If I’ve learned nothing else since embarking on learning more about my Armenian heritage, it is that Armenian women are incredibly strong.

During the marches of the genocide from roughly 2015 to 2018, the trek through the deserts and mountains were made predominantly by women and children. Countless died along the way. Most were raped. Beaten. Starved. Parched. Watching others shot when they slowed the march. But imagine the resilience of a woman, carrying a small child, walking from what is now Syria to Egypt! Look it up on a map. One of the women I interviewed was the grandchild of the woman and the daughter of that child who made that trek.

Could you do that?

Could you leave your dead infant in the desert? Or your elderly father? Knowing that you had to continue to survive?

Can you imagine being thirsty enough to risk you and your child drinking tan water?
It was all about survival. A powerful human instinct.

Can you imagine leaving everything you ever knew, boarding a crowded ship with strangers, with the sole goal of surviving to make it to the shores of a welcoming nation?

And then arriving to find that while the government welcomed you, your new peers thought you were strange and laughed at you.

And yet they went on. Those who were betrothed (marriages were arranged in those days) hoped and prayed someone who knew someone who knew the whereabouts of your future husband would greet you at Ellis Island.

And they set about doing what women in that day did – established a home. Often it was in the home of the in-laws, and sometimes that didn’t go all that well. But they had to focus on moving forward. Raising the child/children who might have survived the deserts and mountains and ships. Connecting with others from their own village (the Armenian immigrants tended to reconnect with other survivors, familiar faces and names from home villages like Marash, Kharpert, Van. Immersing themselves in the activities of their churches – Ladies Aid, Sunday Schools.

Early Sunday School

And dancing. Finding joy in making the music of their homeland and the familiar steps of the dances. Dances and music were an outlet. That and the church and their home village groups kept them anchored as they acclimated to their new lives in a new land.


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I am Armenian! I am American!

[Scenes From the Armenian genocide (shaded due to graphic nature): Left-bodies prior to burning; Top right-public hangings; Bottom right-refugees boarding lifeboats at Smyrna]

An internet video search of the Armenian genocide returned literally hundreds of videos! And yet so many people don’t even know of its existence.

At least part of the reason for this is that, unlike the Jewish Holocaust, the United States has never officially recognized the murder of 1.5 million Armenians by the Turks of the Ottoman Empire. Why? Despite books and movies depicting it (The Promise was the most recent), and the words on paper and in video of survivors and their loved ones, and actual photos of the horrors, Turkey has denied it ever occurred, claiming it was an isolated occurrence of abuses committed by some officials. Photos, eyewitnesses and survivors prove otherwise. But Turkey, dishonorable as it is even in today’s world, is a member of NATO and officially an ally (though a shaky one) of the United States.
The tentacles of politics strangle acknowledgement of a horror unmatched in modern history until the Nazis.

Did you know that Armenians honored the 100th anniversary of the genocide in 2015? I’m an Armenian, and I missed it. The hatred and intermittent killing of Armenians by the Turks had a long history prior to 1915 and began ramping up systematically around 1895. Lands were confiscated. Threats were common, and all too often were carried out. People disappeared. My own ancestors saw what might be coming and like many other Armenians, began immigrating to America, often via Syria or France, in the late 1800s.

In the early years of the first decade of the 20th century, a change of Turkish leadership provided Armenians with what turned out to be a false sense of security. As was also the case with the Jews, the relative prosperity of the Armenians provoked the envy of their neighbors. The fact that they were of a different religion (Turks were Moslems, Armenians were the first Christians) fanned flames and made Armenians objects of suspicion and resentment. The outbreak of World War I turned these elements into an explosive mixture of hate and fear. Armenians were presented by official propaganda as agents of the Russians and were somehow blamed for Turkey’s military setbacks. The Young Turks portrayed the Armenians as a threat to the state.

April 24, 2015 marks the fatal date when several hundred Armenian intellectuals were rounded up, arrested and later executed. This was the start of the “official” Armenian genocide, a bloody massacre that lasted until 1917.

In addition to 1915-1917, the massacres occurred in 1894-1896, 1909, and repeated again between 1920 and 1923. The scope and ruthlessness of these dates, though, do not compare with the mass slaughter of 1915-1917, which is correctly described as genocide. In his book, “A Peace to End All Peace,” David Fromkin described the terrible fate of the expelled Armenians: “Rape and beating were commonplace. Those who were not killed at once were driven through mountains and deserts without food, drink or shelter.”

What impresses me most as I learn more about the survivors of the genocide was their strength and resilience. Refusing to dwell on the horrors and losses, American Armenians embraced their new country and the opportunities provided here. The final scene in the movie, The Promise, reflects this – watch it, if you haven’t already! The children and grandchildren I’ve interviewed show similar strength, manifested in in their ability to adapt to changing lives, but also in a streak of stubborn independence that is reflected in many life choices, including sometimes a resistance to compromise.

More about this as my journey continues!

My regards to all!



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I’m sitting here at my computer, immersing myself in my Armenian story with the accompaniment of Armenian music. The music has triggered memories of long-ago experiences: background music at some unidentified event with my cousins near Boston; a wedding where a belly dancer gyrated to the music to entertain the guests, eliciting positive and negative oohs and aahs. “Look at her amazing moves!” “What will the minister think?” “How does she spin like that without tripping on her scarves and veils?” Don’t ask me whose wedding, because I can’t recall. But it was someone from our church because the minister in question was our minister; another time when friends from the Armenian Protestant Youth Fellowship were visiting because one or more of them were playing Armenian dance music at a local event. Weddings and other family events with Armenian music, the mostly women on the dance floor patiently demonstrating the steps. In my memories, men rarely were on the dance floor with us – but if you Google Armenian dance, part of what you will find is groups of men dancing. I need to learn more about the cultural forces at play.

And a more recent experience, visiting with one of the Armenian ladies from our church, when she put on music and as at those events past, demonstrated the steps – but too fast for me to follow before she moved on to a different pattern when the music changed. Her music was not Armenian specifically – but rather Middle Eastern. If there’s a difference, it was too subtle for me to identify. It was this haunting music at her home and the memories triggered that nudged me to purchase music of my own.

According to Wikipedia: “The Armenian dance (Armenian : Հայկական պար) heritage has been considered one of the oldest and most varied in its respective region. From the fifth to the third millennia B.C., in the higher regions of Armenia, the land of Ararat, there are rock paintings of scenes of country dancing. These dances were probably accompanied by certain kinds of songs or musical instruments.”

As I listen to the music and view the images in my brain, I feel like it’s all a part of me and I of it. Maybe there’s something to those multiple lives theories, and I was an Armenian dancer in a past life!

Armenian dancers

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According to legend, the Armenians were descended from one of Noah’s sons after the landing of the Ark on Mount Ararat. Some specialists believe that the “Arimoi” mentioned by Homer in the Iliad may have been among the remote forebears of the Armenians.

(Taken from the Introduction to the Second Edition of Reverend Abraham Hartunian’s Neither to Laugh Nor to Weep. The introduction was written by Marjorie Housepian Dobkin of Barnard College in April, 1986)

Reverend—or Badveli, as the Armenian ministers are called—documented his, his family’s and so many others’ experiences with the massacre of the Armenians. “The premeditated, ruthless, official campaign by the Turkish government to exterminate Turkey’s Armenian minority—which began in 1895—ground relentlessly through 27 years and two million deaths.” He documented how a once proud people was reduced to scattered and ragged remnants. The quiet voice of Abraham Hartunian offers a profound warning: “When governments forget that they are dealing with human beings, not abstract problems, the results can be horribly inhuman.”

Massacre photo-Hartunian bookSoup Kitchens in AintabSleeping in Streets

As I have sat with and listened to stories of first generation Armenian Americans–those whose parents survived the massacres and immigrated to America to ensure the survival of their children, the stories have shared many commonalities, all against the backdrop of horror beyond description left behind in their native land:

  1. They rarely if ever spoke of the worst of their experiences. Women in their eighties and nineties I’ve spoken with had nuggets of information that shed some light on what their parents went through. Some had stories that had risen to legend within their families.
  2. They embraced their new homes in America. Most were actively involved in their churches. They learned English. They had to prove before they were processed through Ellis Island that they had a place to live and a way to earn a living–and that they were healthy.
  3. Many started in one city and ultimately settled in others.
  4. Many started businesses – food markets popped up on every corner; stores sold rugs and furniture.
  5. Large groups of Armenians settled together. A good example is the migration of Armenians to Watertown, MA to work at the Hood Rubber Company.
  6. First generation offspring saw themselves as Americans – many placing their American identity above their Armenian heritage.

Although the men held the leadership positions in their churches, the women held the fabric of the church community and Sunday School together:


And the story continues. It’s a story of survival, of strong wills, of self-determination and positivism.

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My current project began with a plan to write a history of the Armenian Church where I spent much of my childhood and teen years. It’s evolved since its original conception and likely will evolve further as I continue my research. Some of the things I’ve learned have not surprised me—although I hadn’t considered them when starting out. Others have both surprised and dismayed me. But the biggest surprise has been the increasing connection I’ve felt with my Armenian ancestry. The result of this last finding has been to nudge my book focus more toward that ancestry, with the church history playing a supporting role rather than being the sole focus.

What I’ve learned:
• Armenians—men and women—are a strong, resilient, adaptive, and intelligent nationality. Over centuries, their home country’s borders have changed, and their faith (they were among the first Christians) made them the target of the predominantly Moslem Turks, most notably during the massacres spanning 1895-1922, the most well-known period being the genocide of 1914-1917. The latter included death marches, rapes of young women (and boys), and targeted annihilation of men, women and children.

• Hundreds of thousands of Armenians who survived and/or were able to escape to safer neighboring countries eventually immigrated legally to America. Most of those immigrants and virtually all of their children assimilated into the American culture and became American citizens.

Ancestor Naturalization Papers
• The early Armenians, before and after immigration, most likely didn’t choose their spouse. Their marriages were arranged—sometimes through agreements when they were still children.

Ancestor Wedding
• First generation Armenians’ lives revolved around family and church.

1908 Church Groundbreaking (2)
• Men worked and managed the money. Women lived with their parents until married and rarely worked outside the home. Once married, they took care of children and the home, and supported the husband. Since multiple generations lived together, the women often were called upon to care for parents and grandparents. (Wedding Photo)

• As a young child in our church, the adults were addressed as Mr., Mrs., or Miss. We rarely saw church members away from church activities, so children and teens didn’t get to know “the adults,” both men and women, in any depth. My strongest recollections of the church ladies was a pinch of my cheek accompanied by “inchbes es” (how are you?) – and sometimes a kiss on a nose or forehead or cheek that left a bright red lip imprint. The church men rarely spoke to the children, at least not to girls. As a result, I never really knew those elders, even those of my parents’ generation. Since I started my research and have had conversations with many of these women (most in their late eighties and up to almost 100), I have been delighted by the warm, friendly women I’m getting to know. The real people, not the limited cardboard cutout of my childhood experience. Many of these women have begun sharing stories of their younger years and what they remember of their parents’ experiences.

Since I didn’t know the men at all, I’ve chosen to meet with the women first. In later posts I will describe my interviews with the men – no first generation church members still alive, but I hope their offspring will have stories to share.

And finally . . .
• Strong people have strong ideas and opinions—in relationships, in work settings, in countries, even in a church that once played a central role in people’s lives. Unwillingness to be open to someone else’s ideas or try new approaches with an evolving congregation can, and in this case did, bring about the church’s demise.

A new friend who has been making documentary films about the Armenians for decades advised me: “Do your interviews and research first. The direction of your story will flow naturally from what you learn along the way.”

My journey continues.

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The good news is I didn’t receive a single rejection for The Eyes Have It during the lead-up to Christmas. I also didn’t receive any offers. Currently my queries are still in the hands of 13 agents and 9 small publishers. As of the second week of January, no correspondence, positive or negative. I did prepare two additional queries for publishers. What will the rest of 2019 bring for Eyes?

For now, that’s out of my hands. So what’s a writer to do? This writer tripped over an ancestry search last September and fell into a terrifyingly complex yet thrilling new project. It likely will take a couple or more years to complete properly, but it has adrenaline surging through my veins daily.

My cousin from the Boston area inquired about a shared ancestor. He’d been unsuccessful finding any information about him, so he asked if I could search church records, since his last known residence was in Troy, NY. The church records belonged to the church I was raised in and attended into early adulthood – the only Protestant Armenian Church in this part of New York State.

My name doesn’t sound Armenian, you say? Well, before marriage, my last name was Essegian. I was active in our church all through my first two decades, including participation in the Armenian Protestant Youth Fellowship (APYF).

Then life crowded out many things, participation in my church included. I stayed abreast of the goings-on through my mother–until the early nineties when she died. Around then, coincidentally, one of my APYF friends was hired as a new minister for the church. She virtually reincarnated a dying church while she was there. But she lived in the Boston area with her family. So after 8 years she left the church, and from then until the early 21st century it declined. By the time I inquired about the church records, the church had closed–a century after its founding–and the building was for sale.

I was fortunate enough to connect with the former minister, my APYF friend, and made connections with some church members who were still around–including one of the brothers handling the sale of the church building. He let me into the church, we located the record books, and after consulting with another senior congregation member, they allowed me to borrow the books for a couple of weeks.

Wading through the history in those books, seeing so many familiar names, including my grandparents–who died before I was born but were involved in the founding of the church–flipped some switch in my head. I wanted to write a history of this church, founded during the mass migration of Armenians to America to escape annihilation by the Ottoman Turks. I wanted to learn more about not just the church, but the people who came before me in the church and what their lives were like – as survivors, as immigrants, as first and second generations of those Armenians fortunate enough to escape the genocide.

And so it began.

I will continue to report as my adventure continues!


A mid-1900’s Sunday School Class In Front Of The Church


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There are so many forms of love!

This series will address romantic love, of which there also are multiple forms. There’s that soul-shocking first love. “You never forget your first love” is a statement made by nearly everyone who has experienced it, even after years—even decades—have passed, whether or not the love was sustained. There’s the memory love—the one for a beloved who has died. It’s a love memory that lingers, that forever makes your insides tighten with pain of the loss mixed with a yearning remembrance of that deep emotional connection. There’s the mature love—a couple growing old together with a lifetime of shared experiences. One might also add a “second-chance love,” a deep friendship that may form after one or both of you have lost your first love through death or divorce.

Today we’ll look at “memory love.” Yes, there are memories of love for a relationship that didn’t work out. But this is about the permanent loss of a beloved, one who has died, drawing again from Autumn Colors.

She needed to talk to Tom. No, she hadn’t lost it. She had some things in her head that she needed to say out loud. She needed to hear them, whether or not he could.

The group was dispersing. She caught Emma’s eye and went over to her.

“I think I’ll stay behind for a while,” she said. “Thank you for letting me know about your mom’s service.”

Emma nodded understanding.

As the last car drove out of sight, she sat down cross-legged on Tom’s grave and touched the ground affectionately. It was pleasantly warm. She remained quiet for several minutes, the only sound the rustling of the few leaves remaining on the trees, the sweet aroma of the earth beneath her giving her courage. Was Tom’s spirit anywhere around? The scent reminded her of the day he showed up after their summer apart, when she was digging in her mother’s garden, surrounded by upturned warm earth.

“Oh, Tom.” she sighed. She looked around her to be sure no one would hear her talking to a headstone, maybe to a spirit – she hadn’t ruled that out. Hoped it was the case, actually. Either way, she had to say what she stayed to say.

She stroked the ground and the stone and sighed again.

“I never said goodbye, Tom. All these years, I kept pretending that you never really left me, that you weren’t really gone. That you were just across some bridge to the hereafter, watching over me and reaching out to me.

“I went to see Rosemary Altea speak once. She said when we hold on to our departed loved ones, we’re keeping them and us from moving on. Have I held you back, Tom? I know I’ve held myself back.”

Wispy white clouds glided across the sky.

“I’m forty-nine. More than twice the age we were when you were here. I’ve been married to Charles four times longer than you and I had a relationship.”

Her eyes filled again, and the rest of her words competed with sobs.

“I squandered our love, Tom, and then you were gone before I could make it up to you. I’ve been doing the same thing with Charles for over twenty years, and I never recognized the pattern. I’ve never been fully there for Charles.

“Charles is a good man. I do love him. It’s a different love from what you and I had. But no less real or valuable. It’s a mature and steady love. He deserves better than what I’ve been giving him.

“Remember when you sent me flowers on Valentine’s Day and I called you, and you told me about your fraternity brother dying? You said it was important to let people know you love them, because they could be gone in an instant and you wouldn’t have the opportunity again. I’m grateful that I recognized my love for you and told you before it was too late. I was so angry that we had precious little time together after that.”

She dug into her coat pocket for a tissue. Her face was soaked and her nose was running. She struggled to say the last words to him.

“Now I need to be with Charles, to let him know how much I love him.”

Say it. Say it and mean it. She took a deep breath.

“It’s time to let you go, Tom.”

The breeze gusted briefly. A few more leaves drifted to the ground. The earthy smell was gone.

Blowing her nose and sighing again, she stood and stretched. Then she walked to the car and drove off without looking back.

As she left the streets of her hometown, she thought about how much had changed since she had arrived that morning. She was tired but exhilarated and optimistic. The black shroud of autumn had been lifted, hopefully for good. A light had turned on inside her where before there was only darkness. It made everything seem bright, and hummed and made her feel warm and happy.

Next time we’ll look at “mature love.”

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