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Fresno Bee (California)
April 1, 2011 Friday
Stand up to Turkey, then move on
by Danielle R. Shapazian
One of the most beloved story arcs in American culture is that of the
downtrodden ultimately finding their way past adversity to revel in a
new-found glory. We all know how it goes: The scorned
wife/lover/factory worker/playground nerd has suffered long enough.
After yet another punch to the gut, another assault to the spirit,
they've reached their limit. Fed up, resolute, they're not going to
take it anymore.
So they pull themselves up from their bootstraps. A cry goes out to
the world. "Enough is enough! I know who I am. I deserve better than
this!" Then they walk into the sunset, spirit soaring, chest held
high. "Tomorrow will be a better day because you can't kick me
anymore!"
That's what I want Armenians to say to the Turkish people. "Enough is enough!"
And then I want them to proudly, quietly move on.
You might ask how I get off asserting such a radical idea. Who does
she think she is, this green-eyed half-breed who knows only a few
Armenian words?
I can say this because I know the truth. I don't need any government,
or Congressional resolution, or Turkish revisionist to tell me what I
already know: That the Armenian Genocide happened. That a lot of
innocent lives were lost. That the homeland of my ancestors was lost,
too.
The first time I caught a glimpse of Mount Ararat, I lost my breath.
Walking out the door of a magnificent Orthodox cathedral in Yerevan, I
happened to look to my left.
The sight took me by surprise. I silently gasped and my eyes filled
with tears. My visceral reaction surprised me. Yet, my heart knew
better. This tall, snow-capped mass of volcanic rock that soared
toward the sky was a part of me. This was the mountain of my people.
Mount Ararat sits in Turkey now.
I had never felt a particular compulsion to visit Armenia. Not that I
wasn't proud of my heritage. But my paternal grandparents had fled
that land almost a hundred years before. Each time I remembered their
courage, I rejoiced in my own good fortune. Their sacrifice was
ultimately my gain. I am a proud American down to the tip of my toes.
But an opportunity presented itself in 2001. Then 9/11 happened and my
travel plans were stalled. A war was brewing. No one wanted to go
anywhere near the Middle East.
Half a year passed. On a spring afternoon, I sat in a Fresno bistro
with my family and ate Italian food as my farewell lunch. My father
handed me the name of the Armenian village of his parents, Basmashen,
scrawled on a piece of paper. "Look for it," he said. Then I started
my journey to the other side of the world.
Some days later, my traveling companions and I ventured to a place on
the border between Armenia and Turkey. A soldier armed with a machine
gun escorted us, just in case. We looked through a chain-linked fence,
across a huge ravine, to see the abandoned, medieval ruins of an
Armenian village called Ani.
Later, I would tell my father that whatever became of the village of
his ancestors, I wasn't able to find out. That place was on other side
of the fence too, but, far, far away, in the middle of Turkey. We
weren't even close.
On April 24, in Yerevan, we walked in silence with tens of thousands
of other Armenians toward the Armenian Genocide Memorial, taking the
opportunity to lay a flower of remembrance at the eternal flame. The
trees along the path were just budding, but even in the hope of
springtime, we could feel the sad presence of those who were lost to
an evil hand.
Now, in 2011, it doesn't get past me that Easter happens to coincide
with Armenian Martyr's Day this year. Might we think of Jesus and
forgive the Turkish people who have been brainwashed over generations
to revise history, to deny the truth? Might we forgive their
ignorance, the posturing of their government, without forgetting those
horrific acts?
They can't kick us anymore if we don't let them. Let that belief, that
strength, be our glory.
Danielle R. Shapazian of Fresno is associate chief of staff for
Clinical Affairs and Quality Management, VA Central California
Healthcare System.
From: A. Papazian
April 1, 2011 Friday
Stand up to Turkey, then move on
by Danielle R. Shapazian
One of the most beloved story arcs in American culture is that of the
downtrodden ultimately finding their way past adversity to revel in a
new-found glory. We all know how it goes: The scorned
wife/lover/factory worker/playground nerd has suffered long enough.
After yet another punch to the gut, another assault to the spirit,
they've reached their limit. Fed up, resolute, they're not going to
take it anymore.
So they pull themselves up from their bootstraps. A cry goes out to
the world. "Enough is enough! I know who I am. I deserve better than
this!" Then they walk into the sunset, spirit soaring, chest held
high. "Tomorrow will be a better day because you can't kick me
anymore!"
That's what I want Armenians to say to the Turkish people. "Enough is enough!"
And then I want them to proudly, quietly move on.
You might ask how I get off asserting such a radical idea. Who does
she think she is, this green-eyed half-breed who knows only a few
Armenian words?
I can say this because I know the truth. I don't need any government,
or Congressional resolution, or Turkish revisionist to tell me what I
already know: That the Armenian Genocide happened. That a lot of
innocent lives were lost. That the homeland of my ancestors was lost,
too.
The first time I caught a glimpse of Mount Ararat, I lost my breath.
Walking out the door of a magnificent Orthodox cathedral in Yerevan, I
happened to look to my left.
The sight took me by surprise. I silently gasped and my eyes filled
with tears. My visceral reaction surprised me. Yet, my heart knew
better. This tall, snow-capped mass of volcanic rock that soared
toward the sky was a part of me. This was the mountain of my people.
Mount Ararat sits in Turkey now.
I had never felt a particular compulsion to visit Armenia. Not that I
wasn't proud of my heritage. But my paternal grandparents had fled
that land almost a hundred years before. Each time I remembered their
courage, I rejoiced in my own good fortune. Their sacrifice was
ultimately my gain. I am a proud American down to the tip of my toes.
But an opportunity presented itself in 2001. Then 9/11 happened and my
travel plans were stalled. A war was brewing. No one wanted to go
anywhere near the Middle East.
Half a year passed. On a spring afternoon, I sat in a Fresno bistro
with my family and ate Italian food as my farewell lunch. My father
handed me the name of the Armenian village of his parents, Basmashen,
scrawled on a piece of paper. "Look for it," he said. Then I started
my journey to the other side of the world.
Some days later, my traveling companions and I ventured to a place on
the border between Armenia and Turkey. A soldier armed with a machine
gun escorted us, just in case. We looked through a chain-linked fence,
across a huge ravine, to see the abandoned, medieval ruins of an
Armenian village called Ani.
Later, I would tell my father that whatever became of the village of
his ancestors, I wasn't able to find out. That place was on other side
of the fence too, but, far, far away, in the middle of Turkey. We
weren't even close.
On April 24, in Yerevan, we walked in silence with tens of thousands
of other Armenians toward the Armenian Genocide Memorial, taking the
opportunity to lay a flower of remembrance at the eternal flame. The
trees along the path were just budding, but even in the hope of
springtime, we could feel the sad presence of those who were lost to
an evil hand.
Now, in 2011, it doesn't get past me that Easter happens to coincide
with Armenian Martyr's Day this year. Might we think of Jesus and
forgive the Turkish people who have been brainwashed over generations
to revise history, to deny the truth? Might we forgive their
ignorance, the posturing of their government, without forgetting those
horrific acts?
They can't kick us anymore if we don't let them. Let that belief, that
strength, be our glory.
Danielle R. Shapazian of Fresno is associate chief of staff for
Clinical Affairs and Quality Management, VA Central California
Healthcare System.
From: A. Papazian