Tweet
YEREVAN TO DIYARBEKIR AND BACK: RECONNECTING WITH A FADING PAST
Hrant Gadarigian
hetq
14:05, October 28, 2011
Last week I and two friends hopped in a Japanese jeep and headed off
from Yerevan for the reopening of the Armenian Apostolic Church of St.
Kirakos in Diyarbekir, Turkey.
The only reason I mention that the jeep was of Japanese manufacture
is because the wheel is located on the right side. This served to
constantly amaze curious onlookers as we winded our way through the
mountains and valleys of eastern Anatolia.
Even though I had travelled to Turkey before (Istanbul, Ankara, Van),
it was always by plane. Now, I'd get a chance to see the people and
landscape up-close and in person.
Turkey by Way of Javakhk
Given that Turkey refuses to open its border with Armenia, we had to
first head to Georgia and the border crossing with Turkey at Posof.
We travelled through the Armenian region of Javakhk, stopping for
some eye drops for our driver, a French-Armenian photo-journalist,
in Akhalkalak.
Some locals gathered round and asked who we were and where we were
headed. They noted that the western Armenian we spoke reminded them
of their own dialect, given that many in the district trace their
roots back to Erzeroum.
There's a closer border crossing with Turkey at Akhalkalak but it
too is closed. Local Armenians couldn't tell us why.
We passed through the larger town of Akhaltskha and then climbed the
mountains to Posof. Things went smoothly until the Turkish customs
officials told us that the jeep had to be inspected. It was a very
thorough search and my friend Max said it was the first inspection
he had ever been subjected to in his many trips to Turkey by the
same route.
Given the green light, we drove in the approaching darkness bypassing
the old fortress town of Kars and the battlefield of Sarikamish,
site of the WWI battle between the Ottoman and Turkish armies.
Erzeroum: An Armenian Neighborhood in the Old Quarter
Tired and bleary-eyed we finally reached Erzeroum late that night
and were fortunate to get a room for the three of us at the local
dormitory for visiting Turkish teachers and college instructors.
At this point, I should mention that the third member of the group
was Khachik, a former Istanbul-Armenian who moved to Armenia some
twenty years ago. He was to serve as our resourceful translator,
my Turkish being rudimentary at best.
When we awoke the next morning, the city was covered in a blanket of
snow. It was still falling when we headed to the dormitory cafeteria
for a breakfast of olives, cheese and tea. The latter beverage is
a staple in the eastern districts of Turkey and served in small
cylindrical glasses.
Luckily, Max had also brought alone a small coffee maker that proved
invaluable to a morning coffee addict like myself.
Before heading off, Max took us to an old Erzeroum neighbourhood of
semi-ruined stone buildings. He'd visited the place before on a prior
trip. Max claimed it was a former Armenian neighbourhood.
Presently, the entire neighbourhood is slated to be razed by the
Erzeroum Municipality. Those still living there are being bought out
by the local government.
I and Khachik tramped around the empty streets, trying to keep warm,
while the ever intrepid Max disappeared around a corner searching
for his next big photo.
Heading South to Bingyol and Diyarbekir
After an hour or two, we bundled into the car and took the southerly
road out of Erzeroum. Our next stop would be Bingyol. The ascending
route through the mountains proved treacherous due to the snowy
conditions. Periodic road construction made the passage even worse.
The snow finally let up as we approached the small town of Bingyol -
inspiration for the famous melancholy song of lament and loss whose
first line goes, "Dear sister, can you tell me the way to Bingyol".
We stopped for something to eat in this overwhelmingly Kurdish
populated community. Max also wanted to buy a cheap pair of shoes. The
pair he had on in Erzeroum were soaked to the core due to the slushy
streets. Hey, what did he expect, the soles already had holes in them.
The landscape had changed to a series of mostly treeless valleys and
sloping hills. The expanses were vast and scenic. A lost paradise?
A bit of etymology regarding the name. Following the Arab conquests
in the 7th century, the Arab Bekr tribe occupied this region, which
became known as became known as the Diyar-ı Bekir (landholdings of
the Bekr tribe). In 1937, Ataturk had the city renamed Diyarbakır,
which remains its current name.
It's the unofficial capital of Turkey's Kurdish regions with a
population of just over 800,000.
As to why Armenians call the city "Dikranagerd" remains somewhat
puzzling. I read in Wikipedia that Armenian historians once theorized
that the city was the site of the ancient Armenian city of the same
name and that by the 19th century Armenian residents were using the
name. Maybe readers of this will have other hypotheses.
We got a room in a hotel down a narrow alleyway off the main square
in the old part of town. The alleyway was so narrow that an athletic
person might have been able to jump from our hotel window to that of
the hotel across the way.
Amid - City on the Tigris
It was Wednesday, the 19th. We could already spot the Armenians
from Istanbul and elsewhere walking around the streets of the old
town. I mean, even to the untrained eye, they and we, stuck out like
sore thumbs.
Max, carrying around his camera with the protruding lens, became a
constant magnet for the street kids looking for a handout. These were
children ranging in age from 5 to 8 or nine; tops.
"Hello", "English, English" or "Money, please", were just a few of
the lines the kids used as they approached. They probably learned
them from the older kids who were now working in the market stalls
as porters or tea shops as waiters. However, I did spot some really
young kids pushing around wooden trolleys to transport a variety of
items through the cobblestone streets.
After checking in, we made our way to the district where St. Kirakos
is located. Max was again on the lookout for some good photos and the
local residents seemed to oblige his request to be captured on film.
Many invited him in to their courtyards as he poked his head in this
any open door.
We stumbled upon the Syrian Orthodox Church and entered the large
garden. There we met some Armenian women who had travelled from
the Syrian town of Khamishli on the Turkish border for the church
celebrations.
We talked to an Armenian man in his 50's who was born in Diyarbekir
but now lives in Istanbul. In fact, most people we talked to said that
there were at most just a handful of Armenians, mostly elderly, left
in the city. Two were serving as caretakers at the Chaldean Church.
It was then off to St. Kirakos where we met Aram the local caretaker.
Aram says that he is Armenian on one side of the family. I can't
remember which. An energetic, affable man in his 40's, Aram was
supervising the preparation for Saturday's re-consecreation of the
church and Sunday's religious service.
And there was a lot still to be done. Construction material was
scattered all about the church courtyard. Aram assured us that local
workers would be hired to clear it all away in time.
Lice - Islamicised Armenians and a Ruined Church
Before leaving him to it, Max asked Aram if he could direct us to any
nearby villages where Islamicized Armenians were known to reside. He
said there were plenty and promised to provide us with details and
some contacts.
True to his word, the next day we were met by a relative of Aram's
who offered to take us to a cluster of villages near the town of Lice,
midway along the Diyarbekir to Bingyol highway.
There we met with several "Kurdicized" Armenians who told us that
their grandparents or great-grandparents, mostly on the maternal side,
were indeed Armenian. These local residents were the offspring of young
Armenian girls taken during the massacres and winding up as brides.
That was the extent of their Armenian identity - little else was passed
down through the generations. It wasn't exactly prudent to identify
yourself as Armenian during a period when the young Turkish republic
was embarking on a state policy of Turkish national consolidation.
These "Armenians" that we met along the way appeared uncomfortable
talking to us regarding such issues in the presence of their Kurdish
neighbors. It was only when we split away from the larger group that
they opened up to us.
One could sense that something was different in their manner as well.
They were animated and expressive, even the woman, in the presence
of three male foreigners who had entered their closeted rural world.
When we told them we had come from Armenia they asked questions and
even wanted to know what "Jerevan" was like.
Aram's relative escorted us to a ruined structure that closely
resembled an Armenian church atop a hill. Its name and history was
a mystery even to him. All he could tell us was that the area once
boasted a large Armenian presence. Few traces, if any, remain today.
We returned to Diyarbekir, leaving our newly found compatriots behind
but not forgotten. Mardin: A Mountain Fortress
The next day we decided to head south, to the ancient city of Mardin,
perched high on a rocky mountain overlooking the plains on northern
Syria.
During 1915-1916, Arab, Assyrian/Syriac and Armenian Christians of
all denominations were massacred or driven away. No Armenians are
said to live in Mardin today.
The city is a series of ascending terraces and narrow streets with
passageways leading up to the next level. Scattered about in the
narrow alleys are craftsmen plying their trades in small shops -
woodworkers, tinsmiths, jewelers, blacksmiths... The entire old
city is a jumbled mosaic of homes, shops, mosques and churches -
the latter mainly Syrian Orthodox.
There is however the St. George (Sourp Kevork) Armenian Church in
Derik, a western district of Mardin Province, that still stands. In
2006, Archbishop Mesrop Mutafyan, Patriarch of Istanbul, visited the
church in Derik and spoke with the last three remaining Armenians -
Kevork, Naif, and his wife, Srpuhi, Demirci. Are they still there?
Never making it to Derik, we cannot say.
St. Kirakos: What Future Awaits the Church?
On Saturday, the day of the re-consecration of the restored 16th
century St. Kirakos Church, it was standing room only. There were
local dignitaries, top ranking clergy and other invited guests
including former foreign minister of Armenia and the leader of
Armenia's Heritage Party, Raffi Hovhannisian, U.S. Ambassador to Turkey
Francis Ricciardione, Dositheos Anagnostopulos, spokesperson for the
Istanbul-based Greek Orthodox Patriarchate, Yusuf Cetin, patriarchal
vicar of the Syriac Orthodox Church in Istanbul, Diyarbakır Mayor
Osman Baydemir and Sur Mayor Abdullah DemirbaÅ~_.
Walking around the side of St. Kirakos, event organizers had installed
a series of pictorial panels displaying the former presence of
Armenians in Diyarbekir. The pictures and text reminded visitors
that Armenians played a leading role in the arts and trades and
other sectors.
I picked up a leaflet entitled "What sort of place was Diyarbakir
in 1869?" The population of the city was broken down according to
religion. Out of a total population of 21,372 souls, 6,853 were
adherents of the Armenian Apostolic Church and 831 were Armenian
Catholics. Thus, 1/3 of residents were Armenian. 9,814 were listed as
Muslim, not specifying nationality. The remainder was an assortment of
Assyrians, Assyrian Catholics, Keldani, Greeks, Protestants and Jews.
The leaflet notes that there were four Armenian schools and four
Christian cemeteries. No traces exist today. If memory serves me
correctly, one of the posters noted that Dicle University, on the
eastern outskirts of Diyarbekir, was built on the site of a former
Armenian village.
On Sunday, the Divine Liturgy was offered at St. Kirakos for the
first time in over thirty years.
During WWI, the church was "appropriated" by the German military as a
command center. It was the used as an apparel depot by the state-owned
Sumerbank until 1950. The church was then handed back to the Armenian
community, following a long legal battle.
The church went into disuse and disrepair in the enduing decades as
the Armenian community dwindled in numbers. Many moved to Istanbul
or further afield. Some made the return trip to their hometown just
to be present for the church's reopening.
And it is a massive structure covering 3,200 square meters that can
accommodate 3,000 people. Who will use it (there are no Armenians
left in Diyarbekir) and how it will be used remains an open question.
(To be continued)
Hrant Gadarigian
hetq
14:05, October 28, 2011
Last week I and two friends hopped in a Japanese jeep and headed off
from Yerevan for the reopening of the Armenian Apostolic Church of St.
Kirakos in Diyarbekir, Turkey.
The only reason I mention that the jeep was of Japanese manufacture
is because the wheel is located on the right side. This served to
constantly amaze curious onlookers as we winded our way through the
mountains and valleys of eastern Anatolia.
Even though I had travelled to Turkey before (Istanbul, Ankara, Van),
it was always by plane. Now, I'd get a chance to see the people and
landscape up-close and in person.
Turkey by Way of Javakhk
Given that Turkey refuses to open its border with Armenia, we had to
first head to Georgia and the border crossing with Turkey at Posof.
We travelled through the Armenian region of Javakhk, stopping for
some eye drops for our driver, a French-Armenian photo-journalist,
in Akhalkalak.
Some locals gathered round and asked who we were and where we were
headed. They noted that the western Armenian we spoke reminded them
of their own dialect, given that many in the district trace their
roots back to Erzeroum.
There's a closer border crossing with Turkey at Akhalkalak but it
too is closed. Local Armenians couldn't tell us why.
We passed through the larger town of Akhaltskha and then climbed the
mountains to Posof. Things went smoothly until the Turkish customs
officials told us that the jeep had to be inspected. It was a very
thorough search and my friend Max said it was the first inspection
he had ever been subjected to in his many trips to Turkey by the
same route.
Given the green light, we drove in the approaching darkness bypassing
the old fortress town of Kars and the battlefield of Sarikamish,
site of the WWI battle between the Ottoman and Turkish armies.
Erzeroum: An Armenian Neighborhood in the Old Quarter
Tired and bleary-eyed we finally reached Erzeroum late that night
and were fortunate to get a room for the three of us at the local
dormitory for visiting Turkish teachers and college instructors.
At this point, I should mention that the third member of the group
was Khachik, a former Istanbul-Armenian who moved to Armenia some
twenty years ago. He was to serve as our resourceful translator,
my Turkish being rudimentary at best.
When we awoke the next morning, the city was covered in a blanket of
snow. It was still falling when we headed to the dormitory cafeteria
for a breakfast of olives, cheese and tea. The latter beverage is
a staple in the eastern districts of Turkey and served in small
cylindrical glasses.
Luckily, Max had also brought alone a small coffee maker that proved
invaluable to a morning coffee addict like myself.
Before heading off, Max took us to an old Erzeroum neighbourhood of
semi-ruined stone buildings. He'd visited the place before on a prior
trip. Max claimed it was a former Armenian neighbourhood.
Presently, the entire neighbourhood is slated to be razed by the
Erzeroum Municipality. Those still living there are being bought out
by the local government.
I and Khachik tramped around the empty streets, trying to keep warm,
while the ever intrepid Max disappeared around a corner searching
for his next big photo.
Heading South to Bingyol and Diyarbekir
After an hour or two, we bundled into the car and took the southerly
road out of Erzeroum. Our next stop would be Bingyol. The ascending
route through the mountains proved treacherous due to the snowy
conditions. Periodic road construction made the passage even worse.
The snow finally let up as we approached the small town of Bingyol -
inspiration for the famous melancholy song of lament and loss whose
first line goes, "Dear sister, can you tell me the way to Bingyol".
We stopped for something to eat in this overwhelmingly Kurdish
populated community. Max also wanted to buy a cheap pair of shoes. The
pair he had on in Erzeroum were soaked to the core due to the slushy
streets. Hey, what did he expect, the soles already had holes in them.
The landscape had changed to a series of mostly treeless valleys and
sloping hills. The expanses were vast and scenic. A lost paradise?
A bit of etymology regarding the name. Following the Arab conquests
in the 7th century, the Arab Bekr tribe occupied this region, which
became known as became known as the Diyar-ı Bekir (landholdings of
the Bekr tribe). In 1937, Ataturk had the city renamed Diyarbakır,
which remains its current name.
It's the unofficial capital of Turkey's Kurdish regions with a
population of just over 800,000.
As to why Armenians call the city "Dikranagerd" remains somewhat
puzzling. I read in Wikipedia that Armenian historians once theorized
that the city was the site of the ancient Armenian city of the same
name and that by the 19th century Armenian residents were using the
name. Maybe readers of this will have other hypotheses.
We got a room in a hotel down a narrow alleyway off the main square
in the old part of town. The alleyway was so narrow that an athletic
person might have been able to jump from our hotel window to that of
the hotel across the way.
Amid - City on the Tigris
It was Wednesday, the 19th. We could already spot the Armenians
from Istanbul and elsewhere walking around the streets of the old
town. I mean, even to the untrained eye, they and we, stuck out like
sore thumbs.
Max, carrying around his camera with the protruding lens, became a
constant magnet for the street kids looking for a handout. These were
children ranging in age from 5 to 8 or nine; tops.
"Hello", "English, English" or "Money, please", were just a few of
the lines the kids used as they approached. They probably learned
them from the older kids who were now working in the market stalls
as porters or tea shops as waiters. However, I did spot some really
young kids pushing around wooden trolleys to transport a variety of
items through the cobblestone streets.
After checking in, we made our way to the district where St. Kirakos
is located. Max was again on the lookout for some good photos and the
local residents seemed to oblige his request to be captured on film.
Many invited him in to their courtyards as he poked his head in this
any open door.
We stumbled upon the Syrian Orthodox Church and entered the large
garden. There we met some Armenian women who had travelled from
the Syrian town of Khamishli on the Turkish border for the church
celebrations.
We talked to an Armenian man in his 50's who was born in Diyarbekir
but now lives in Istanbul. In fact, most people we talked to said that
there were at most just a handful of Armenians, mostly elderly, left
in the city. Two were serving as caretakers at the Chaldean Church.
It was then off to St. Kirakos where we met Aram the local caretaker.
Aram says that he is Armenian on one side of the family. I can't
remember which. An energetic, affable man in his 40's, Aram was
supervising the preparation for Saturday's re-consecreation of the
church and Sunday's religious service.
And there was a lot still to be done. Construction material was
scattered all about the church courtyard. Aram assured us that local
workers would be hired to clear it all away in time.
Lice - Islamicised Armenians and a Ruined Church
Before leaving him to it, Max asked Aram if he could direct us to any
nearby villages where Islamicized Armenians were known to reside. He
said there were plenty and promised to provide us with details and
some contacts.
True to his word, the next day we were met by a relative of Aram's
who offered to take us to a cluster of villages near the town of Lice,
midway along the Diyarbekir to Bingyol highway.
There we met with several "Kurdicized" Armenians who told us that
their grandparents or great-grandparents, mostly on the maternal side,
were indeed Armenian. These local residents were the offspring of young
Armenian girls taken during the massacres and winding up as brides.
That was the extent of their Armenian identity - little else was passed
down through the generations. It wasn't exactly prudent to identify
yourself as Armenian during a period when the young Turkish republic
was embarking on a state policy of Turkish national consolidation.
These "Armenians" that we met along the way appeared uncomfortable
talking to us regarding such issues in the presence of their Kurdish
neighbors. It was only when we split away from the larger group that
they opened up to us.
One could sense that something was different in their manner as well.
They were animated and expressive, even the woman, in the presence
of three male foreigners who had entered their closeted rural world.
When we told them we had come from Armenia they asked questions and
even wanted to know what "Jerevan" was like.
Aram's relative escorted us to a ruined structure that closely
resembled an Armenian church atop a hill. Its name and history was
a mystery even to him. All he could tell us was that the area once
boasted a large Armenian presence. Few traces, if any, remain today.
We returned to Diyarbekir, leaving our newly found compatriots behind
but not forgotten. Mardin: A Mountain Fortress
The next day we decided to head south, to the ancient city of Mardin,
perched high on a rocky mountain overlooking the plains on northern
Syria.
During 1915-1916, Arab, Assyrian/Syriac and Armenian Christians of
all denominations were massacred or driven away. No Armenians are
said to live in Mardin today.
The city is a series of ascending terraces and narrow streets with
passageways leading up to the next level. Scattered about in the
narrow alleys are craftsmen plying their trades in small shops -
woodworkers, tinsmiths, jewelers, blacksmiths... The entire old
city is a jumbled mosaic of homes, shops, mosques and churches -
the latter mainly Syrian Orthodox.
There is however the St. George (Sourp Kevork) Armenian Church in
Derik, a western district of Mardin Province, that still stands. In
2006, Archbishop Mesrop Mutafyan, Patriarch of Istanbul, visited the
church in Derik and spoke with the last three remaining Armenians -
Kevork, Naif, and his wife, Srpuhi, Demirci. Are they still there?
Never making it to Derik, we cannot say.
St. Kirakos: What Future Awaits the Church?
On Saturday, the day of the re-consecration of the restored 16th
century St. Kirakos Church, it was standing room only. There were
local dignitaries, top ranking clergy and other invited guests
including former foreign minister of Armenia and the leader of
Armenia's Heritage Party, Raffi Hovhannisian, U.S. Ambassador to Turkey
Francis Ricciardione, Dositheos Anagnostopulos, spokesperson for the
Istanbul-based Greek Orthodox Patriarchate, Yusuf Cetin, patriarchal
vicar of the Syriac Orthodox Church in Istanbul, Diyarbakır Mayor
Osman Baydemir and Sur Mayor Abdullah DemirbaÅ~_.
Walking around the side of St. Kirakos, event organizers had installed
a series of pictorial panels displaying the former presence of
Armenians in Diyarbekir. The pictures and text reminded visitors
that Armenians played a leading role in the arts and trades and
other sectors.
I picked up a leaflet entitled "What sort of place was Diyarbakir
in 1869?" The population of the city was broken down according to
religion. Out of a total population of 21,372 souls, 6,853 were
adherents of the Armenian Apostolic Church and 831 were Armenian
Catholics. Thus, 1/3 of residents were Armenian. 9,814 were listed as
Muslim, not specifying nationality. The remainder was an assortment of
Assyrians, Assyrian Catholics, Keldani, Greeks, Protestants and Jews.
The leaflet notes that there were four Armenian schools and four
Christian cemeteries. No traces exist today. If memory serves me
correctly, one of the posters noted that Dicle University, on the
eastern outskirts of Diyarbekir, was built on the site of a former
Armenian village.
On Sunday, the Divine Liturgy was offered at St. Kirakos for the
first time in over thirty years.
During WWI, the church was "appropriated" by the German military as a
command center. It was the used as an apparel depot by the state-owned
Sumerbank until 1950. The church was then handed back to the Armenian
community, following a long legal battle.
The church went into disuse and disrepair in the enduing decades as
the Armenian community dwindled in numbers. Many moved to Istanbul
or further afield. Some made the return trip to their hometown just
to be present for the church's reopening.
And it is a massive structure covering 3,200 square meters that can
accommodate 3,000 people. Who will use it (there are no Armenians
left in Diyarbekir) and how it will be used remains an open question.
(To be continued)