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Fresno Bee
April 18 2016
Armenian genocide resonates through three generations of Fresno family
By Andrea Castillo
The Fresno Bee
April 18, 2015
Though he narrowly missed it, Sarkis Sahatdjian considers himself an
Armenian genocide survivor.
"The average American doesn't see what I see because they haven't been
through what I've seen: The aftermath," he said.
The 95-year-old was the first-born son of two survivors who fled
Armenia in 1918, settling with extended family in Fresno by 1924.
Next week San Joaquin Valley Armenians, along with those around the
world, will commemorate the 100th anniversary of the start of the
genocide: April 24, 1915. By its end in 1923, an estimated 1.5 million
people were dead at the hands of Ottoman Turks. The Turkish government
rejects the term genocide and despite more than 30 years of attempts
by politicians and Armenian-American leaders, the United States
government also has not officially recognized the massacres as a
genocide.
As the population of living survivors diminishes, keeping the genocide
alive becomes a task for their children and grandchildren. But the
Sahatdjian family, now with three generations of native-born
Americans, has found its significance resonates differently at each
age level.
"I want my descendants to know that the world can be a dangerous
place," Sahatdjian said. "The family stories can be both cautionary
and inspiring."
Settling in Fresno
Sarkis Sahatdjian nearly became a casualty of the genocide.
His parents married in 1918 and relocated to what is now Istanbul,
Turkey, after surviving death marches through the Syrian desert.
In 1922, Sahatdjian, a toddler, his brother Haig, a few days old, and
their parents applied for passports to Buenos Aires, Argentina. A
Turkish embassy official said they could leave with the baby but the
2-year-old would stay. Following the genocide, Turkey maintained a
policy of "Turkifying" young children born in Turkey. Some Armenian
children in orphanages there were forced to change their names,
religion and language.
Afterward, an Armenian worker who overheard the interaction whispered
to Sahatdjian's father to go back and say the boy was born in Armenia.
It worked; the family was allowed to leave intact.
They stayed in South America for more than a year, waiting for their
U.S. immigration paperwork to be processed before moving to Fresno.
Sahatdjian grew up learning intimate details of the atrocities his
family faced, such as the day two Turks beat his father up before one
took out a revolver to shoot him. "The other one said, 'Don't waste
the bullet. This guy is finished anyway.' And that saved his life."
He remembers learning how his aunt put dresses on two of her sons
because boys were killed more than girls. He also recalls his cousin
Adrine describing how her mother was beheaded in front of her for
refusing a Turkish soldier's proposition.
By the time his parents made it out of Armenia, they each had little
family left.
Sahatdjian's father ran a leather tannery and sewing machine
distributing business in Armenia. In Argentina he repaired shoes. In
the U.S., the family became migrants, working at canneries and packing
houses in Fresno during fig season, Rio Vista during asparagus season
and Yuba City, San Jose and Emeryville during peach season.
By 1928, they bought their first farm -- 20 acres of vineyard for
$6,000. Then the Great Depression hit, and the family spent years
struggling to survive as farmers.
After finishing high school, Sahatdjian joined the Army Air Forces,
serving in Guam during World War II as a military policeman guarding
Japanese prisoners of war. After the war he married Iris, an Armenian
woman whose parents left Armenia before the genocide, and returned to
farming with the family. Sahatdjian's father, facing a steep language
barrier, never became the businessman he was in the old country.
"In a free society here I was able to do what I did," he said. "My
father brought it so far. He got into farming because he didn't know
the language."
In 1963, Sahatdjian and his brother bought raisin processing
equipment, placed it on 40 acres in Madera and named it in memory of
their late father: Victor Packing. The business required all hands on
deck. Sahatdjian's wife Iris did payroll; their eldest child Victor
and his high school friends worked as a clean-up crew; daughter
Margaret and youngest child Bill joined in later.
Victor Packing remains a family business, also employing five of
Sahatdjian's 12 grandchildren. Looking back on the genocide makes
Sahatdjian think of them.
"Why destroy people that could create something like this?"
Second generation
Margaret Shirin, 61, grew up with a deep sense of her family's loss.
Being Armenian gave her an appreciation for how delicate life is and a
heightened fear of what the world can bring. She remembers her
grandmother's horrific tales of the genocide.
"She told me about seeing water and the Armenians rushing to drink and
the military hitting the people with clubs to prevent them from
getting water. Grandma went and was able to get some water, and some
to bring back to the children. She was so bloodied that her sisters
were asking each other, 'Who is that young girl with blood running
down her face?,' not even recognizing her."
Shirin sees a disconnect between her generation and her children's
reactions to the genocide. They didn't have someone like her
grandmother keeping it alive.
"These grandparents who went through this, I was really close to," she
said. "When there's an eyewitness to it, it's very vivid, very real.
I've tried to tell my kids, but I can tell it's not as real to them
because they didn't know her or my uncles."
Despite being the youngest, Bill Sahatdjian, 55, is the most active of
his siblings in the Armenian community. He is a deacon at Holy Trinity
Armenian Church in downtown Fresno and is on the Armenian Genocide
Centennial Fresno Committee. He also participates in community
activism, marching for recognition of the genocide on several
occasions.
Bill said his grandparents' stories shaped his life. He sees strength
in numbers, hoping that his individual involvement will help create
change.
"I don't want to see things get forgotten," he said.
Bill has five children, the youngest age 21. He hopes they will get
more involved in Armenian issues, but so far they have not.
Barlow Der Mugrdechian, coordinator of Armenian studies at Fresno
State, said it's a case of distance and human nature.
"Everybody's story becomes less relevant," he said. "You kind of want
to live your own life. On the other hand, there are quite a few third-
or fourth-generation Armenians that are pursuing the genocide issue
because it's a question of knowing who they are and where they come
from."
Third generation
Though all of Sarkis Sahatdjian's children speak Armenian, none of his
grandchildren know the language fluently.
"That's where the word genocide comes in," he said. "When they lose
the language, little by little they disappear. We're in America, which
is a melting pot."
Richard Sahatdjian, 33, said he is fortunate to have been able to
learn from his grandparents' struggles. He said it's difficult to
comprehend how a piece of history such as the genocide is not accepted
as fact by the U.S. government.
"History is so dependent on politics," he said. "That's bothersome, I
think, because it makes you question everything you've ever learned."
But other than attending a few genocide-related events, Richard, whose
father is Victor Sahatdjian (named after his grandfather), said he's
not that involved in the Armenian cause. Protest is just not in his
nature, he said.
"It's not my personal story, but it's something I've heard all my
life," he said. "The way that I deal with it is to do my best to
succeed. That's the only thing we can do. We're not powerful enough to
make governments do things."
Richard's sister Kristina Surabian, 35, said knowing her family's
connection to the genocide makes her hyper-aware of what they endured
so her generation could succeed.
Of Armenian culture and history, she said: "It's our choice as the
third generation to continue it. As fast as they started it, we can
get rid of it, too."
Surabian said it was important to her to marry an Armenian man and
continue being involved in the Armenian Christian church. She also
took Armenian language, history and culture classes in college, but is
not directly involved in recognizing the genocide.
"What's most important is we know who we are, we know the history of
the genocide, we know the culture," she said. "I hope to continue to
preserve it and continue to talk about it with my children. I hope
that it doesn't go away. I don't want that to happen."
When Shirin's daughter married a non-Armenian, her first reaction was
"How could you do this?" Shirin said that's not because her son-in-law
isn't a great guy, but because she was afraid her family's Armenian
culture would begin to fade.
Shirin said the family's history is important to all of her children,
but manifests differently in them than it does in her generation. Her
youngest son, for example, took up a traditional Armenian instrument
and is now in an Armenian band. "He has found his roots through the
music and gone from being not active to quite active in the culture,"
she said.
"Every generation does their best to pass along the story and their
children do what they can with it," she said. "You put it out there
and do your part. Beyond that, you hope someone picks it up somehow."
http://www.fresnobee.com/2015/04/18/4483912/armenian-genocide-significance.html
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress
April 18 2016
Armenian genocide resonates through three generations of Fresno family
By Andrea Castillo
The Fresno Bee
April 18, 2015
Though he narrowly missed it, Sarkis Sahatdjian considers himself an
Armenian genocide survivor.
"The average American doesn't see what I see because they haven't been
through what I've seen: The aftermath," he said.
The 95-year-old was the first-born son of two survivors who fled
Armenia in 1918, settling with extended family in Fresno by 1924.
Next week San Joaquin Valley Armenians, along with those around the
world, will commemorate the 100th anniversary of the start of the
genocide: April 24, 1915. By its end in 1923, an estimated 1.5 million
people were dead at the hands of Ottoman Turks. The Turkish government
rejects the term genocide and despite more than 30 years of attempts
by politicians and Armenian-American leaders, the United States
government also has not officially recognized the massacres as a
genocide.
As the population of living survivors diminishes, keeping the genocide
alive becomes a task for their children and grandchildren. But the
Sahatdjian family, now with three generations of native-born
Americans, has found its significance resonates differently at each
age level.
"I want my descendants to know that the world can be a dangerous
place," Sahatdjian said. "The family stories can be both cautionary
and inspiring."
Settling in Fresno
Sarkis Sahatdjian nearly became a casualty of the genocide.
His parents married in 1918 and relocated to what is now Istanbul,
Turkey, after surviving death marches through the Syrian desert.
In 1922, Sahatdjian, a toddler, his brother Haig, a few days old, and
their parents applied for passports to Buenos Aires, Argentina. A
Turkish embassy official said they could leave with the baby but the
2-year-old would stay. Following the genocide, Turkey maintained a
policy of "Turkifying" young children born in Turkey. Some Armenian
children in orphanages there were forced to change their names,
religion and language.
Afterward, an Armenian worker who overheard the interaction whispered
to Sahatdjian's father to go back and say the boy was born in Armenia.
It worked; the family was allowed to leave intact.
They stayed in South America for more than a year, waiting for their
U.S. immigration paperwork to be processed before moving to Fresno.
Sahatdjian grew up learning intimate details of the atrocities his
family faced, such as the day two Turks beat his father up before one
took out a revolver to shoot him. "The other one said, 'Don't waste
the bullet. This guy is finished anyway.' And that saved his life."
He remembers learning how his aunt put dresses on two of her sons
because boys were killed more than girls. He also recalls his cousin
Adrine describing how her mother was beheaded in front of her for
refusing a Turkish soldier's proposition.
By the time his parents made it out of Armenia, they each had little
family left.
Sahatdjian's father ran a leather tannery and sewing machine
distributing business in Armenia. In Argentina he repaired shoes. In
the U.S., the family became migrants, working at canneries and packing
houses in Fresno during fig season, Rio Vista during asparagus season
and Yuba City, San Jose and Emeryville during peach season.
By 1928, they bought their first farm -- 20 acres of vineyard for
$6,000. Then the Great Depression hit, and the family spent years
struggling to survive as farmers.
After finishing high school, Sahatdjian joined the Army Air Forces,
serving in Guam during World War II as a military policeman guarding
Japanese prisoners of war. After the war he married Iris, an Armenian
woman whose parents left Armenia before the genocide, and returned to
farming with the family. Sahatdjian's father, facing a steep language
barrier, never became the businessman he was in the old country.
"In a free society here I was able to do what I did," he said. "My
father brought it so far. He got into farming because he didn't know
the language."
In 1963, Sahatdjian and his brother bought raisin processing
equipment, placed it on 40 acres in Madera and named it in memory of
their late father: Victor Packing. The business required all hands on
deck. Sahatdjian's wife Iris did payroll; their eldest child Victor
and his high school friends worked as a clean-up crew; daughter
Margaret and youngest child Bill joined in later.
Victor Packing remains a family business, also employing five of
Sahatdjian's 12 grandchildren. Looking back on the genocide makes
Sahatdjian think of them.
"Why destroy people that could create something like this?"
Second generation
Margaret Shirin, 61, grew up with a deep sense of her family's loss.
Being Armenian gave her an appreciation for how delicate life is and a
heightened fear of what the world can bring. She remembers her
grandmother's horrific tales of the genocide.
"She told me about seeing water and the Armenians rushing to drink and
the military hitting the people with clubs to prevent them from
getting water. Grandma went and was able to get some water, and some
to bring back to the children. She was so bloodied that her sisters
were asking each other, 'Who is that young girl with blood running
down her face?,' not even recognizing her."
Shirin sees a disconnect between her generation and her children's
reactions to the genocide. They didn't have someone like her
grandmother keeping it alive.
"These grandparents who went through this, I was really close to," she
said. "When there's an eyewitness to it, it's very vivid, very real.
I've tried to tell my kids, but I can tell it's not as real to them
because they didn't know her or my uncles."
Despite being the youngest, Bill Sahatdjian, 55, is the most active of
his siblings in the Armenian community. He is a deacon at Holy Trinity
Armenian Church in downtown Fresno and is on the Armenian Genocide
Centennial Fresno Committee. He also participates in community
activism, marching for recognition of the genocide on several
occasions.
Bill said his grandparents' stories shaped his life. He sees strength
in numbers, hoping that his individual involvement will help create
change.
"I don't want to see things get forgotten," he said.
Bill has five children, the youngest age 21. He hopes they will get
more involved in Armenian issues, but so far they have not.
Barlow Der Mugrdechian, coordinator of Armenian studies at Fresno
State, said it's a case of distance and human nature.
"Everybody's story becomes less relevant," he said. "You kind of want
to live your own life. On the other hand, there are quite a few third-
or fourth-generation Armenians that are pursuing the genocide issue
because it's a question of knowing who they are and where they come
from."
Third generation
Though all of Sarkis Sahatdjian's children speak Armenian, none of his
grandchildren know the language fluently.
"That's where the word genocide comes in," he said. "When they lose
the language, little by little they disappear. We're in America, which
is a melting pot."
Richard Sahatdjian, 33, said he is fortunate to have been able to
learn from his grandparents' struggles. He said it's difficult to
comprehend how a piece of history such as the genocide is not accepted
as fact by the U.S. government.
"History is so dependent on politics," he said. "That's bothersome, I
think, because it makes you question everything you've ever learned."
But other than attending a few genocide-related events, Richard, whose
father is Victor Sahatdjian (named after his grandfather), said he's
not that involved in the Armenian cause. Protest is just not in his
nature, he said.
"It's not my personal story, but it's something I've heard all my
life," he said. "The way that I deal with it is to do my best to
succeed. That's the only thing we can do. We're not powerful enough to
make governments do things."
Richard's sister Kristina Surabian, 35, said knowing her family's
connection to the genocide makes her hyper-aware of what they endured
so her generation could succeed.
Of Armenian culture and history, she said: "It's our choice as the
third generation to continue it. As fast as they started it, we can
get rid of it, too."
Surabian said it was important to her to marry an Armenian man and
continue being involved in the Armenian Christian church. She also
took Armenian language, history and culture classes in college, but is
not directly involved in recognizing the genocide.
"What's most important is we know who we are, we know the history of
the genocide, we know the culture," she said. "I hope to continue to
preserve it and continue to talk about it with my children. I hope
that it doesn't go away. I don't want that to happen."
When Shirin's daughter married a non-Armenian, her first reaction was
"How could you do this?" Shirin said that's not because her son-in-law
isn't a great guy, but because she was afraid her family's Armenian
culture would begin to fade.
Shirin said the family's history is important to all of her children,
but manifests differently in them than it does in her generation. Her
youngest son, for example, took up a traditional Armenian instrument
and is now in an Armenian band. "He has found his roots through the
music and gone from being not active to quite active in the culture,"
she said.
"Every generation does their best to pass along the story and their
children do what they can with it," she said. "You put it out there
and do your part. Beyond that, you hope someone picks it up somehow."
http://www.fresnobee.com/2015/04/18/4483912/armenian-genocide-significance.html
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress