for Turks” landed in all parts of the world, toiling to make a life for themselves by working in factories and sweatshops.

Some opened restaurants, barber shops, grocery stores, without any knowledge of the local language. It was sheer determination—not as victims but as human beings now living in a free society.

They made it, and many children of the first generation born in America in the early 1920’s, for instance, became educated as doctors, lawyers, teachers, and industrialists, and became prosperous enough to contribute to the political campaign funds for those running for Congress and, yes, even the prestigious office of the president of the United States.

They were “resilient” enough to build fine Armenian churches, community centers, committed to the perpetuation of Armenian-ness far away from the homeland.

“Resilience” became the mindset for survival above all odds. It became the Armenian determination to fight for justice, recognition, and restitution for the genocide. We are not forgetting the dark years that preceded April 24—the slaughter of Armenians by Sultan Hamid in 1894, whose murder was protested by Krikor Zohrab in the parliament in 1909.

Our architecturally beautiful ancient churches are battered, riddled with bullet holes from Turkish guns, and crumbling to the ground in decay.

Armenians must remain alert, educated, patriotic, and dedicated to the Armenian Cause.

On the positive side, the exile of Armenians from the homeland enabled them to multiply and flourish peacefully like beautiful perennial flowers, to forever remain rooted in God’s world with the ability even after 4,000 years of existence in Armenia and all over the earth to proclaim with pride and “resilience”: Yes, Hye em, I am of Armenian heritage, “they” only made us stronger, Mr. President.

Finding college student Katie so near my isolated location in Northern Michigan had to be a godsend. I found her by accident when, as I frequently do, I disregarded the “no trespassing” sign as I drove the dirt road entering her family’s 40 acres, mesmerized by the small herd of beautiful black gelbvieh cattle grazing on a haystack as collectively they switched their tails to ward off flies.

I soon met her mother, who not only raises cattle but also chickens for farm-fresh, extra large, brown organic eggs that can easily compete with the touted ones Martha Stewart raises, and has an organic vegetable garden. But the clincher is that Katie’s parents also build racing engines. A most interesting family.

‘…I disregarded the “no trespassing” sign as I drove the dirt road entering her family’s 40 acres…’

Katie’s mother also came to my rescue when my husband died, volunteering to do my laundry and grocery shopping. That’s what people up here do—they help each other.

As luck would have it, I could not have made a better find to assist me in preparing my column than this tall, slender, very attractive young lady with long red tresses often fashioned into a single braid. Raised up north she is intelligent, personable, but also very reserved, well mannered, and quiet, full of respect. In a word, perfect—the kind of girl you’d want for a daughter. She is a student studying multicultural literature who recently earned her associates degree. When I jokingly chided her, “Katie, in a few days you’ll turn 20, a teen no more, so cease the irresponsible behavior,” she just smiled broadly and shot back, “What irresponsible behavior? You knew from the beginning, that’s not my style.”

I was right in assuming I was the first person of Armenian heritage Katie had encountered. In helping me write my column on the laptop, Katie was inundated with the strange and unfamiliar names of Armenian people, sayings, geographic locations, the many Armenian organizations, as well as the unhappy story of the genocide.

She never winced or commented during our sessions that entailed the grisly, graphic details of those terrible years. In the beginning I had no knowledge of the quiet Katie as a person. Recently it dawned on me there was an opportunity of a column here—on what Katie felt about her understanding of the Armenian Question. Not outwardly making her own emotions obvious in order not to cloud our sessions, even as my tears often stopped my dictation, if only temporarily while remembering the loss of my family, and the devastation and slaughter of the Armenians.

Katie began, “I was given a list of general topics to do as a project for class and I chose to do the Rwandan Genocide because I had read extensively about the Holocaust. I had never heard of the Rwandan Genocide. I earned a very good grade on it. I did a poster and journals to read about those who went through the Rwandan Genocide.”

“As with all genocides, I regard it with a lot of emotion and curiosity, sadness, and even anger. I don’t take it lightly, so when I learned of the Armenian Genocide from you, I not only felt the curiosity, sadness, and anger toward the genocide leaders, I also aimed these emotions at the school systems of Michigan and America, wondering why the Armenian Genocide was missing from my history class curriculum,” Katie said. “Genocide is so important to learn about.”

“Historically, once I learned of the Armenian Genocide, my mind began to wander. I think that when the average person thinks of genocide, they think of the victims as a group—a race, religion, a culture, etc. But when I think of genocide, I think of the individual. I don’t particularly know why I do that, but I think it may be because of having an aunt who married into my family who had Jewish parents who had survived Auschwitz. That always fascinated me. Aside from my distant relation, when I think of the Holocaust I think of individuals like Anne Frank (Diary of a Young Girl), of Vladek Spiegelman (Maus I and Maus II), of Elie Wiesel (Night).”

“After first learning of the Armenian Genocide, I began to wonder what each individual Armenian went through. Now, after typing your columns, I know just what they went through. I have learned of so many first-hand accounts from genocide survivors and of the generations that followed after working with you,” she said.

“Educationally, since I was never taught this in school, and had never met an Armenian in my rural, small Northern Michigan town, this opened a door for me. I am incredibly interested in genocide, as gruesome as it is. It amazes me what horrible things we can do as human beings. It also amazes me and saddens me how we can turn a blind eye to genocide like Rwanda and also the Christians being persecuted all over the world right now.”

“Learning about the Armenian Genocide, once again, amazes me, just as the Rwandan and the Holocaust do. However, the biggest amazement came from learning about the intense camaraderie Armenians show. Armenians stick together, no matter what! Two complete strangers that learn they share the trademark ‘-ian’ Armenian last name suffix will become instant friends. The bonds Armenians share just for the sake of being Armenians astonishes me.”

“I wrote a paper for multicultural literature class about a minority group in America. My instructor was pleased when I chose the Armenians and I earned an A on the assignment. I wrote about a brief summary about the Armenians and of the genocide, and also included references of a book written by David Khederian. The book was similar to that of Anne Frank, but it gave me another individual to think about in the Armenian Genocide.”

Katie attends a non-denominational church. “Church has kept me out of trouble. I saw how some friends were tempted toward bad behavior and I didn’t want that for me.”

Katie refreshingly is very respectful of her parents. “Sometimes kids stray away from their parents’ expectations but eventually return,” she said. “The way some friends chose different lifestyles was unacceptable to me. Therefore I have few friends my age who have my outlook on life.”

Katie recently became engaged to be married in November to Michael who attends luthier (guitar-building) school, a highly rated school in Big Rapids. Michael also plays guitar and comes from a musical family. They met in church and according to Katie, her fiancé is even more conservative than she.

Katie and her family enjoy fishing together in their boats as well as camping in their large travel trailer. Snowmobiles too are a way of life up here for them.

Working with Katie has been a particularly gratifying experience. She is a perfect young lady who I know has expanded her horizon as a result of our association.

It’s funny how some things hit you unexpectedly, out of the blue. June 17, Bob’s birthday and Father’s Day, was fast approaching and a thought occurred to my always-active mind that had eluded me all these many years, or perhaps I had just taken “The Greatest Gift” for granted.

Time has a way of evaporating and before you realize it, with the busy life syndrome, decades have passed, but the gift of memory is there to cause both elation and sadness.

The man I married on June 29, 1963, was of German-Irish ancestry. His father, Bertram, a Lutheran, was of pure German heritage. His mother, Marguerite, was Irish Catholic to the core. Both were born in Saginaw, Mich., and were married there.

I’m assuming Bert’s conversion to Catholicism in order to marry his Irish love must have caused some conflict in his Lutheran family, but I was never privy to information substantiating that fact.

When Bert and Marguerite moved from their hometown of Saginaw to Pontiac, it was to accommodate his job transfer as a superintendent at the Pontiac Motor Division in the engine department as a metallurgist. He had the good fortune of never being unemployed at any point in his work career or during the Depression.

The couple purchased a new construction brick home on the west side of town considered the more desirable location in Pontiac, called Indian Village.

It was 10 years after Bob’s parents’ marriage before he was born. He remained an only child who, of course, was raised a devout Catholic, attending catechism classes but graduating from public schools. His childhood was idyllic; he spent summers at their family cottage on Elk Lake, swimming and fishing. Even as an adult, Robert faithfully attended daily early morning Mass. I had a deep appreciation for his well-mannered, gentlemanly comportment, which I accredited to his upbringing.

The Great Divide

Then Robert Joseph Kessel met a young lady who was of Armenian heritage and definitely not Catholic. That did not deter our relationship. If it didn’t before, it has now impressed me what an important sacrifice he made for me. My sacrifice for him was to agree to have our marriage performed in the Catholic Church, but he knew I would not convert.

It was my father who introduced me to Bob, and it was also my father who advised me to marry at St. Michael’s, the family parish. His reasoning was that Bob attended church regularly, whereas the long distance to Detroit made it difficult for the Apigians to attend St. Sarkis Armenian Apostolic Church.

I agreed but deep down I was silently troubled. I was steeped in Armenian heritage and the injustice of the genocide was deeply rooted in me. For years, I was a very strong vocal Tashnag member of the AYF. It had never crossed my mind that I would marry a non-Armenian. My parents loved Bob and had no objection to our union.

I had refused the marriage proposal from a young East Coast Armenian as being just too far away for my comfort and I was too young. I was a victim of separation anxiety and it had a profound effect on my decisions. As the youngest of four children, I was very close to my mom and dad; my siblings had all wed and I was 14 and alone at home with my parents, almost like an only child. Even after marriage I never lived more than 10 minutes from them.

Bob and I bought a party store six months after our wedding. It required long, arduous hours but it was gratifying to see the business prosper. Other than my parents, we had no social life. After closing the store in the evening we often went to relax at my folks’ house. Bob and Dad would have a beer and boereg or Dad would barbeque hot dogs late at night.

Ten years after marrying and now parents to two young sons, we decided as responsible parents that the boys must have a Christian upbringing.

The decision to attend St. Sarkis Church in Dearborn, a one-way trip of 30 miles, came without any disagreement. The boys had been baptized there as well.

Bob had given up attending Catholic Church right after our marriage because the business was a 7-day, 15-hour obligation.

The boys were enrolled in the Sunday School program and the four of us attended church together every Sunday. The boys would be in class and their father and I in church. Bob faithfully followed the Badarak from the transliteration pew books provided.

For me, it was a welcome turn of events to again become part of an Armenian community, since by this time my beloved Pontiac community had dwindled. Our ARF agoump was now history. It had been sold and reverted back to its original life as a church.

At St. Sarkis I became a volunteer along with new friends to package maas every Sunday; afterwards I attended Badarak, learned about my church in Krapar and Ashkharapar Armenian, followed by a very social coffee hour. Bob’s only complaint was I was often part of a group that was the last to leave.

I became secretary in the Ladies’ Guild and attended church conventions. I volunteered at church baking sessions and became a writer going reporting on the Guild activities. In my desire to bridge the total community, I covered lectures, book signings, and important community events at all three Armenian churches to the best of my ability. I made many new friends and Bob, the odar Armenian By Choice (ABC), was always right there beside me.

He adapted to being the rare non-Armenian at all the events I attended. He basically was a quiet, conservative man. I was selfish in not thinking he could have felt out of place, uncomfortable. He gave up trying to get me to go to German festivals, but at least I did go to Ireland, which I loved.

When the Detroit “Azadamard” Gomideh honored me at a reception as “Hamagir of the Ages,” I faltered at one point in my speech when I described my father’s exodus at age 13 from Keghi, never to see his parents again because of the genocide.

Tears swelled up in my eyes and I choked, not able to continue. It was Bob who quietly urged me on as he whispered to me repeatedly, “Go on, go on,” as I looked to him for support. I swallowed hard to get my composure and got through my talk on that memorable day, because Bob the Irish-German never, never, ever stood in my way. He never was an obstacle in allowing me to carry on my love for my heritage. He knew how important it was to me, the three-time cancer survivor, the lover of all things Armenian, to continue to expand my mind, to be an integral part of an Armenian community, to remember our martyrs. He never complained when I spent long hours on the computer writing and doing research.

Bob encouraged me to be Armenian and that was “The Greatest Gift” he could ever give me. Neither flowers, nor jewelry, nor clothes, nor any other gift could have meant as much to me. He had been indoctrinated by my father in the beginning about Armenian history and politics.

When he became seriously ill and in the hospital, I called the local Catholic Church to come to the hospital. Bob took Extreme Unction, made his confession, and the broad smile I saw on his face said it all. The visit by a Catholic priest after all these years made him feel like a part of that flock again. He was truly elated at his sacrifice for my happiness as an Armenian, and finally his return to his Catholic roots was a small repayment for his “Greatest Gift” to me.

Although he’s now away we still chat with each other on a daily basis. It’s never too late to say “Thank you” to the Armenian pesa for his most generous of gifts.

‘[The article] referred to Sultan Hamid, infamously called the Bloody Sultan, responsible for the death of thousands of Armenians from 1894-95.’

Unfortunately, in recent years we have witnessed the demise of many newspapers, replaced instead by television network and cable broadcasts, and hand-held technological instruments.

In November and December 1895, the Petoskey Record of Northern Michigan featured an article that was of great interest to its small immigrant Armenian population. It also informed the general readers of the harsh reality of life in Turkey and in Historic Armenia, a far-off land that so few were acquainted with.

It’s interesting to note that the small Armenian population of Northern Michigan must have been regarded in high esteem to receive such coverage, especially in November and December when the area’s summer tourist trade had returned to their residences in other parts of the country.

The newspaper article was headlined, “The Sultan’s Tyranny Is Felt Even in the State of Michigan.” It referred to Sultan Hamid, infamously called the Bloody Sultan, responsible for the death of thousands of Armenians from 1894-95.

It is thoroughly thought provoking to consider the reality of how day-to-day living must have been under the sultan’s rule. Reality is that life for Armenians in their indigenous homeland was always tenuous under Turkic rule.

Imagine this, the years of rampage (1894-95) were only 30 years after the end of the Civil War of the United States. Did any of the news reports of this historic event reach the Ottoman Empire or Sultan Hamid? Was our part of the civilized world here in the United States so far away that it had no frame of interest or importance to the Turks?

Why would a small resort town—Petoskey, located on Lake Michigan—with a booming summer tourist trade concern itself with news reports from a far-away empire?

Life for Armenians in the Ottoman Empire normally was a litany of gloom as second-class citizens, referred to as gavoors, Christian non-believers, and was being reported as such by the Petoskey Record.

Mr. Asadoorian, a successful Petoskey businessman, had received a letter from a friend that caused him much distress. His mother lived in Ichmah, 35 miles east of Harpoot. From there his friend writes, “Ichmah contained about 800 Armenians and the rest were Turks. Three weeks ago the Armenians were called together and notified that unless they recanted Christianity and became Muslims all their leading men would be killed. Led by their old pastor, a man of about 75 years, they refused to do so and the butchery began, starting with their elderly clergyman.”

It was not known whether Asadoorian’s mother was included among those killed.

The newspaper’s reaction to the carnage was this: “People here who sit on soft cushions Sundays don’t know what it costs to be a Christian in some parts of the world.”

The news of the massacre of Christians at Harpoot was of interest because one of Petoskey’s leading businessmen—Mr. Asadoorian—came from there. Asadoorian had been working through the United States consuls and Armenian friends to bring his wife and child to America, but received little encouragement.

Recently he had made arrangements for them to be sent to the coast on Nov. 1, but whether they escaped from Harpoot before the massacre began or were frightened by the disturbed conditions of the country and feared to start, he does not know.

The dispatches said that 8 of the 12 buildings belonging to the Armenian Mission at Harpoot had been burned. That too was of local interest here in Petoskey because Asadoorian, a carpenter by trade, had helped build them. He assisted in putting on the first shingle roof ever seen in Armenia.

The newspaper says, “It is to be hoped that Mrs. Asadoorian escaped to the coast before the massacre occurred. Good heavens! How we would like to see such an army of Yanks and Johnnies as Sherman and Johnson (1864 Civil War) turned loose in Armenia to deal with the women and baby killing brutes.”

My belated gratitude to that wonderful newspaper who boldly put into print, “If mutual jealousies prevent immediate action by the Allied Powers we sincerely hope San Francisco will open up the ball by pitching shell into the Old Seraglio and the Sublime Port.”

As we know all too well, conditions only worsened in Ottoman Turkey.

How proud and thankful we Armenians are to Pope Francis for his June 2016 visit to Armenia and his planned visit to the Tsitsernakaberd Armenian Genocide Memorial Complex, to Gyumri, and to Yerevan’s Republic Square, where he held an Ecumenical Encounter Prayer for Peace.

If ever there was a time for all Christians to unite it is now, as we are being wantonly killed in so many places throughout our world. Pray for unity, pray for peace.

The wisdom and sayings from our past keep popping into my memory, causing a warm feeling of connection to my parents from long ago.

For about two weeks, my left eye had an occasional annoying twitch and my mother’s superstitious accounting for that twitching immediately came to mind.

Mom would say, “Achks guh khagha,” indicating her eye was twitching. That meant company was coming. You could bet money on her eye movement because as one gentleman courting my sibling would say, “The Apigian house is like Grand Central Station.” He never did become part of the family; perhaps, as I was told, he had a touch of being anti-social and the flood of guests at our house frightened him.

Mom’s superstitious sayings still come to mind. I had promised myself in the years after her passing that they were worthy of being recorded for posterity. I never did it, though, until now. And the ones I do remember are only a smattering of what she repeated to me.

“Aganchs tzayn goodah” (My ear is ringing),” she’d say, meaning, “Someone is talking about me.”

“Tzerkus guh kerveh” (The palm of my hand is itching),” depending on which hand, meant she would either be getting money or spending money.

If someone dropped a fork to the floor she’d say, “Aghchik/geneeg bidi kah dounernees (A female guest will be coming to our house).” If a knife fell, the reason was, “Dgha/mart houyr bidi kah hos.”

If a person was extremely critical, she would repeat, “Havgeet-een mechuh maz guh pndreh (They’re looking for a hair inside the egg).”

If mom was shagheling (mixing) hamburger or dough in a bowl and pieces would jump out onto the table, she’d say every time: “Oudogh bidi kah (We’ll be having guests who are dining here).”

My personal favorite was this: “Vor-meh ounee kugh guh shercheh (Her backside was big enough to knock over a village).”

“Achkes guh bagheh (My eye is getting cold),” for when you stare into space without blinking. It meant you’re going to have guests coming to your home from a far distance.

The art of love had its own saying: “Vor-uh perengeruh (His/her backside is on fire).”

A saying from the old country: An anxious young bride speaking to her future mother-in-law said, “I could have a baby in 7 months.” The mother-in-law admonished her thusly: “Have your first baby in 9 months and then have the second one in 7 months.” That was a word to the wise that prevails even today.

“Achkuh dzag eh” for a person who is greedy, or one who cannot get or have enough.

Another favorite of mine was a quote from a Kharpertzi neighbor describing a very portly, first generation-born male: “Dzkhadz cigaruh kntz boy-en yergayn-eh (The cigar he smokes is longer than his height).”

Lastly, for now at least, Dad would jokingly say to someone who showered every day: “Esh es kerter? (Have you skinned a mule?)”

Most of us who are the fortunate offspring of the Genocide Survivor Generation were blessed to be raised in a household where we conversed in Armenian; that was usually by parental requirement. In many villages, the Ottoman government had closed the Armenian schools, and learning Armenian was forbidden. Consequently, parents or teachers taught the language in secret to children at great risk to their life.

Both my parents were fluent in reading and writing the Armenian language. My father, as an adamant Tashnag and party member, insisted on Armenian being spoken in our house. We also were expected to attend Saturday Armenian school classes where we became familiar with Sourp Mesrob’s alphabet. To this day I try to find someone with whom I can speak Armenian, since my parents are now deceased. I love practicing my Armenian language skills, but it is almost impossible to find someone with whom I can converse.

Some kids grimaced at the thought of attending Armenian school after spending five days in public school. I’ll bet now you deem yourself one of the lucky ones and have fond memories of those Armenian school classes. You now not only possess English language skills but you are fluent in the Armenian language, a true gift no one can take away from you.

The Armenian language connects us to our heritage of thousands of years. Preserving the language is another way we can declare victory over the Turkish mandate to rid the Ottoman Empire and the world of Armenians. They failed miserably.

You probably smile to yourself remembering the dances and poems you were required to memorize for the annual hantess (program), when doting parents filled the agoump or auditorium to watch their little darlings demonstrate what they had learned in Armenian school. Many of us regret not speaking Armenian to our American-born children.

Somehow we never had the time to do so, or so we tried to convince ourselves. Our children got cheated if we did not speak to them in Armenian. Our children, now adults, complain: “Why didn’t you take the time to teach me how to speak Armenian?” How do you respond to that? Learning the language of your ancestors is a promise you make to them to preserve your heritage. Even famed anthropologist Margaret Meade had great respect for the beautiful Armenian language, saying it should be taught universally.

For many of us, going through our daily routine we will suddenly remember a saying attributed to our now-deceased parents.

Being Armenian certainly is an uphill battle that is well worth fighting for. I have asked myself what other nationality I would have preferred to be, but the answer always comes up the same: “Yes Hye em!”

As a young adult dedicated to the Armenian Cause, as a member of the Armenian Youth Federation with a fond interest for fine clothes and cars, I now realize that along the way I matured into a woman full of vim and vinegar fighting for my heritage, which has made me stronger than I could have ever imagined.

Here I have included only some sayings that I recall, mostly those from Takouhie, the beloved mother that I miss on so many levels.

It remains the most vital tool for creating all those delicious Armenian baked goods, boeregs, cheeseburgers and hamburgers, and katah, my personal favorite, sprinkled with sesame seeds or sev gundeegs on top. It is, of course, the long, thin stick called a dowel, known to most Armenians as the oukhlavoo.

Bourma

Many years ago, I referred to the dowel as oukhlavoo for lack of a better word and I was raked over the coals by someone. Please spare me your vitriolic conviction this time around.

Picture an Armenian community in Highland Park, Del Ray, Detroit, or Pontiac, a long time ago. School was out for summer vacation. You just had lunch and were anxious to get back outside to play, roll the bat, hopscotch, or, in the evening, play hide and go seek with your friends.

Your non-Armenian friends too ran outside, munching on store-bought oatmeal cookies. Your prized snack was a freshly baked cheese boereg thanks to your dan degeen, stay-at-home mother.

Mom was generous and allowed you to share some of her baked goods with your odar friends. She knew how to be looked upon favorably. Our neighbors transplanted from the South taught mom how to make flaky crusts for cherry and apple pies. Our backyard contained the bounty of a huge sour cherry and apple tree. The plum and peach trees became canned fruit, but mom turned out multiple pies at one time for her family of six. Dad was partial to apple and cherry pies.

Were you the envy of the neighborhood? It all depends on your frame of reference, because when you traded with your friends that oatmeal cookie tasted good too. Looking back at those glorious days of youth, you grin and are thankful for your old-country-born Armenian mother spending long hours in the family kitchen accomplishing her weekly dedication to the fine art of perfecting the baking of Armenian pastries.

Mom rose early, organizing the necessary ingredients such as flour, yeast, melted butter, eggs, and evaporated milk, mixing then kneading the dough mass vigorously by hand, then allowing it to rise before separating the soft dough into perfectly shaped balls—being sure each was of equal proportion—then covering them and allowing them to rest.

Mom’s usual attire was a flowered cotton housedress covered with an apron, her feet shod in sensible shoes.

When mother baked, she would send bourma or katah to our delighted neighbors. She also taught them how to make her buttery, fluffy rice pilaf.

The neighbors became curious when they saw my father picking wild grape leaves in June—until mom explained how she used the leaves, which she stuffed and rolled with lemony rice and onion filling. Neighbors learned and shared with each other.

As important as the assembled ingredients were, the baking could not go on without the star of the show, the all-important long dowel called the oukhlavoo. It was indispensable. Mom wielded the dowel with self-assuredness. She and it became one. No telling how many pastries that dowel turned out.

When the dough balls had risen sufficiently, she used the dowel to roll out the dough for Armenian food staples.

I’d watch in amazement as the dough developed into an ever-expanding, perfect circle. The warm butter was ladled onto the dough surface, being sure every inch was covered. She then began rolling the dough up from one edge to the other by hand until it was a long rope-like shape. She would hold each end as she carefully bounced it on the table, then placing it on the counter, covered to rest until all of the balls met the same fate. Lastly, they were cut in half, formed into a circle, egg washed, sprinkled with sesame and/or sev gundeegs, placed on baking sheets and in the oven to bake. The wonderful aroma filled the house.

Mom would take a breather long enough to say, “Ouf, hokees yelev, krdeenk guh tapem” (My very soul was challenged, I am perspiring).

The all-day process resulted in individual boeregs, or at least 12 katahs, or a tray of boereg—the product of her devotion to her family and heritage.

Little did we realize as carefree children all the steps involved in making Armenian pantry staples. How easy it was to just grab one from her stash. The sweet memories of childhood can never be erased or forgotten. The connection to the Survivor Generation has more meaning than even words can convey. How fortunate we were.

This is to put Turkey on notice—you will never kill the Armenian Spirit.

The youth sing patriotic songs at the 126th anniversary event

If just one of you had been witness to the Nov. 19, 2016, celebration of the Detroit Azadamard Gomidehutiun 126^th anniversary of the Armenian Revolutionary Federation (ARF) you would have been aghast at your enormous, unprecedented but well-deserved failure of eliminating the Armenian Nation.

Three-hundred-fifty guests attended this always highly successful annual gala event to demonstrate love and never dying devotion to their Armenian homeland and our Mount Ararat with unabashed Armenian spirit. Hundreds filled Burton Manor banquet center in Livonia Mich. to dine, drink, and dance.

A scene from the event

Yes, Armenians rose up from the ashes of Der Zor, celebrating their peaceful, safe life in the Diaspora. These are the generations form of the exiles and deported Armenian Genocide survivors attributed to your brutality, the likes of never seen before in the civilized world.

The spirit of Armenia through the effort of the ARF has filtered to the youth. The flag was respectfully presented by the Detroit Homenetmen Scouts. Ungerhouhis Helena Bardakjian and Araxie Tossounian sang the National Anthem of the United States a and Armenia. Welcoming remarks, in Armenian, were by Sevan Markossian, and in English, by Raffi Vandevelde.

The Armenian Youth Federation’s (AYF) message was delivered by ungerouhi Karoun Tcholakian, exclaiming, “the ARF has been paramount in the lives of many youths. It has increased my passion for my Armenianism and it offers many opportunities to succeed. We thank the Azadamard gomideh for the opportunity to be better Armenians.”

Unger Raffi Ourlian, in both Armenian and English, delivered the ARF’s message. Under his leadership the Detroit Gomidehutiunhas made great strides in its accountability to the Armenian Nation. His remarks included a generous welcome to its membership, faithful hamageers (supporters) and friends.

A scene from the celebration

Against an impressive stage featuring a large draped background centered with a full-length flag and emblem of the ARF, unger Ourlian stated, “what distinguishes us from other organizations is our continued belief in a free, independent and united Armenia with Karabagh (Artsakh/NKR) under our strong umbrella of organizations. We are the ones who kept the tricolor displayed in our churches and our community centers even after the brief existence of the Free Republic of Armenia. The rebirth of our next agoump will be a reality soon.”

Unger Mourad Topalian was the evening’s guest speaker. The Cleveland native, now resides in California, but has obvious affection for Detroiters and their city.

Unger Topalian can still electrify a room with his passionate political oratory. The walls reverberate when he unleashes his respect for the ARF and their accomplishments as in the past with others such as Kopernik Tandourjian, Hagop Mouradian, and Arthur Giragossian.  Like them, Topalian with his words puts fear back in your belly to demand justice of the Armenian Genocide.

It is under the umbrella of the ARF that the following organizations thrive: The Armenian Relief Society (ARS), The Armenian Youth Federation (AYF), Hamazkayin Educational and Cultural Society, The Armenia National Committee of America (ANCA), The Homenetmen, our churches, community centers, folk dance groups, research centers and university chairs.

“Honoring the ARF on its anniversary since its birth in 1890 in Tiflis, Georgia also honors the memory of the men who instituted it—Kristapor Mikaelian, Rosdom (Stepan Zorian), and Simon Zavarian. Not alone but with a number of their political parties with the aim of leading the liberation of Western Armenians whose lives were being destroyed by Turks, Kurds, and Chetes,” Topalian said.

Unger Topalian was adamant about the ARF’s contribution to Armenians’ wellbeing. He visited Karabagh and spoke with the young soldiers who have sacrificed their former lives to defend Karabagh saying, “I am a piece of these young people… The ARF fight goes on willingly.”

A scene during the singing of patriotic songs

Everyone rose to sing “Mshak Banvor”—the ARF anthem. Rev. Dr. Vahan Toutikian of the Armenian Congregational Church, Rev. Fr. Hrant Kevorkian of St. Sarkis Armenian Apostolic Church, Father Mikael Bassale of St. Vartan Armenian Catholic Church blessed the evening, leading the guests to the singing of The Lord’s Prayer.

The celebration continued with guests being serenaded by Garo Gaboudagian from Beirut, Lebanon, and Vicken Makoushian from New Jersey. Garo’s marvelous voice was but another highlight on the evening of much pleasure.

Quoting Manouk and Sona Derovakemian, “the ARF was born from its people for its people.” Sona Mishigian proudly represented her late husband Avetis, a very dedicated ARF member. She said, “I am here tonight out of respect and to the memory of my late husband and both our believes in the work of the ARF.”

Proceeds from the evening were designated for the ARF affiliated youth organizations, a magnanimous gesture to further and to enhance youth programs.

It was the attraction of the evening, Karnig Sarkissian and his band from L.A., who serenaded the audience till wee hours. Once he hit the stage singing patriotic and revolutionary songs, young adults who love him surrounded the stage. They knew the words to every song as they sang along with Sarkissian. And this display of adoration coupled with unquestionable Armenian spirit amazed on-lookers as the young people treated him like the Hyegagan star that he is, shouting “Karnig, Karnig!”

Raffi Ourlian presented the prestigious “Hamageer of the Year” award to Mrs. Hermine Manoogian saying, “she is one of the hardest working people serving on many committees. Her leadership in Hamazkayin is unparalleled—We thrive because of people like Hermine.”

Yes, we died on those death marches because of Turkish criminal madness—one and a half million of our ancestors perished needlessly—but this evening we witnessed immense talent, though we often look backward as a reminder, we look forward demonstrating the indomitable spirit that forever lives on in the Diaspora and in Hayastan.

Getzeh ARF!

***

The Organizing Committee of the 126^th Anniversary event: unger Shant Jamgotchian, ungerouhi Krista Tossounian, ungerouhi Araxie Tossounian, Arev Tossounian, Suzy Mardoyan, Sanan Malkadjian, Helena Bardakjian, and Sossi Palanjian.