Saga of silence, over a century long

In loving memory of my my grandfather, Avet Alexandrian, who survived all nine circles of hell during the Armenian Genocide in the Ottoman Empire in 1915
 
 

 
 
 Since these sorrowful pages of my family’s history are linked to the city of Kars, I find it necessary to look at some historical facts.
A single glance is enough to understand why the fortress of Kars, if it ever surrendered, did so only after a long and powerful siege. Located on an elevated plateau, surrounded by steep slopes and high walls, it could withstand a long defense until the garrison ran out of supplies.
 
*KARS* – from 929 to 961 – the capital of the Armenian Bagratid Kingdom; from 963 to 1065 – the capital of the Armenian Kingdom of Kars. The city is located on the Kars Plateau in the Armenian Highlands, on the Kars River.
Kars was founded in the 4-th century, but consistent mentions of the city appear in Armenian and Byzantine chronicles starting from the 9-th century.
 
Kars played an important role in the state and social life of medieval Armenia. The city was a major center of crafts and trade, and international trade routes passed through it.
In 1064, the Kingdom of Kars was annexed by Byzantine, and later conquered by the Seljuks.
In 1206, Kars, along with part of Northern Armenia, was liberated by Armenian-Georgian forces.
 
In 1386, Timur( Tamerlane)invaded Armenia and captured Kars. In 1514, the city was captured by the Ottoman Empire, which turned it into a strategic outpost for expanding its influence in the Caucasus.
During the Russian-Turkish Wars of 1828-1829, Russian troops captured Kars, but the city was returned to Turkey in 1829 under the Treaty of Adrianople.
In 1855, during the Crimean War, the Turkish garrison, commanded by the English General Williams, repelled Russian attacks for almost six months but eventually capitulated under the threat of starvation. After the Crimea War, by the terms of the Peace Treaty, the city returned to Turkey.
 
In November 1877, Kars was captured by Russian forces under General Loris-Melikov(of Armenian descent) following the swift siege. After the battle, only Hussein Pasha and a few officers survived, despite thousands-strong Turkish garrison. Under the Treaty of San Stefano, Kars became part of the Russian Empire and for 40 years served as the administrative center of Kars province of the Russian Empire.
In 1918, Kars, along with the Batumi and Ardahan districts, was transferred to Turkey under the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk. After Turkey’s defeat in World War I, the Turkish forces abandoned Kars, and British troops entered the city. In May, Kars was handed over to the Republic of Armenia, and many Armenians returned to their native city.
 
In 1920, Kars was again occupied by Turkey forces and by the Kars Treaty of 1921, it became part of Turkey. Under pressure of Soviet Russia, the Armenian Government was forced to sign the Kars Treaty in 1921. In 1953, the USSR renounced its territorial claims to Turkey, particularly on the city of Kars.
 
 
 
**SAGA…**
 
A gentle December sunlight peeked through the heavy curtains, playfully dancing on his face as if teasing him awake. “ Thank You Lord, I’m home “, Avet  thought as he woke up. He lay in his warm bed, wrapped in a soft blanket, and then froze: the smell…such a familiar smell… the sent of home.
Today he didn’t have to wake up at dawn, hastily gulp down a coffee and a croissant, and race to the Medical University. Nor would he have to trudge back to his tiny room on the forth floor, weary and spent, as dusk fell. Just the thought brought a soothing comfort to his heart.
During his time studying in Zurich, he had terribly missed home; it wasn’t easy being alone in a foreign land.
As the son of the one of the wealthiest entrepreneurs in Western Armenia, Agalo Alexandryan, he, like his brothers, could not expect the carefree and indulgent student lifestyle enjoyed by other offspring of wealthy families. When sending his sons to Europe’s finest universities, their father had imparted almost the same words to each of them :
 
“ I didn’t have a rich father or the chance to get the fine education I dreamed of. You’re lucky. I’ll cover your tuition and board — a modest room and average three meals a day. That’s all! I have no money for restaurants, cabarets, champagne, or women — you’re going to study! Otherwise, you’ll come back with debts and ruined lives, like so many others. Fail your studies, and you’ll start from scratch, like me — as a simple stable hand. God bless you all!”
 
Back then, before leaving for university, their father’s strict financial limits had caused confusion and silent resentment among the brothers. But over time, as life tested each of them, they came to appreciate the invaluable lesson their farsighted father had taught them they embarked on adulthood.
 
The name of entrepreneur, Agalo Alexandryan , was known not only in Kars. He had started as a simple stable boy, working tirelessly day and night for the owner of horse-breeding farm. Denying himself all luxuries, he invested everything he earned into books on horse breeding. Within a few years, Agalo had become an expert. He convinced his employer to focus on breeding pedigree horses, revolutionized the management system, and in doing so, turned his employer into the owner of a thriving horse stud, significantly increasing his wealth.
 
Soon, Agalo was appointed the chief manager of the region’s most prestigious horse-breeding farm. Agalo was greatly surprised when one day the owner’s secretary came to him and handed him an invitation for a private audience.
 
“Agalo, you’ve made me a rich man. You’ve always had access to my accounts, yet you haven’t taken a single penny. You never asked me for a raise, never flattered me, and could always stand up for your point of view, which never failed. Do you have any idea what offer I have for you?”
 
Agalo merely shrugged.
 
“It would be an honor for me if you married my only daughter, Osanna. “
 
The employer’s words made Agalo flinch, his forehead beading with sweat.
 
“I know you are not indifferent to her. I have no sons, and my daughter will be the sole heir to my fortune. Plenty of dashing dandies, rich spoiled boys and fortune-seekers circle Osanna. But I won’t entrust my wealth or, more importantly, my daughter’s future to anyone but you.”
 
Agalo’s heart began to pound so loudly, it felt like a hammer striking an anvil. With an effort of will he composed himself.
 
“Your proposal is extremely flattering, and Yes! I love your daughter, a love I never dared to dream of. However, a family without mutual love is not a family —it’s a dishonest arrangement. Forgive me, I must decline”. He rose to leave.
 
“Bravo!” The employer exclaimed, slamming his hand on the table. “I wasn’t wrong about you, Agalo! I saved the best for last —Osanna loves you too!”
 
 
From this story emerged a wonderful family: four sons and two daughters. Until his final days, Osanna’s father called Agalo his son.
 
Under the hardworking hands of Agalo, wealth grew year after year. Bakeries and baths, soap factories and diaries (some of which still stand in Kars today) were established. Before long, the young entrepreneur became a supplier of horses to both the Ottoman Empire and Russian Imperial Army.
 
Last night, the carriage driven by their coachman Reza, had brought Avet home past midnight. The weeks-long journey had exhausted him. He managed only to hug his parents, drink a cup of coffee, and collapse into bed.
 
Today, Avet allowed himself the luxury of lazy leisure. He wanted to wander around his childhood home: the soft velvet bathrobe and slippers only added to the comfort— he was home.
 
Soon, his brothers would arrive, and the entire family would gather for the New Year’s feast. The Christmas tree was already decorated, and the European parlor was next in line for embellishment. He adored this room and rushed into it first: one of the tall arched windows, arranged in a semicircle as if replacing an entire wall, stood open. A crisp winter breeze, like a mischievous little sprite, gently toyed with the matte batiste lace curtains , making them sway rhythmically. They would alternately veil reveal the austere grandeur of the Bechstein piano, repeating the “curtain ritual “ over and over again.
 
For several minutes, Avet stood motionless, entranced by the living picture before him.
For the rest of his life, in the most challenging moments of his fate, this image would reappear in his mind — the flirtation of a coquettish curtain with a solemn piano.
 
He slowly walked around the European parlor, studying its furnishings as though seeing them for the first time.
 
The painting by Konstantin Makovsky hung above a commode by Andre-Charles Boulle, with a turtle-shell inlay in the marquetry style(wooden mosaic carving techniques). The opposite wall was adorned by a four- tiered buffet in the same technique, housing an exquisite Meissen porcelain dinner set — the mistress of the house’s pride. In drawers lined with deep blue velvet lay table silver: a row of ivory-handled serving utensils, monogrammed “AAA”, specifically commissioned by their father from the genius Khlebnikov. This “tableware treasure” was received for special celebrations only: New Year’s, Christmas, Easter, Christenings, and Weddings.
 
Opening one of the side compartments, Avet caught a whiff of a sachet of cinnamon and cloves, hung to protect the velvet from moths — a scent he would remember forever. There was also the tea set from Royal Crown Derby, a delicate light emerald color, bought by his father as a birthday gift for his beloved wife. The refined beauty of the porcelain never ceased to captivate Avet. Each time he finished his tea, he would hold the cup up to the light and exclaim, “ How does this delicate porcelain withstand hot tea? It’s translucent!”
 
His brothers teased him, saying that if Avet were girl, the set would undoubtedly, become part of his dowry.
At that time, Avet had no idea that of all his father’s wealth, this tea set would be the only survived thing to remain as a keepsake of his memory.
 
Avet especially loved the time between New Year’s and Christmas: twice in one week, they celebrate two grand holidays— December 31-st and January 6-th, Christmas in the Armenian Apostolic Church. January 2-nd also happened to be Avet’s birthday. Every year, his brother Aram would ask the same question:
 
“Mom! How did the youngest of your four sons manage to squeeze himself between two holidays? Saves us from setting the table!” he’d say with good-natured irony.
 
Passing by his father’s study, Avet entered the Eastern room: soft Persian carpets covered the entire floor of the square room; Armenian rugs adorned the walls. Directly across was a divan with moutakas( small cushions) and countless colorful, diverse pillows. In this room, his father hosted Turkish merchants and guests from Middle East.
 
On ordinary days, the father and brothers, would gather here to play backgammon(nardee) and chess, longing on the soft cushions.
 
Avet eagerly awaited the arrival of his brothers, all of whom studied and worked far from their native Kars — Arshavir in Berlin, Artashes in Geneva, and Aram in St. Petersburg. Avet, having finished medical school, was successfully completing his second year of training as a physician in Zurich.
 
It was the end of 1914.
 
No one could have imagined that this would be their last New Year ‘s celebration, not only in their family home but also in their beloved Kars…
 
 
 
 Avet especially loved the New Year’s Eve and Christmas: only once a year, with a week’s different, two festive holidays passed: December 31st and January 6th , Christmas according to the Armenian Apostolic Church. And on January 2nd was his, Avet’s birthday. Every year his brother Aram would ask the same question:
“Mom! How is it that out of your four sons, the youngest managed to squeeze between these two holidays? And no need to set the table!”, he would say with a touch of good-natured irony.
 
Passing by his father’s study, Avet entered the Eastern room: soft Persian rugs covered the entire floor of the square room; Armenian carpets adorned the walls. Directly across from the divan, with its large cushions and countless colorful Eastern pillows, was where his father received his Turkish merchants and guests from the Middle East.
On ordinary days, the brothers and father would play backgammon and chess in this room, sitting on the soft pillows.
Avet eagerly awaited the arrival of his brothers for they all studied and worked far from their native Kars. Arshavir was in Berlin, Artashes in Geneva, Aram in St.Petersburg. Avet, after finishing medical school, was in his second year of studying to be a doctor in Zurich.
 
The year1914 was drawing to a close. No one could have imagined that this would be their las New Year, not only in their home, but also in their native Kars…
 
 
 
**Historical Facts**
 
The history of humanity is full of facts the destruction of certain peoples, called Genocide. Peoples were destroyed either on national, religiously ethnic grounds, with the goal of assimilation or plunder. The Genocide of the Armenian people in Ottoman Empire is considered the first in history because it was almost meticulously planned. Moreover, all factors were used and executed simultaneously: to kill, to expel, to plunder and to assimilate. The fact that Armenian Genocide was scientifically planned and calculated was later confirmed through maps and tables. These documents detailed everything: the routes of deportation, with percentages of people who were supposed to die along the way; which age groups to eliminate; who to assimilate ( in particular, young boys in the army, young girls to harems); and who to rectify.
 
Since ancient times there was a tax on Christian boys, a blood tribute known as *devshirme*. This was a form of forced taxation for Christian population. The goal was to re-educate, assimilate, and ultimately transform them into loyal soldiers, “servants of the Porte .”
 
The elite part of the Turkish army, the Janissaries, was made up of Christian boys who were kidnapped in early childhood, most Armenians(80%), as well as Greeks, Assyrian Christian, and others. First, because they were excellent warriors. Second, because they, having no memory of their names or origins, served their Sultan with unwavering loyalty. The Sultan was their only “parent “,and their devotion to the Turkish throne was reinforced by radical Islam. And the third, the most cynical aspect:they, not knowing anything about their heritage, their family or tribe, killed their own people, which added to the Turks immense pride and hatred for the infidels.
 
To understand the true reason behind the Armenian Genocide, one must look back at history. When the Seljuk Turks arrived on the Anatolian Peninsula in the 13-14th centuries, they conquered northern territories populated by Armenians, Greeks, Assyrians, and others. Prophet Muhammad made sure that the “People of the Books “ (Christians and Jews) were treated as second class citizens. They were required to pay **jizya** tax, a poll tax on non-Muslims. Women, the elderly, the disabled, slaves, the poor, and Christians serving in the Muslim Army were exempt from this tax, as were monks, but only until the 18th century.
 
The relatively tolerant attitude towards the Christian clergy existed during the reign of Sultan Suleiman. It was during his reign that meritocracy became a form of government, where the most capable and educated people, regardless of their religion, social background, or financial status, occupied the highest positions. The Turks understood that they needed educated people – merchants, financiers, doctors, engineers, lawyers, architects, teachers, and craftsmen of all types and specialties. The Armenians and Greeks, who lived on their own lands, were quite prosperous, and their children often received an education in Europe. The nomadic Seljuk tribes, who were mostly illiterate and engaged in raids and plunder, understood that for their state to survive, they needed educated people. Despite the harsh subjugation of the Christian people, the Turks were reluctantly forced to adopt meritocracy as a form of government.
 
Muslims didn’t pay income taxes. Hence the Turkish proverb:” It is better to shear sheep than to slaughter them.”
 
In the northern part of Ottoman Empire, Christians made up two-thirds of the population. However, *jizya* was not the only one humiliating law for Christians. Christian women were not allowed to wear silk clothing, ride horses ( only donkey), and were often prohibited from building churches that could be seen. To this day, one can find houses that are partially dug into the ground, which served as churches. They were also forbidden to carry weapons.
 
Christians were more educated and intellectual than Muslims: doctors, teachers, lawyers, financiers, and later bankers and engineers – these positions were traditionally occupied by Christians because they studied in Europe. Naturally, they were wealthier. Despite being second-class citizens in the Sultanate, Christians continually made greater efforts to prosper the Ottoman Empire. It’s clear why, at some point, their positions as second-class citizens became intolerable.
 
Throughout history, the relationship between the Turkish authorities and the Christian population has been solved by one consistent and unchanging method – mass murder, plundering, and killing innocent people.
For example, in 1822, the entire population of the island of Chios was slaughtered, over 100,000 people were killed and sold into slavery.
The continuous murders of Christian officials in Bulgaria, Greece, Serbia and Armenia naturally led to resistance against the Turks, giving rise to partisan movements- **haiduks** in Bulgaria and Greece. In Anatolia, among the Armenians and Assyrians, brave men known as **fedayin** took up arms to defend their fellow believers. The refusal to grant equal civil rights to Christians in the Ottoman Empire led to revolutionary sentiments. The idea of creating national states – Bulgaria, Greece, Serbia, and Armenia – began to take root and spread across all layers of the Christian population of the Turkish Porte.
The Russo-Turkish War of 1877-1878, which began in Bosnia, marked the beginning of the conflict – revolutionaries started killing tax collectors and Turks, which led to bloody reprisals.
 
 
 
**SAGA**
 
 It was Christmas Eve – these were the happiest days. The hostess of the house, Madame Osanna, was overseeing all the preparations – the entire extended family was gathering. A huge table was laid with a lace tablecloth and was overflowing with an abundance of food. This day, along with the hosts, was eagerly awaited by the servants of the Alexandryan’s family as well. On the spacious kitchen tables, meals were set for them and their families. But it wasn’t just abundance of food that delighted the servants: the children received long-awaited gifts, and their parents generous increases in salary. The household staff was as multi-ethnic as it was multi-confessional. The workers of Agalo had never felt discriminated against: he always listened to and supported diligent and honest workers, without showing favoritism to his coreligionists. He could not tolerate flattery and hypocrisy. He would forgive only the first mistake or slip-up, always giving the workers a chance to correct it. To be employed by Agalo Alexandryan was considered a great stroke of luck, and the workers returned his kindness with deep respect.
 
“Madame Osanna,” - courteously bowed the daughter of the chief stableman Halit, Gyul, -  The Commandant Kasim- bey sent his coachman to ask for Mr. Avet, and he asked him to come to him.”
 
“Interesting! What happened? Is someone ill?”  - she hurried to the eastern room where her sons were playing backgammon with their father. – “ Avet, my son, Kasim-bey has sent for you and asked you to come, did you hear?”
 
Agalo’s hand , which was about to throw the dice, froze in mid-air.
 
“Ah, I saw Kasim-bey a couple of days ago at the meeting. He didn’t look well,” - Agalo paused thoughtfully. – “ I advised him to go to Constantinople to see a doctor, but he refused. It seems he’s come down with something. Go, my son, and see what you can do to help him.”
 
“If it’s a flu, it would be good to take Artashes with me,” - Avet started gathering the doctor’s bag.
 
Artashes, one of the Avet’s older brother, was pulmonologist and was well known in Geneva. The Swiss government, recognizing his significant contribution to the treatment of tuberculosis and pneumonia, not only provided Artashes and his family with an entire floor in the most prestigious hotel in Geneva, free of charge, but also created all the conditions for the talented doctor to continue his work.
Artashes was away, he and his family were visiting his wife’s grandmother.
 
The Commandant of Kars, Kasim-bey, was a close friend of Agalo. He greatly respected the hardworking, honest Armenian. Many years ago, when both were younger, Agalo had rendered him a great service by strongly advising Kasim not to invest his father’s considerable inheritance in the dubious business deal. Agalo’s advice saved Kasim’s fortune, his reputation, and his position.
In return for his selfless help, Kasim-bey protected Agalo’s mansion and enterprises from plunder during the Small Massacre of 1894.
 
 
 
**Historical Facts**
 
The cause of the Russo-Turkish War of 1877-1878 was the uprising against the Ottoman rule in Bosnia and Herzegovina (1875-1876) and the April uprising in Bulgaria (1876), which was crushed by the Turks in blood. By the end of the 1877, after fierce battle on the Balkan front, Russian troops had liberated Bulgaria and by early 1878 were already on the outskirts of Constantinople. On the Caucasian front, the towns of Bayazet, Ardahan, and the fortress city of Kars were taken.
 
Soon Turkey capitulated, and on February 19, the peace treaty was signed with Russia in the town of San Stefano. Article 16 of the treaty for the first time officially addressed the security of the Armenian population in Ottoman Empire and raised the issue of administrative reforms in Western Armenia.
 
Fearing the strengthening of Russian influence, British and Austria-Hungary did everything possible to prevent the implementation of the San Stefano Treaty. To revise the Treaty, in the summer of 1878, at the request of these powers, the Berlin Congress was convened, during which Russia was forced to make significant concessions, including on the Armenian question. Russian troops were withdrawn from Western (Turkish) Armenia, thus depriving Armenians of their only guarantee of security. Although Article 61 of the Berlin Treaty still mentioned reforms in Western Armenia, there were no guarantees for their implementation. The already difficult situation of the Armenian population sharply worsened: it became clear that Sultan Abdul Hamid II had no intention of carrying out any reforms in Western Armenia. Moreover, Muslim settlers from Balkans and Caucuses, including Kurds and Circassian, were being moved in large numbers to areas predominantly inhabited by Armenians. Year by year, the taxes on the Armenian population grew. Often, after collecting the taxes, Turkish officials would return to the same village a few days later and, threatening arrests and torture, extort the already paid tax again. Armenian peasants were required to house Muslim nomads for the winter, to accommodate government officials and their entourage for several days a year, and to perform unpaid roadwork. Turkish authorities did not protect the Armenians from constant raids by Kurds and Circassians, and often, they themselves were involved in the loot of Armenian villages.
 
On May 11, 1895, the ambassadors of the great powers demanded from Sultan Abdul Hamid II the promised reforms to protect the Armenians from attacks and plunder. As usual, the Sultan was slow to fulfill the demands of the ambassadors. A series of the Armenian pogroms followed. The Turkish reprisals against Armenians in Constantinople turned into a total massacre of Armenians across Asia Minor, sanctioned by the authorities. In just three days of the massacre, between 5,000 and 8,700 Armenians were killed, according to various estimate. During the period of 1894-1896, 300,000 people were exterminated, and these years have gone down in history as the “Hamidian” or “Small Massacre.”
 
 
**SAGA**
 
Kasim-bey was on the mend. After examining the patient, Avet decided to remove the catheter that had helped with the urinary blockage – after all he was an elderly man.
The commandant asked Avet to wait in the office. A few minutes later, Kasim-bey entered, holding a beautiful case in his hands.
 
“Avet ! Thank you, I feel much better…” he said, approaching the young man, his gaze oddly diverted, and handed him the case.”
 
“What is this, Kasim-bey…?”
 
“Avet! You are the son of the most influential man in Kars. You are not just a doctor, you are the son of Agalo himself. To thank your family with money – this would be an insult, I know. Don’t ask any questions, just keep it… Tough times are coming…and I want to protect your family. Whenever you find yourselves in trouble, present this, and you will gain your freedom.”
 
Surprised by the commandant’s words, Avet slowly opened the lid of the case. On the black velvet lay a silver dagger in the shape of a crescent moon, its handle adorned with intricate Arabic script.
Kasim-bey raised his hand sharply, stopping the young man’s attempt to ask a question.
 
“And don’t you dare show it to your father, promise me…just keep it…trust me. “
 
 “It seems everything is ready, Osanna, we’ll be on our way in a week”, Agalo said, sitting on the edge of the large bed, his wife in his arms.
 
“Must we flee again, Agalo?” Osanna’s eyes filled with tears. “We shouldn’t have come back after the Minor Massacre.”
 
“It was na;ve to return and bring all our belongings back with us. “
 
“I felt that after the Russian Tsar’s decision to leave Kars and withdraw the troops, there would be a new wave of looting and killings”, she said, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly. “ We were wrong, we shouldn’t have trusted Sultan Hamid’s promises… can one trust a Turk’s word? Reforms! Rights!”
 
“I decided not to take anything valuable with us… just some items for memories… in case the Lord save us. They will catch up and kill us anyway. Our estate is the richest in Kars… they’ll come to us first. While they’re looting, we’ll buy time. “
 
Agalo looked at the large emerald ring —a wedding ring from his father-in-law.
 
“I haven’t taken it off since our wedding day,” he smiled. “And you, don’t take off your wedding ring. The rest doesn’t matter, dear. Don’t worry…pray. “
 
“It’s a blessing that out of our six children, two with their families are safe. At least someone from our family will be preserved by the Lord. “
 
Their daughter Gohar, with her husband and son, lived in Tiflis. Their son, Artashes, with his wife and children had returned to Switzerland after Christmas.
 
“Thank God, at least little Shakeh is almost a month old. Can you imagine taking a pregnant woman in a phaeton on such a long journey? It’s a nightmare…”
 
Ani was Shakeh’s daughter, the beloved nanny of the Alexandryan family. Her contribution to the family was invaluable – she was adored by everyone, from the youngest to the oldest. The First World War was raging, and Ani’s husband, Suren had been called into the army just a few months after their wedding. Even then, the Turkish government was plotting the annihilation of the Armenian population. Most of the Armenian men were drafted into the Turkish army, desolating villages, towns, and cities, leaving defenseless women, elderly and children. Suren, unaware of his wife’s pregnancy, had not sent any news since he left.
 
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.
“Master!” the chief administrator, Baltazar, was standing in the doorway. He was a giant of a man, an Assyrian by nationality. Agalo had made Baltazar, who had once been an orphan, the chief administrator of his estate, after seeing the brightness of his mind. He had sent him to study.
 
“What happened, Baltazar?” Agalo whispered.
“Master! A massacre and looting in Sarikamish!” His loud, trembling whisper sent a chill through Osanna, who froze in place.
“Immediately, we must leave!” Agalo exclaimed loudly.
 
As they hurried down the mansion’s stairs, Baltazar gave orders while reporting to Agalo.
“Five covered wagons with provisions are waiting for loading: bags of potatoes, beans, kaurma, lavash and honey. As you ordered, all non- perishable goods…Four dormezes( large covered carriages) for the members of your family with warm clothes and woolen blankets… Thirty carriages for your servants, workers and their families. Khalit brought eight armed villagers in Turkish soldier uniforms to accompany us, he said they’re loyal. As you instructed, we have paid them generously. Any other orders, Master?”
 
Khalit had served as the head stableman for Agalo for over 20 years, and his daughter, Gyul, worked as an assistant in the kitchen. Agalo had noticed the juvenile Kurdish man,  when he was still very young, having won the grand prize at the local races. Khalit had served his master faithfully, and each time received his generous salary, he thanked Allah for the meeting with Agalo.
 
The day before, Khalit had come to Agalo and suggested taking a few companions dressed in Turkish soldier uniforms to leave the fortress without raising suspicion. Agalo agreed. Just as Khalit was about to leave the office, Agalo stopped him.
 
“Khalit! Wait! Tough times are ahead, and no one knows what tomorrow will bring. You are a good and loyal man…allow me to leave this as a token of gratitude…”
 
Khalit froze when Agalo pulled out a gold pocket watch on a chain from his vest and handed it to the head stableman.
 
“But, Agalo-bey…you’ve always carried it with you…this is too expensive a gift…”
“It’s not more valuable than loyalty. Thank you…” Agalo said, then called for Baltazar.
“May our Lord keep you safe, Baltazar! Thank you for everything.” Agalo Alexandryan placed a large gold cross, purchased in St. Petersburg, around the neck of his chief administrator.
 
 
————-
“What horses are hitched?” Agalo asked.
“I’ve prepared the youngest and more enduring horses, Master. What do you think, heavy draft or light draft?” Baltazar’s neck veins bulged with tension.
“Light draft will be better for the phaetons… Lord safe and protect us!”
Agalo clutched his head: from all sides, the sound of crying children and screams of adults filled the air, panic and fear gripped everyone. It seemed madness had taken hold: horror and panic in the eyes of the adults, children trembling and clutching their mother’s skirts; some men loading heavy bags of food, others harnessing the horses, while others helped the women and children into the carts.
 
“Everyone is ready, Master. They are already sitting in the phaetons and carriages. The only thing is I can’t find Ani with the baby.”
“Ani! Ani!” Osanna cried.
“I’m here, madam,”said the weeping young women, entering through the back gate, and collapsed to her knees.
“Where’s your child?” Osanna asked in shock.
“I gave my little Shakeh to Laleh, madam… I wrapped all my gold in the baby’s swaddling cloth, covered her with a blanket, and gave my little one away…” The miserable mother screamed. Yes! She’d been afraid to take her one-month-old baby on such a long journey filled with trials and uncertainty. And recently, from all the worry and stress, she could barely produce any milk. How would she feed the baby? She was doomed.
“You know, madam! Laleh and Rena always wanted children, but God didn’t bless them. They swore on Koran that they would protect and love my daughter as their own. They promised that when she grows up, they will tell her about me and Suren,” her voice cracked with grief.
 
 
When everything was ready and Baltazar gave the order to open the main gates, Avet suddenly jumped out of the carriage and ran back into the house. His parents exchanged surprised glances. A few minutes later, he returned, jumping back into the carriage, clutching a book, a doctor’s carpetbag, and a small case to his chest.
 
“What’s this, son?” asked the surprised father.
“It’s a Holy Scripture, father. “
“I can see that. And the case?”
“I don’t even know, father, I swear… let’s go!” Avet leaned back against the carriage seat, closed his eyes and froze.
“Sonya?” Osanna suddenly exclaimed. “Agalo, I haven’t seen her. Stop the carriage!”
“Madam! The house is empty, I’ve checked everything. She must be in another carriage,” said Baltazar.
 
Sonya, the five-years-old great-niece, had been staying with the Alexandryan’s for almost a year while her mother was receiving treatment for complications after tuberculosis in Artashes’s clinic in Geneva.
 
“Don’t worry, dear,” Agalo said gently taking her hand. “Apparently, Baltazar is right, she’s in another carriage. God be with us!” He shouted loudly, leaning out of the carriage.
 
Baltazar, opening the main gates of the mansion, nodded approvingly at Khalit. Whips cracked in the air with a sharp whistle as Khalit’s fellow villagers, now dressed in military uniforms, urged the horses forward, and the column began its journey. As they looked out of the windows of the carriage, the Alexandryan family took a final glance at their home, their hearth…and the farther they moved away, the smaller it became… until the figure of Khalit’s daughter, Gyul, waving her headscarf, disappeared from view altogether…
 
 
They had already lost track of time, confusing the days of the week. During the day, they hid either behind rocks or in caves. At night, as quietly as possible, they continued their journey along the banks of the Kars River— they needed to replenish their water supplies and water the horses. Their ultimate goal of salvation was the city of Alexandropol( former Leninakan, now Gumry). After the first raid by bloodthirsty fiends, who had become mad from the smell of blood, part of the carriages with servants and families scattered in all directions. What their fate was remained unknown.
 
From the horror they had witnessed, from the trauma they had endured, they were unable to speak to each other — only when absolutely necessary. What could they talk about? What could they discuss? The people burned alive in the villages and towns? The crucified children and elderly? The mothers driven mad by the loss of their children, the raped women? Or the blood that soaked every inch of their ancient land? Perhaps the destroyed churches and chapels, whose ornaments and crosses were “decorated “ with obscene curses written in Armenian blood..?
 
To all the nightmares they had witnessed, the death of the little Sonya was added: her lifeless body was found in the carriage with provision, under a sack of potatoes— she had suffocated. Her passion for playing hide-and-seek had doomed the girl. In the chaos, the servants hadn’t noticed the child, and she remained under the deathly weight. The girl was buried right there, under a large sprawling oak tree, on the back of which her initials and date of birth were carved. The future would remain deaf to the parent’s pleas to one day visit the grave of their little daughter.
 
 
One night, deep into the darkness, refugees noticed pale flickers of fire far away of the mountainside. Baltazar volunteered to scout ahead, as it could have been the Turks. An hour later, he returned: his glassy, unblinking eyes… his hands trembled uncontrollably.
“ Well, what is it, son?”
“ I saw hell… Master! The monsters destroyed the village chapel, slaughtering almost everyone…they spared neither children nor women, nor…” his shoulders shook with silent sobs. “ In the chapel, about 30-40 people managed to hide, miraculously saved from nearby villages. Wounded, starving, dying. With them are a priest and a couple of monks.
“Tie the horses, gather the remaining food and water. Let’s go.” Agalo quietly ordered.
 
Avet felt as if his heart has stopped beating at the scene that unfolded before his eyes: the half- destroyed chapel had sheltered emaciated, hungry and wounded. Children, women and a few elderly lay directly on the cold, earthen floor of the ancient chapel. In the short, tattered cassock, hanging in rugs, a large priest with a silver cross swaying on his chest like a pendulum, stirred harisa( an Armenian national dish — a mix of grain and meat) in the small cauldron over the fire with a wooden stick. A few monks, stripped to their undergarments, tended to those lying on the floor: bandaging wounds with strips torn from what had once been a cassock, covering others with scraps of their monastic robes, giving water to weak…
Everything happening in this ruined chapel seemed to meld together into a single symbol of suffering: the groans combined with the monk’s soft footsteps; the rhythmic cracking of the fire echoed the sound of the wooden stick stirring the harisa; the people shivering on the bare ground, weeping from cold and hunger; and the endless, desperate whispers on the monks’ prayers… Everything Avet saw and felt seemed to mix into the harisa in the cauldron, filling it with sorrow, pain, tears, and hopelessness.  Avet would never forget what he saw. For the rest of his life, he would not touch harisa, the beloved Armenian dish, nor even approach a table where it was served.
 
 
“Father Hovhaness…is that you?” Avet exclaimed, noticing one of the monks, leaning on the stick, hunched over a wounded pregnant woman, giving her water. The barefoot, grey-haired elder turned, saw Avet, looked over the newcomers, and strange black-red tears rolled down his wrinkled face, washing away dust and blood…
 
In Avet’s infancy, Father Hovhaness baptized him in the church of St. Hovhaness and was a close friend of the family. In Kars, the elder was known as a living saint.
Avet rushed to the old man an fell to his knees before him.
“We’re here, holy father… don’t worry. Just pray.” Avet  murmured, pressing his lips to the monk’s hand.
 
Two days had passed since the ruins of the chapel had sheltered them. Avet had hardly slept: thanks to the medical instruments he had wisely taken on the journey, he managed to help the wounded, if only slightly. They brought cushions and blankets from the carriages. At night, Baltazar and the head of the family, Agalo, gathered firewood and branches for the fire, checking the snares for mountain partridges set by the ‘harisa stirring’ monk. Halit had brought the riffles left behind by his tribesmen and setting them around the perimeter, took up watch. Once again, Agalo tried to persuade him to return. But each time, the loyal horseman would reply:
“Just one more day, Master, and then I’ll leave!”
 
That night, Agalo, Father Hovhaness, and Avet could not sleep: they told each other everything they had witnessed.
“Agalo! Whoever among us survives must tell the world. The world needs to know about this horror.“
“You, Father Hovhaness, are truly a saint. Do you think this is the first massacre? This “World“, as you call it, has never lifted a finger, and it never will. Show me one—just one brute— who has been punished for the endless slaughter of Armenians? What have we received over four centuries? Aside from pogroms, plunder, and the Turkish yataghan slicing our throats, only one thing— Silence! SI-LEN-CE!”
“You’re right, my son. Century after century, we have been exterminated— punished for our honest hard work and faith… We didn’t even deserve simple humanity for building their first mosques with our own hands… Perhaps that is what they cannot forgive us for..?
 
Avet showed Father Hovhaness the carved dagger of Kasim-bey, hoping to learn something about the relic. He recounted how, at one checkpoint, a Turk who had snatched the case from Avet’s hands furrowed his brows upon seeing the dagger, turned it over in his hands for a long time, then returned it and ordered them to disappear immediately. That saved their lives. But the questions about this blade only multiplied.
“How did it happen that the Turk didn’t take it from you?”
“We didn’t understand it ourselves, Father Hovhaness. Maybe this relic cannot be taken by force?” Avet shrugged.
 
Suddenly, Agalo jumped up and pressed his index finger to his lips:
“Do you hear that, Father Hovhaness?” the head of the family, Agalo, whispered loudly. “Hoofbeats… but strange ones… an uneven step…could it be a wounded horse coming down the rocks from the mountain?”
 
He rushed to the opening in the wall to hear better.
“No! I’ve never heard a step like this before… something’s wrong… it sound like the clatter of a horseshoe on stones… the sound is getting closer… Baltazar, Khalit, ready your guns!”
His loud whisper woke everyone. Hearing his father’s call, Avet peeked out from the shelter.
 
Suddenly, the sound stopped. Unexpectedly, in the absolute silence, a blood-curdling scream filled the gorge, shaking the mountains as if they themselves trembled:stones rolled down, and something resembling a bundle fell to the wall of the much-suffering chapel, bouncing on the ledges.
 
An ominous silence followed. Avet lit a torch and, cautiously looking around, illuminated what had fallen from the mountain.
“Lord… have mercy, Heavenly Father…”
 
It was a boy, 8 to 10 years old: his wet hair, matted with blood and dirt; his body wrapped in long, blood soaked rags, resembling a piece of meat, with patches of skin torn off; his eye socket with bloody emptiness…
 
When Avet carefully took the boy into his arms, the slipping rags revealed his broken, bloodied legs and arms… with horseshoes nailed to them!!!!!
 
Little Artak was dying in the arms of Father Hovhaness. Everyone had gathered around him, whispering prayers, while Father Hovhaness washed his ravaged little body. Silent tears rolled down the wide-opened eyes of those present.
He had witnessed his entire family being killed. Before that, his mother and two sisters had been dishonored, and his grandmother and his grandfather were buried alive. He begged them to spare someone, offering his own life in exchange. The Turkish officer screamed terrifying words into his ear while the boy shrieked in unbearable pain: “ Remember, animal, my mercy!”
After the brutal torture, they threw his grandfather’s shirt at him and…let him go.
He hid among the rocks, suffering from unbearable pain, thirst, and cold, where, in the darkness of a moonless night, he stumbled upon a sharp broken branch and lost an eye.
 
The boy was buried under the cover of night, right beneath the chapel.
After finishing the funeral service for a little Artak, Father Hovhaness wiped his tears and said:
“In my long life, I have had to bury many. But now it feels as though as I have laid to rest a little Christ… forgive me, Heavenly Father…”
 
That same early morning, they heard the ululating cries of riders approaching the chapel.
“Run!” Father Hovhaness shouted. “Immediately!”
Avet rushed to help a pregnant woman to her feet.
“I will hide Gayaneh in the secret place! She cannot run anyway! Save the others!” the priest pleaded.
 
 
Exhausted, miraculously still alive, having lost all sense of time, they wandered along the banks of the Araks River. The young crescent moon sparsely lit their path. They approached the shore to wash and fill their flasks with water. They had lost all their horses, so there was no one to water. Spreading beneath them whatever they could, they lay down right there on the bank of their native river. Avet was unbearably sleepy.
“Do you hear that?” Osanna whispered.
“What’s the matter? Mama, don’t worry, it’s all quiet…”
“ Exactly! I’ve never heard such a terrible piercing, screaming Silence..! Even the River makes no sound of splashing! As if it has died!”
“This is SILENCE, dear… God grieves along with the Armenian people…”
 
Avet moved closer to his mother, lay down on the ground, and placed his head on her lap. The mother hugged her son, closed her eyes, and began to softly sing:” Dle Yaa-maan…”
 
They were slowly awakened by a quiet sound: a mix of moaning and sighing. The sun was only just rising, but the twilight revealed a horrific scene that could stop the heart: across the wide river, like a mourning procession, bodies floated slowly — bodies, bodies, bodies..! Right in the middle of the river, brushing against the body here and a bump there, a raft drifted with a pole sticking out of it, on which a piece of fabric fluttered like a flag.
 
It seems as though the End of Time had come. As if no living soul remained on earth, only those who stood there with glassy, terror-stricken eyes, unable to move…
 
Suddenly, a faint sound reached their ears, resembling the mewing of a kitten.
“Did you hear that?” Baltazar whispered. “ It’s coming from over there,” he pointed at the raft drifting before them…
 
Avet and Baltazar rushed into the river, pushing aside the bodies of the slain as they swam towards the raft. Grabbing the edge of a log, they pulled the raft to the shore…
 
On the raft lay that young pregnant woman, Gayaneh, who had sheltered with them in the chapel. A wooden stake protruded from her belly, and the tattered edge of her skirt, fluttering in the breeze, had looked like a flag from afar. To her exposed, cold breast, a half-living infant feebly attempted to latch his tiny lips.
Standing by Gayaneh’s grave, Osanna, clutching the baby wrapped in rags to her chest, whispered:
“Gayaneh, my dear girl… Sleep peacefully… I swear before God that I will preserve your son’s life at all costs..”
“We’ll call him Artak!” Agalo added solemnly.
 
Saving Artak became the goal of all the survivors. It seemed as the Savior Himself joined the struggle for the baby’s life. That very day, they encountered a young goat, apparently escaped from a nearby village. They placed the baby directly to the goat’s teats, and the animal, as though understanding the incomprehensibility of the situation, stood still while the baby drunk milk ravenously. The fluffy “wet nurse” followed the baby like a devoted mother. Whenever Artak made a sound, the goat raised her head in concern, and once reassured of his safety, she calmed down.
 
 
This was the final checkpoint before the border with Eastern Armenia. The cherished city of salvation — Alexandropol — was so close…
Kneeling in the mud, in flattered clothes, the exhausted group of people, with a baby and a goat, prayed to the Creator for mercy, for the grace of salvation. One since step remained…they knew that the miracle of salvation was in God’s hands…
 
 
Waiting for nightfall, the fugitives moved as silently as possible as through a spare forest. To keep baby Artak from making a sound, Osanna fashioned a pacifier out of a cloth soaked in goat milk. In the distance, the flickering flames of the Turkish outpost’s fire partially illuminated their path. A group of soldiers sat around the fire, sharing their loot: satisfied with their “exploits”, their animal-like laughter mingled with vulgar curses aimed at the hated “ermeni”. They counted on their fingers, “boasting” about how many they had either raped or killed.
A man in a military uniform, about 30 years old, an officer, approached the fire. The soldiers obsequiously  rose from their places. He sat down on a stone and twisted his mustache.
 
“Big deal, you looted and killed…raped and slit the bellies of a pregnant women, what fun!” — with a kind of reverence, placing his hand over his heart, he continued. — “I was four years old when my grandfather— may Allah bless his soul— taught me what it means to be a true Turk. He gave me a dagger, opened the chicken coop, let the chicks out, and said: “ Do you see those running chickens? Now imagine they are ermeni. What must you do? If you do everything right, you’ll get my dagger as a gift. I caught up to every chick and, on the run, one by one, I chopped off their heads. Of course, I earned my grandfather’s dagger. That’s what it means to be a true Turk. Ah, Grandfather, you would be proud of me if you could have witnessed that unforgettable day I drank my fill of Armenian blood… I will never forget it until the end of my days…”
 
A monstrous grin appeared on his face, a grin of an inhuman beast revealing in the memories of his atrocities: his unblinking gaze was fixed on the campfire, his breathing became ragged, and suddenly he raised his head upward, clenched his fists, and roared in devilish ecstasy… From the strain, he was covered in large drops of sweat.
“That’s not sweat,” Avet shuddered,”that’s rivers of Armenian blood and tears. “
 
Having cried his fill, the monster began to tell of that “unforgettable “ day. After locking the villagers in the church, they burned them all alive. Only small boys from one to ten years old—about fifteen souls— were left alive. He promised to spare the one who reached the burning church first. Mounting his horse and swinging his yataghan, he decapitated the running children on the move!!!
“ Why not? Future fedayins! Armenian bastards!” — he laughed loudly. “You should have seen them, still running without heads, like chickens! One of their grandfathers, half-burned, screamed. “ Don’t forget, you are ancient Armen…” As long as we’re alive, neither today, nor tomorrow, NE—VER will there be any more ‘Armens’.”
He suddenly fell silent, and clenching his teeth, hissed,— “ I washed myself in their blood then…”
 
They were all spotted and captured. Avet had never experienced such animalistic fear for the lives of his loved ones…The vile faces, twisted into ugly grins, having caught the scent of Armenian blood, waited impatiently for the officer’s command to finish off the fugitives. The head Turk, that very officer, sifted through the belongings of the captured with a look of disgust, hoping to find something of value. Avet understood— death was inevitable.
“Where did you get it? “– the Turk-officer, eyes wide with surprise, asked threateningly when he saw the dagger.
“Efendi! We didn’t steal it… The commandant of Kars, Kasym-bey, personally gave me this dagger”,— Avet could barely pronounce the words.
The officer turned it over in his hands for a long time, then pressed it to his lips and returned it.
“You have one hour to reach the border… after that, I’ll give chase, now go.”
 
Just as they began to run, the Turk shouted — “ Stop!”
This is the end, Avet thought.
The officer approached Avet, snatched the sheath from his hands, and furrowing his brow, hissed through clenched teeth:
“You get out of here! This is not yours, filthy bastards! Get lost!”
 
Avet counted every step that brought them closer to salvation. Hungry, exhausted, and worn out by grief and pain, the people suddenly felt an incredible surge of strength, as if someone with an invisible, mighty hand was pushing them forward, helping them run without looking back.
 
They reached the border outpost: Osanna managed only to toss a bundle with the baby into the arms of a border guard, after which, as one, they collapsed to the ground and faded into oblivion… only little Artak, startled, burst into hysterical crying, while the “fluffy mama”, worried for the baby, drew circles and bleated loudly.
 
My grandfather continued his medical studies in the Russian Empire, graduated with honors from the St. Petersburg Imperial University. After finishing, despite lucrative offers, he returned to Armenia and worked as a doctor in an orphanage opened by the English for Armenian orphans who survived the Armenian Massacre in the Ottoman Empire. There, he met another doctor, a dentist— my grandmother— who had also fled from Kars and who , as a child, had been close to the large Agalo Alexandryan family. They were married for 50 years, working in various hospitals in Armenia, and during the World War II, they served in a Military Hospital.
 
The fate of the overwhelming majority of participants in this tragic Saga has been concealed by the Future under the “veil “ of Oblivion.
 
Artak was raised by the refugee, a victim of Genocide who had lost her entire family — all 12 members, buried alive in the ground. It was a homeless dog, whom the 16-years-old girl had regularly fed, that found her half-alive and dug her out.
 
Laleh and Reza kept their promise and safeguarded the daughter of Ani and Suren, little Shakeh, who was now called Shebhem. A few years later, they moved to Syria, to Aleppo, where Armenian survivors, saved by a miracle, had found refuge. There, little Shebnem, thanks to the large Armenian diaspora, had the opportunity to speak her native Armenian language. Laleh and Reza’s purpose in moving to Syria was precisely this: they had promised Ani that they would tell little Shakeh the whole truth and never hide her origins.
 
 
 
**Historical Facts**
 
Following orders from the central government in Constantinople, regional authorities, aided by local civilian populations, carried out mass executions and deportations. Military personnel and security services, along with their supporters, exterminated most able-bodied Armenian men and thousands of women and children.
 
During the forced marched through the desert, the surviving elderly, women, and children suffered attacks by local authorities, nomadic bandits, criminal groups, and civilians. These attacks involved robbery (victims were stripped naked and subjected to body cavity searches for valuables), rape, abductions of young women and girls, extortion, torture, and murder.
 
Hundreds of thousands of Armenians perished without ever reaching the designated deportation camps. Many committed suicide, unable to endure the immense torment and suffering. Vast numbers of Armenians died from starvation, dehydration, inflicted injuries, lack of shelter, and disease along the way.
 
Despite the Young Turks’ claim that deportations were a response to Armenian disloyalty on the Eastern Front and allegiance to the Russian Empire, the first deportations were conducted under Cemal’s leadership, not in the eastern border regions, but from Anatolia (Kilikia) to Syria. Armenians from almost all major centers of the Empire, not just the border areas affected by World War I, were deported.
 
 
**SAGA**
 
In 1938, on the streets of Aleppo, a relatively young but completely gray-haired woman approached 22-years-old Shebnem and asked: “What are your parents’ names, beautiful girl?” Upon hearing the names “Laleh and Reza”, she collapsed at the girl’s feet, losing consciousness…
This was Ani, her mother, who had miraculously survived in the Syrian desert.
 
Shebnem took her mother home. Two mothers of one daughter, Shakeh-Shebnem, Ani, and Laleh , sat across from each other, looking into each other’s eyes. They did not utter a single word, but only wiped each other’s tears — tears of inhuman trials and grief, tears of boundless gratitude and thankfulness.
By that time, Reza had already passed away.
 
After calming down a little, Laleh went into the bedroom and, upon returning, placed a heavy bundle before her daughter. When the daughter asked what it was, she replied:
“This is your dowry, left to you by your parents, Ani and Suren. “
Laleh and Reza had taken NOTHING from all the gold that Ani had wrapped under the swaddling clothes of little Shakeh as she fled from Kars. Since then, the two mothers and the daughter were united under one roof.
 
The story of the treasured dagger that saved an entire family, and its significance, remained a mystery sealed forever. I once asked my grandfather what he thought about it.
“That the dagger was an Islamic relic— I have no doubt. Perhaps, the person who carried it received a privileged indulgence…like in The *Three Musketeers* with Cardinal Richlieu’s letter for the bearer…”
 
The day before his death, my grandfather Avet had a dream, which he recounted to my grandmother: he saw his father Agalo. They walked together through the evening streets of Yerevan and talked for a long time. My grandfather accompanied his father to a small river, which seemed to separate the city from the cemetery. Jumping over to the cemetery side, Avet helped his father cross to the same side, and together they walked towards Agalo’s gravestone.
 
On the day of his death, my grandfather Avet visited all his children and grandchildren. He spoke with each of us about life, gave everyone kind advice, shared episodes from his difficult but honorable life, then returned home, had lunch, sat in the chair, lit a cigarette, and…passed away.
 
I must confess that the cherished dream of my great-grandfather Agalo Alexandryan— the opportunity to receive an education— was fulfilled in subsequent generations:
All, I repeat, ALL of Agalo’s children, grandchildren, and great- grandchildren received higher education. Among them:
Doctors, economists, engineers, physicists, mathematicians, geologists, teachers, and musicians.
Several became scientists, including master’s and doctor’s of sciences, and even a dean.
 
The great-grandson of Artashes , a pulmonologist, Garik, became a nuclear physicist. At 35, he received his doctoral degree and was part of Sergei Korolev’s scientific group. Unfortunately, I don’t remember his father’s surname (I was a teenager at that time), but I vividly recall the grief of the entire family when Garik passed away from lung cancer at the age of 38.
 
The son of Aram Alexandryan— academician of the Academy of Sciences of the Armenia, mathematician, honored scientist and engineer, and State Prize laureate— was Rafael Aramovich Alexandryan. Aram, my grandfather’s brother, during Stalin’s repression, was arrested and executed in 1938 for serving in the Russian Imperial Army.
Despite being the son of an “enemy of the people”, Rafael won the ALL-Union Mathematics Olympiad while in 10-th grade.
 
 
 
Countries that recognized the Armenian Genocide in Ottoman Empire
 
The first country in the world to recognize the Armenian Genocide was URUGUAY in 1965.
 
• Austria — 2015
• Belgium —2015
• Bulgaria—2007-2015
• Bolivia—2014
• Brazil—2015
• Vatican—2015
• Venezuela—2005
• Germany—2016
• Greece—1996
• Italy—2000-2019
• Canada—1996, 2002,2004
• Cyprus—1975-1982
• Latvia—2021
• Lebanon—1997
• Libya—2019
• Lithuania—2005
• Luxembourg—2015
• Netherlands—2004-2018
• Paraguay—2015
• Poland—2005
• Portugal—2019
• Russia—1995
• Syria—1995
• Slovakia—2004
• USA—2021( The resolution past by the House of Representatives formally recognized the Armenian Genocide without requiring approval from the Senate and President).
• France—1998,2000,2001,2006
• Czech Republic— 2015,2017,2020
• Chile—2007
• Switzerland—2010
• Mexico—2023
 
 
 
Countries That Have Not Yet Recognized the Armenian Genocide —164
Each of these nations explains their position differently, but the reasons generally fall into three categories: geopolitics, reluctance to delve into history, and, most significantly— the
**Absence of Morality!**
 
Example include:
 
ISRAEL— a victim of Holocaust??!
AUSTRALIA
INDIA
UNITED KINGDOM ( According to my grandfather, an active instigator and participant in the extermination of Armenians)
SPAIN
CHINA
ESTONIA
BELARUS(ironically, a member of CSTO- Collective Security Treaty Organization)
UKRAINE
AND many others…
 
 
The events of this sorrowful Saga are not only the history of my family but also the history of the entire Armenian people. I have illuminated these events as truthfully and responsibly as I could with regard to each participant, without any preference for religion or nationality.
However…
The Turkish people of today, a new generation that did not participate in the bloodiest massacre of the 20th century against another people, bear no criminal responsibility for the crimes of their ancestors. But like a son of the murderer who is not subject to prosecution, the Turkish people bear moral responsibility and a “stigma of shame” that cannot be removed without acknowledgement and repentance— not only before the Armenian People, but, first and foremost, before their own conscience.
If the ideologists and organizers of the Armenian Genocide had faced( so to speak) a “Turkish Nuremberg”, the bloody trail of spilled Armenian blood would not still linger to this day.
 
In the end, I would like to recall the words of my great-grandfather, Agalo Alexandryan:
“This ‘World’ did not lift a finger, and it never will. Show me one, just one fiend, who has been punished for the ceaseless killings of Armenians! What have we received for four centuries? Aside from pogroms, Looting, and the Turkish yataghan at our throats, only one thing—Silence! SI—LEN—CE!
 
Since my great-grandfather spoke these words, ANOTHER CENTURY OF SILENCE has passed…
 
                July 23, 2023