By Ani Belorian:
There’s always a feeling of pride that accompanies finding out where and who you come from. It’s like an undeniable fire burning within each of us indicating the cultural duty we have toward our people and ancestors. I’m sure everyone knows what this feels like, whether it’s due to a close relationship with a heritage or one with another community. This fire has been burning within me since the day I was born and has been fueled by the knowledge that in the year 1915, the Armenian people, my people, were taken from their homes and loved ones with the purpose of being totally exterminated by Turkey. What’s more is that Turkey failed, and I am the living proof.
Here’s my story:
I come from the mountainous land of Armenia, the apricots grown in the fields, and the rich history of its accomplishments and intellectuals. But most importantly, I come from a group of people who, despite impossible circumstances, managed to survive and thrive. In 1915, the Western Armenian people, after many years of oppression from the Ottoman Empire, were driven out of their homes. Their intellectuals, fathers, and adolescent sons were taken away a few days before, which consequently took away the people who held the most power during that time. The Ottomans were determined to exterminate all Armenians in their quest to create a stronger and more nationalistic empire. My great grandfather Hovnan and his family, including his mother and two older brothers, were driven out of their hometown, Bursa. With nowhere to go, they set off on the suicidal journey of trekking through the desert, Der Zor, along with 1.5 million other Armenians. As the days went by, people were inevitably dying, either from starvation or sickness. To make matters worse, Ottoman soldiers were continuously torturing them as they clambered on their journey to survive. Among the victims of this hate crime were my great grandfather’s mother and oldest brother. He and his other brother were the only two left from his immediate family. They marched along, not only suffering from the physical detriment, but also from one of the most painful experiences that humanity knows: the loss of a loved one. Desperate for any way out of this situation, they finally found a tent in the middle of the desert. His older brother told him to stay right where he was while he went in to see if the people inside were willing to help them. I will always wonder, forever and ever, what became of him. As a young boy of just five years old, my great-grandfather quickly grew impatient and scared, thus deciding to run away. He never saw his brother again after that moment.
Luckily, as he was venturing through the deadly desert, an Arabic man and his wife took him in and, as they had no children themselves, and raised him as their own. When asked his name, my great-grandfather spewed out his first name but had no memory of his last name. Growing up, originally he took the family name of the man who took him in, but upon finding out his Armenian heritage from that very kind man at the age of fourteen, he decided to take a different name that embodied the people he came from. Of course, in the traditional Armenian fashion, it had to end in “ian”. In that town in Syria, he definitely stood out from the crowd, with his bright blue eyes and light blonde hair. He was given the nickname “Belor” which means shiny like glass in Arabic. He decided to combine the two parts of him that made him whole: his Armenian ancestry and the people who gave him refuge when he had no one. And so, the last name “Belorian” was created—one that no one else has unless they are related to me.
When I reflect on this story, I remember that I would definitely not be alive if not for this genocide. But, the Armenian population would probably be more than double what it is now if it didn’t happen. My homeland would no doubt have a lot more political and geographical power.
This is just my story, but it’s one of the many stories from every Armenian in the world now. They each have a past that surpasses the next with its uniqueness and anguish. We have been through so much as a people, and yet we continue to fight every day to make sure that our ancestor’s lives were not taken in vain and that Turkey finally recognizes that this systematic extermination of the Armenian people is exactly what it looks like: a genocide.
So, am I intrigued by my family’s history and rich past? Of course. Does it make me angry that, if not for this genocide, my family would have seen a much more prosperous Armenia? That I will never really know my family’s true heritage before my great grandfather? That the city of my namesake, the city of Ani, whose ruins are being given a blind eye as they rot away in Turkey, is in the hands of the enemy? More than anything.