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Special for the Armenian Weekly

My maternal grandparents were from Dikranagerd (or Tigranakert, now Diyarbakir), where my mother Mari and uncle Mgrditch were also born.

My recollection of my grandmother Gadar growing up in Cairo was that of a kind, gentle soul, a very sad person who spoke little, constantly wore black, and always held a cross in her hand. She slept little, woke up early every morning, prepared my breakfast, and on my way to kindergarten kissed my forehead and murmured a short prayer. She would go to the Armenian church in our neighborhood of Bein El Sourein (the church has been demolished to widen the street) for morning prayers and regularly attended Mass every Sunday. On some Sundays I accompanied her. After Mass, my grandmother would get together with other ladies her age, all wearing black, holding hands and whispering while my friends and I played in the church yard, oblivious and unaware of their pain.

After Mass, my grandmother would get together with other ladies her age, all wearing black, holding hands and whispering while my friends and I played in the church yard, oblivious and unaware of their pain.

I was very young; this was the late 1940’s, early 1950’s. I did not know anything yet about the genocide. At that time in Egypt, little was said or mentioned about the genocide. It was in the late 1950’s that the Armenian community in Egypt (primarily the ARF and the Ramgavar party) started to openly commemorate the genocide. When I asked my father and mother why my grandmother always seemed to be sad and wore black, my dad’s answer was, “She survived hell on earth and is unable to forget.” Being young, I could not comprehend my grandmother’s grief and the enormity of her family’s suffering.

My grandmother passed away. As I grew up, I was very fortunate to have great and inspiring teachers like Sarkis Zeitlian and Berj Momdjian, who made us aware of who we are and have become today. I also had the “Houssaper” and “Ararat” centers, which in our childhood and as adults became our second homes.

When my father passed away, I found a document in his papers. I am extremely happy that my father had kept it for so many years. It is a document that cries out about what grandmother, mother, and uncle had gone through at the murderous hands of Turks and Kurds during the genocide.

When Dikranagerd’s Armenian community was viciously attacked and looted by the Turkish/Kurdish hordes, all the able-bodied males were either massacred or deported en masse. Their properties were looted or confiscated, and the women and children were exiled. The Basmadjian clan was perished, although I became aware that few of them had miraculously survived and made their way to the United States.

Unfortunately I still do not know how my grandmother, with her two children, was able to make the treacherous journey from Dikranagerd to Adana. How did they survive in those hostile and venomous conditions, with nothing except the clothes on their backs?

Unfortunately I still do not know how my grandmother, with her two children, was able to make the treacherous journey from Dikranagerd to Adana. How did they survive in those hostile and venomous conditions, with nothing except the clothes on their backs?

Following World War I, the Franco-Turkish war was fought and Cilicia and cities like Adana were occupied by French troops from November 1918 to October 1921. Armenians in the “ French Armenian Legion” were fighting alongside the French and supporting them. There is voluminous historical data in the French archives about that period and the involvement of the French, but very little from the Armenian perspective.

It is likely during that time that my grandmother, mother, and uncle, with the help of a “guardian angel,” were able to reach Adana. I have no idea what happened in Adana, except that they sailed on a ship to Alexandria, Egypt.

The document, in French, is revealing for the following facts:

It was issued by the Military Governor of the “Occupied Enemy Territories” on Aug. 12, 1920.

It is a “Permit of Passage.”

Nationality is noted as “Armenian.”

Destination: “Alexandria in care of Father Haigazoun.”

With “No return.”

They arrived in Alexandria on Sept. 3, 1920. They were taken in and taken care of by Armenian families who were in Alexandria at the time. My father was one of them.

My grandmother could not forget. How can I?

This document cries out for Justice.

The post A Document That Cries Out appeared first on Armenian Weekly.


Special for the Armenian Weekly My maternal grandparents were from Dikranagerd (or Tigranakert, now Diyarbakir), where my mother Mari and uncle Mgrditch were also born. My recollection of my grandmother Gadar growing up in Cairo was that of a kind, gentle soul, a very sad person who spoke little, constantly wore black, and always held a cross in her hand. She slept little, woke up early every morning, prepared my breakfast, and on my way to kindergarten kissed my forehead and murmured a short prayer. She would go to the Armenian church in our neighborhood of Bein El Sourein (the church has been demolished to widen the street) for morning prayers and regularly attended Mass every Sunday. On some Sundays I accompanied her. After Mass, my grandmother would get together with other ladies her age, all wearing black, holding hands and whispering while my friends and I played in the church yard, oblivious and unaware of their pain. After Mass, my grandmother would get together with other ladies her age, all wearing black, holding hands and whispering while my friends and I played in the church yard, oblivious and unaware of their pain. When my father passed away, I found [...]

The post A Document That Cries Out appeared first on Armenian Weekly.


Special for the Armenian Weekly My maternal grandparents were from Dikranagerd (or Tigranakert, now Diyarbakir), where my mother Mari and uncle Mgrditch were also born. My recollection of my grandmother Gadar growing up in Cairo was that of a kind, gentle soul, a very sad person who spoke little, constantly wore black, and always held a cross in her hand. She slept little, woke up early every morning, prepared my breakfast, and on my way to kindergarten kissed my forehead and murmured a short prayer. She would go to the Armenian church in our neighborhood of Bein El Sourein (the church has been demolished to widen the street) for morning prayers and regularly attended Mass every Sunday. On some Sundays I accompanied her. After Mass, my grandmother would get together with other ladies her age, all wearing black, holding hands and whispering while my friends and I played in the church yard, oblivious and unaware of their pain. After Mass, my grandmother would get together with other ladies her age, all wearing black, holding hands and whispering while my friends and I played in the church yard, oblivious and unaware of their pain. When my father passed away, I found [...]

The post A Document That Cries Out appeared first on Armenian Weekly.


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