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WHY THE GHOST OF ARMENIAN GENOCIDE HAUNTS THE KURDS OF TURKEY
AINA Assyrian International News Agency
April 15 2015
By Anne Andlauer
http://www.worldcrunch.com
Posted 2015-04-15 18:48 GMT
Inside Diyarbakir's Surp Giragos Armenian Church.DIYARBAKIR -- Leaning
against a basalt pillar, young Muhammad Enes calls out in his reedy
voice to anybody who approaches, advertising a closer look at the
historical site here in the eastern Turkish city of Diyarbakir. "Do
you want to visit?" the boy asks. "The Surp Giragos is the oldest
Armenian church in the entire Middle East. It sheltered 3,000
worshippers and a cannon destroyed its bell tower in 1915."
Muhammad is too young to have played in the ruins of Surp Giragos,
restored and reopened to worshipers in 2011. He is also too young to
fully understand the massacres and deportations that these walls, this
town, this part of the Turkish region of Anatolia witnessed, almost a
century before he was born.
Still the children of Diyarbakir who hear the bells toll at recess
time already know more than what their school history books will ever
tell them about the Armenian genocide, which began 100 years ago this
week.
Too often, too soon, when it's about Turkey and the Armenian genocide,
the Turkish state's denial is understood as the denial of the society
as a whole. That would be forgetting that the memory of the Armenian
people is inscribed in the land where they lived for so long, and in
the minds of the peoples they long lived alongside, including another
population with a history of conflict with the Turkish state: the
Kurds.
"The people of this region know there was a genocide and they don't
deny it," says Aram Hacikyan, the Surp Giragos church's guardian.
Aram talks about his grandfather, who was an orphan of 1915, taken in
by a Kurd who converted to Islam, but "never hid that he was Armenian.
In our family, unlike what happened in other families, this was never
a secret."
In 1914, some 60,000 Armenians were living in Diyarbakir, notes Adnan
Celik, a researcher at the Parisian School for Advanced Studies in the
Social Sciences. "It's a symbolic location of the genocide because
there used to be a mixed population here -- of Armenians, Kurds,
Syriacs, Turkmens," Celik says.
This is also the province, whose governor, Mehmed Reshid, dubbed the
"butcher of Diyarbakir" infamously sent a telegram in 1915
congratulating himself for having doomed as many as 160,000 Armenians
to deportation and death.
Adnan Celik, whose grandmother was also a bavfilleh (a Kurdish word
used to refer to Armenians who converted to Islam), recently published
a book about the memory of the genocide among the Kurdish people of
Diyarbakir. "The absence of Armenians, here, is an infinite loss.
People recount stories of an unbelievable violence with such details,
as if it had happened yesterday," he says.
The young anthropologist stops a moment to talk about the role played
by the Kurdish political movement, which "from the start has been
questioning the official version of the story, talking about the
genocide and the part the Kurds played in this genocide."
Heaven by sword
As enthusiastic and zealous as he might have been, Reshid probably
couldn't have led 160,000 Armenians to death without the active help
of several of Diyarbakir's important families and Kurdish tribe
leaders. These men were promised and often obtained a certain plot of
land or home after the Armenian owner was executed. Muslims who were
promised heaven for every seven Christians they put to the sword.
"Careful to avoid any anachronism here," warns Adnan Celik. "In 1915,
nationalist claims from the Kurds of this region didn't exist yet.
Those who took part in the genocide often did so as Muslims against
non-Muslim infidels."
Abdullah Demirbas's face looks chastened when he talks about these
"Kurds misled by the state to slaughter Armenians," despite having
lived alongside them for centuries.
"My grandfather would tell me the story of a priest who, to convince
one Kurd not to kill him, supposedly told him, 'We are the breakfast,
you'll be the lunch.' And that's what happened," he sighs.
Like many in Diyarbakir, Abdullah Demirbas, a local political leader,
sees a continuity between the genocide of the Armenians of the Ottoman
Empire and the killings, a decade later of Kurds at the outset of the
Turkish Republic until the end of the 20th century.
"It's important that we, the grandchildren of those who helped in the
genocide, face this past, not only to settle our debt but also to
build a future together," he insists.
For the former mayor of Sur, an ancient neighborhood in Diyarbakir
where many Armenians used to live, "a future together" is more than
just a slogan. In 2009, Abdullah Demirbas played a key role in the
restoration of the Armenian church, with the support of the Diyarbakir
city council and the Surp Giragos Foundation.
Demirbas, a brawny and imposing figure, admits he "almost cried" when
it was inaugurated. "I feel I've repaid part of my debt," he says.
Aram Hacikyan says the site is more than a church: "It's becoming a
gathering point for all Armenians," he notes, citing visitors from
Europe, Armenia and the United States. "Some people in the diaspora
are less scared of coming to Turkey, where the genocide took place,
since they know that the church is back."
Abdullah Demirbas, the former mayor, believes they have to go further
and encourage the Armenians of Diyarbakir to come back. He mentions a
school, and even offers to build a "genocide museum."
"We can't wait for the Turkish authorities to do something on their
own, so we must force them to do it," he says.
Adnan Celik is more skeptical. "Many Kurdish recognize the genocide,
they apologize, and then what? Are they the only guilty?" he asks.
"The real question is what the state, which has been denying it for
100 years, is going to do about it."
In the church's yard, still wet after the last rain shower, Armen
Demirdjian nods. He found out about his Armenian origins at the age of
30. His grandparents were killed during the genocide. His father, aged
4 in 1915, never talked about it and Armen never asked. But now he
wants to know, and wants the world to know too. "We can't keep
sweeping the dirt under the rug forever," he says. "Sooner or later,
we will have to lift it up and shake it, and let all the dirt come out
for everyone to see."
http://www.aina.org/news/20150415144806.htm
AINA Assyrian International News Agency
April 15 2015
By Anne Andlauer
http://www.worldcrunch.com
Posted 2015-04-15 18:48 GMT
Inside Diyarbakir's Surp Giragos Armenian Church.DIYARBAKIR -- Leaning
against a basalt pillar, young Muhammad Enes calls out in his reedy
voice to anybody who approaches, advertising a closer look at the
historical site here in the eastern Turkish city of Diyarbakir. "Do
you want to visit?" the boy asks. "The Surp Giragos is the oldest
Armenian church in the entire Middle East. It sheltered 3,000
worshippers and a cannon destroyed its bell tower in 1915."
Muhammad is too young to have played in the ruins of Surp Giragos,
restored and reopened to worshipers in 2011. He is also too young to
fully understand the massacres and deportations that these walls, this
town, this part of the Turkish region of Anatolia witnessed, almost a
century before he was born.
Still the children of Diyarbakir who hear the bells toll at recess
time already know more than what their school history books will ever
tell them about the Armenian genocide, which began 100 years ago this
week.
Too often, too soon, when it's about Turkey and the Armenian genocide,
the Turkish state's denial is understood as the denial of the society
as a whole. That would be forgetting that the memory of the Armenian
people is inscribed in the land where they lived for so long, and in
the minds of the peoples they long lived alongside, including another
population with a history of conflict with the Turkish state: the
Kurds.
"The people of this region know there was a genocide and they don't
deny it," says Aram Hacikyan, the Surp Giragos church's guardian.
Aram talks about his grandfather, who was an orphan of 1915, taken in
by a Kurd who converted to Islam, but "never hid that he was Armenian.
In our family, unlike what happened in other families, this was never
a secret."
In 1914, some 60,000 Armenians were living in Diyarbakir, notes Adnan
Celik, a researcher at the Parisian School for Advanced Studies in the
Social Sciences. "It's a symbolic location of the genocide because
there used to be a mixed population here -- of Armenians, Kurds,
Syriacs, Turkmens," Celik says.
This is also the province, whose governor, Mehmed Reshid, dubbed the
"butcher of Diyarbakir" infamously sent a telegram in 1915
congratulating himself for having doomed as many as 160,000 Armenians
to deportation and death.
Adnan Celik, whose grandmother was also a bavfilleh (a Kurdish word
used to refer to Armenians who converted to Islam), recently published
a book about the memory of the genocide among the Kurdish people of
Diyarbakir. "The absence of Armenians, here, is an infinite loss.
People recount stories of an unbelievable violence with such details,
as if it had happened yesterday," he says.
The young anthropologist stops a moment to talk about the role played
by the Kurdish political movement, which "from the start has been
questioning the official version of the story, talking about the
genocide and the part the Kurds played in this genocide."
Heaven by sword
As enthusiastic and zealous as he might have been, Reshid probably
couldn't have led 160,000 Armenians to death without the active help
of several of Diyarbakir's important families and Kurdish tribe
leaders. These men were promised and often obtained a certain plot of
land or home after the Armenian owner was executed. Muslims who were
promised heaven for every seven Christians they put to the sword.
"Careful to avoid any anachronism here," warns Adnan Celik. "In 1915,
nationalist claims from the Kurds of this region didn't exist yet.
Those who took part in the genocide often did so as Muslims against
non-Muslim infidels."
Abdullah Demirbas's face looks chastened when he talks about these
"Kurds misled by the state to slaughter Armenians," despite having
lived alongside them for centuries.
"My grandfather would tell me the story of a priest who, to convince
one Kurd not to kill him, supposedly told him, 'We are the breakfast,
you'll be the lunch.' And that's what happened," he sighs.
Like many in Diyarbakir, Abdullah Demirbas, a local political leader,
sees a continuity between the genocide of the Armenians of the Ottoman
Empire and the killings, a decade later of Kurds at the outset of the
Turkish Republic until the end of the 20th century.
"It's important that we, the grandchildren of those who helped in the
genocide, face this past, not only to settle our debt but also to
build a future together," he insists.
For the former mayor of Sur, an ancient neighborhood in Diyarbakir
where many Armenians used to live, "a future together" is more than
just a slogan. In 2009, Abdullah Demirbas played a key role in the
restoration of the Armenian church, with the support of the Diyarbakir
city council and the Surp Giragos Foundation.
Demirbas, a brawny and imposing figure, admits he "almost cried" when
it was inaugurated. "I feel I've repaid part of my debt," he says.
Aram Hacikyan says the site is more than a church: "It's becoming a
gathering point for all Armenians," he notes, citing visitors from
Europe, Armenia and the United States. "Some people in the diaspora
are less scared of coming to Turkey, where the genocide took place,
since they know that the church is back."
Abdullah Demirbas, the former mayor, believes they have to go further
and encourage the Armenians of Diyarbakir to come back. He mentions a
school, and even offers to build a "genocide museum."
"We can't wait for the Turkish authorities to do something on their
own, so we must force them to do it," he says.
Adnan Celik is more skeptical. "Many Kurdish recognize the genocide,
they apologize, and then what? Are they the only guilty?" he asks.
"The real question is what the state, which has been denying it for
100 years, is going to do about it."
In the church's yard, still wet after the last rain shower, Armen
Demirdjian nods. He found out about his Armenian origins at the age of
30. His grandparents were killed during the genocide. His father, aged
4 in 1915, never talked about it and Armen never asked. But now he
wants to know, and wants the world to know too. "We can't keep
sweeping the dirt under the rug forever," he says. "Sooner or later,
we will have to lift it up and shake it, and let all the dirt come out
for everyone to see."
http://www.aina.org/news/20150415144806.htm