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FEARS OF TURKEY'S 'INVISIBLE' ARMENIANS
By Sarah Rainsford
BBC News, Istanbul
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/1/hi/pro grammes/from_our_own_correspondent/5102564.stm
200 6/06/22 12:34:56 GMT
The head of the Armenian Orthodox church is in the middle of a
controversial visit to Istanbul. Karekin II has in the past angered
Turks by accusing them of committing genocide against Armenians at
the time of World War I. Turkey denies the charges of genocide.
I thought it was a perfectly simple question.
I had gone backstage to interview the conductor of an ethnic Armenian
church choir after a rousing performance at Istanbul University.
As the choristers packed up their manuscripts, we chatted for a while
about the music and the conductor was all smiles.
Then I asked his opinion on the conference his choir was singing at -
the snappily labelled "Symposium on New Approaches to Turkish-Armenian
relations".
I wondered if he thought the event could help mend fences. Within
seconds, he was edging away from me, apparently deeply uncomfortable.
"I don't want to talk about politics," he pleaded, "we just came for
the music!"
It was a telling insight.
Closed borders
Turkey and Armenia are neighbours who might as well be a million
miles apart.
Diplomatic relations have been frozen for over a decade; their mutual
border is closed.
They seem to have no idea there used to be hundreds of thousands
of us here Vartan, ethnic Armenian Part of the reason is Turkey's
support for the Azeris in their conflict with Armenia.
But the direct dispute is over a matter of history: The death of
hundreds of thousands of Armenians in eastern Turkey during the dying
days of the Ottoman empire.
Armenia wants those deaths recognised as genocide. Turkey refuses to
accept that term.
For Armenia and its vast and powerful diaspora, getting recognition
from Ankara is a mission so important, it is almost a way of life.
But here inside Turkey, ethnic Armenians have chosen an uncomfortable
silence over confrontation.
I visited Anush and her brother Vartan in a leafy middle class suburb
of Istanbul.
Their apartment was typical of the area, but with the odd design
twists, like knotted dried flowers on the table that reminded me of
my trips to the Caucasus.
"Turks still ask me where I come from," Vartan told me, as his
sister brought in the tea. "They seem to have no idea there used to
be hundreds of thousands of us here."
Uneasy existence
Anush and Vartan are just two of some 60,000 ethnic Armenians who
still live in Turkey - a land their ancestors have inhabited for
almost 2,000 years. It is an uneasy co-existence.
"We've lived with violence ever since I was born," Anush told me.
"Graffiti on our churches, abuse on the streets. I still think twice
in some areas before I say my name openly."
For previous generations life was even tougher.
Anush's parents barely speak Armenian, because their parents worried
they would stand out and when Armenian militants began assassinating
Turkish diplomats in the 1970s, Turkish Armenian families here made
themselves more invisible still.
It is hardly surprising they do not normally voice an opinion on what
happened in 1915.
Anush and Vartan are a rare exception and, even so, I have had to
change their names.
We know exactly what happened, Vartan told me.
He said his Armenian great grandparents were forcibly deported
south, accused of siding with Russian troops against the Turks. They
handed their children over to Turkish neighbours for safety and
never returned.
There is a similar tragedy behind every Armenian door here, but
the local patriarch has banned his community from discussing it -
if they want to keep their jobs in Armenian churches and schools.
"It's fear," Anush told me simply.
There have been some early signs of change here. Last year a university
in Istanbul hosted the first discussion of the genocide claims in
Turkey ever to question the official line. It was hugely controversial
but it happened.
And now international pressure on Ankara to re-examine its position
is increasing.
Vartan welcomes that but he senses a rise in aggressive, nationalist
feeling in Turkey in response.
"If other countries force this issue, it will be terrible for the
Armenian people here," Vartan told me quietly.
"If you plunge a man into boiling water, he will burn," he said,
"but if you increase the heat gently, he could get used to it."
'Pseudo-citizens'
Unlike the Kurds, Turkey's Armenian population is an officially
recognised minority with certain rights and privileges.
But despite that - and despite their silence - Turkish Armenians seem
like pseudo-citizens.
I began to understand the price people like that choirmaster pay to
live in peace in Turkey Anush told me that in one school text book
Armenians are still described as separatists with an eye on Turkish
land. History books carry the official view of 1915, of course,
with the Armenians exiled as traitors.
And even now, in Armenian schools here, ethnic Armenians are banned
from teaching certain "strategic" subjects - geography, sociology,
morality, history.
As we talked into the warm evening, and glasses of tea gave way to
Armenian cognac, I began to understand the price people like that
choir master pay to live in peace in Turkey.
To many Armenians abroad their silence is a sort of treachery. For
Anush, Vartan and the others it is about protecting a fragile peace.
But it is all built on the shakiest of foundations.
"I am positive. I do have hopes for Turkey," Anush told me as I put
on my shoes to go.
"But I don't remember ever feeling truly comfortable living here.
Always at the back of my mind is the thought that one day I may be
forced to leave."
By Sarah Rainsford
BBC News, Istanbul
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/1/hi/pro grammes/from_our_own_correspondent/5102564.stm
200 6/06/22 12:34:56 GMT
The head of the Armenian Orthodox church is in the middle of a
controversial visit to Istanbul. Karekin II has in the past angered
Turks by accusing them of committing genocide against Armenians at
the time of World War I. Turkey denies the charges of genocide.
I thought it was a perfectly simple question.
I had gone backstage to interview the conductor of an ethnic Armenian
church choir after a rousing performance at Istanbul University.
As the choristers packed up their manuscripts, we chatted for a while
about the music and the conductor was all smiles.
Then I asked his opinion on the conference his choir was singing at -
the snappily labelled "Symposium on New Approaches to Turkish-Armenian
relations".
I wondered if he thought the event could help mend fences. Within
seconds, he was edging away from me, apparently deeply uncomfortable.
"I don't want to talk about politics," he pleaded, "we just came for
the music!"
It was a telling insight.
Closed borders
Turkey and Armenia are neighbours who might as well be a million
miles apart.
Diplomatic relations have been frozen for over a decade; their mutual
border is closed.
They seem to have no idea there used to be hundreds of thousands
of us here Vartan, ethnic Armenian Part of the reason is Turkey's
support for the Azeris in their conflict with Armenia.
But the direct dispute is over a matter of history: The death of
hundreds of thousands of Armenians in eastern Turkey during the dying
days of the Ottoman empire.
Armenia wants those deaths recognised as genocide. Turkey refuses to
accept that term.
For Armenia and its vast and powerful diaspora, getting recognition
from Ankara is a mission so important, it is almost a way of life.
But here inside Turkey, ethnic Armenians have chosen an uncomfortable
silence over confrontation.
I visited Anush and her brother Vartan in a leafy middle class suburb
of Istanbul.
Their apartment was typical of the area, but with the odd design
twists, like knotted dried flowers on the table that reminded me of
my trips to the Caucasus.
"Turks still ask me where I come from," Vartan told me, as his
sister brought in the tea. "They seem to have no idea there used to
be hundreds of thousands of us here."
Uneasy existence
Anush and Vartan are just two of some 60,000 ethnic Armenians who
still live in Turkey - a land their ancestors have inhabited for
almost 2,000 years. It is an uneasy co-existence.
"We've lived with violence ever since I was born," Anush told me.
"Graffiti on our churches, abuse on the streets. I still think twice
in some areas before I say my name openly."
For previous generations life was even tougher.
Anush's parents barely speak Armenian, because their parents worried
they would stand out and when Armenian militants began assassinating
Turkish diplomats in the 1970s, Turkish Armenian families here made
themselves more invisible still.
It is hardly surprising they do not normally voice an opinion on what
happened in 1915.
Anush and Vartan are a rare exception and, even so, I have had to
change their names.
We know exactly what happened, Vartan told me.
He said his Armenian great grandparents were forcibly deported
south, accused of siding with Russian troops against the Turks. They
handed their children over to Turkish neighbours for safety and
never returned.
There is a similar tragedy behind every Armenian door here, but
the local patriarch has banned his community from discussing it -
if they want to keep their jobs in Armenian churches and schools.
"It's fear," Anush told me simply.
There have been some early signs of change here. Last year a university
in Istanbul hosted the first discussion of the genocide claims in
Turkey ever to question the official line. It was hugely controversial
but it happened.
And now international pressure on Ankara to re-examine its position
is increasing.
Vartan welcomes that but he senses a rise in aggressive, nationalist
feeling in Turkey in response.
"If other countries force this issue, it will be terrible for the
Armenian people here," Vartan told me quietly.
"If you plunge a man into boiling water, he will burn," he said,
"but if you increase the heat gently, he could get used to it."
'Pseudo-citizens'
Unlike the Kurds, Turkey's Armenian population is an officially
recognised minority with certain rights and privileges.
But despite that - and despite their silence - Turkish Armenians seem
like pseudo-citizens.
I began to understand the price people like that choirmaster pay to
live in peace in Turkey Anush told me that in one school text book
Armenians are still described as separatists with an eye on Turkish
land. History books carry the official view of 1915, of course,
with the Armenians exiled as traitors.
And even now, in Armenian schools here, ethnic Armenians are banned
from teaching certain "strategic" subjects - geography, sociology,
morality, history.
As we talked into the warm evening, and glasses of tea gave way to
Armenian cognac, I began to understand the price people like that
choir master pay to live in peace in Turkey.
To many Armenians abroad their silence is a sort of treachery. For
Anush, Vartan and the others it is about protecting a fragile peace.
But it is all built on the shakiest of foundations.
"I am positive. I do have hopes for Turkey," Anush told me as I put
on my shoes to go.
"But I don't remember ever feeling truly comfortable living here.
Always at the back of my mind is the thought that one day I may be
forced to leave."