In 1987, when my husband George made his first trip to Armenia, I declined to accompany him. My refusal was based on the grounds that present day Armenia is not our ancestral homeland. Our real homeland, I explained, is Historic Armenia, in what is now Eastern Turkey -- a place which I also felt no desire to visit. But in May 1988, I did go with him to Armenia, then a Soviet Socialist Republic; and after the earthquake in December of that same year, I have returned several times each year. In Armenia, as it turned out, I found connections to the land and the people many whose ancestors were also survivors of the genocide. Their parents had made their way from Turkey and crossed the border into what was then the fledgling state of Armenia during those dark days and settled there. The names of some of Yerevan’s outlying districts were named for the villages they came from in Eastern Turkey –Nor (New) Kharpert, Nor Malatya, and Nor Arapgir. Over the ensuing years, I felt so connected to Armenia that I even titled my book about my experiences in Armenia and Karabagh, A Call from Home,

But for the past two years, as many of you know, George and I have been struggling with problems around a personal investment in Armenia. Fighting a stupid and senseless court case over stolen property has colored our feelings. We felt betrayed, but even worse, we felt disenfranchised. More than once George and I joked about changing our surname, Najarian, to its English translation, and becoming Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter! But underneath the humor there was a very real sense of loss.

This year, perhaps because of these troubles, the loss of our home there and our sense of alienation from that land, we decided it was time to make the journey to where our parents were born --Historic Armenia in Eastern Turkey. We were also inspired to make this trip by the experiences of friends like Dr. François Antounian and Harry Parsekian. The time was right.

It was our good fortune that Armen Aroyan, who knows the region intimately, was available to organize and guide our trip as he has done for hundreds of other Armenians; without his expertise our trip could not have been possible. Our itinerary included the birthplaces of our parents, all in the region of Kharpert (Harput): Husenig and Perchench on George’s side, Sheykh-haji and Arapgir on my side. My mother’s sister, Hasmieg (Kaboolian) Yankelovich, went with us. She wanted to visit her father’s (my grandfather’s) birthplace of Agin (Kemaliye). The city of Ani, an ancient capitol of Historic Armenia on the border of the Republic of Armenia, was also on our list. In addition, Armen suggested stops in Aintab, Malatya, Marash, Van, Bitlis, Kars, and Erzerum as these were along our route.

We were excited and more than a little apprehensive about our upcoming trip. We didn’t know what to expect. We had heard from others who had made the trip that people were quite friendly and the food was wonderful, but we had been warned that our emotions would run high. What follows is an account of where we went, what we saw and my personal reactions to our experiences. But first, here are some overall impressions.

Despite the Turkish government’s attempt to wipe out all traces that Armenians have lived in this region for 3,000 years, the memory of the Armenian people is imprinted on the land. Evidence of our ancestors having lived there was clear -- embedded in the walls of churches that still stand, though closed and boarded up, disfigured by the chisel and left to decay, their domes removed and crosses discarded. It is felt in the Armenian sections of small villages and growing cities, where Armenian homes, with their distinctive architecture, are easy to identify. These homes are either boarded up and decaying, like our churches, or inhabited by poor Kurds. These Armenian buildings serve as a constant reminder of some awful thing that happened in the past. More than one villager referred to the genocide of 1915 as the “things that happened before I was born.”

We were warmly welcomed in most of the villages where we had the opportunity to speak with people. Kurdish men as well as women spoke with us and would ask, “Why have you come to this village?” We were quite clear stating about being Armenian and wanting to see where our ancestors had been born. They always followed these conversations with an invitation to have tea. Several times, people said in Turkish, “You are welcome here.”

We were surprised to meet a few people who admitted having Armenian heritage – some more openly than others. One woman who lives in Van said, “We live as Turks on the outside, Armenians on the inside” obviously feeling it was important to keep her true ethnic identity from her neighbors. It seemed however, that to reveal that heritage to a foreigner was safe.

With others, we saw the imprint of Armenians having lived in these lands written across their faces especially in their eyes. My aunt would often nudge me saying, “Look at the eyes…” And I would think, “Yes – the eyes—give away the Armenian blood.” Once, in Istanbul, chatting with a rug merchant in the streets of the old city, Hasmieg nudged me and whispered, “The eyes – look at his eyes…”. His eyes were dark, warm, and smiling, with thick brows – they were something we instinctively knew were “Armenian” eyes – if ever there was such a thing. A few minutes later, without knowing anything about us, the young man who had been speaking about the Kurdish desire for “cultural freedom” said in perfect English, “My grandmother was Armenian.” We were stunned – but no less surprised than he was when we said: “We are Armenian, too!” Hours of talk followed while we sipped hot elma (apple) tea in his shop. He told us his grandmother's story, a story, he said, she had told many times, but always with tears streaming down her face.

His grandmother’s father and his grandfather’s father were close friends in Van. At the time of the genocide, her whole family was murdered. When the surviving great-grandfather saw her wandering around Van in a daze he took her in. Whenever anyone asked about her, he said, “This is my daughter, leave her alone.” She eventually married her rescuer’s son.

This young rug merchant was unusually open about his Armenian ancestry and took pride in being part Armenian. He had even looked for and found his Armenian relatives in Bitlis and was the only one in his family who spoke any Armenian. Before the night ended he half-jokingly asked us if we had any daughters who might need a good husband!

Our trip started in Istanbul where we spent two days before heading into the interior. It was fortuitous as the ground-breaking “Armenian Conference” at Bilgi University was beginning when we arrived. We were surprised to find that each day the English Turkish Daily News had two to three pages devoted to articles about the conference. Headlines read, “ Armenian conference defies taboo amid nationalist protests…” along with a photo of a protestor throwing rotten eggs at participants; “Government opposition united in support of Armenian conference”; and, “Armenian patriarch denounces protestors of the Armenian conference….” with a large photo of Patriarch Mutafyan. Each morning we gathered for breakfast devouring every word in the paper and discussing the meaning of what was printed. It made us feel more relaxed about being Armenian in Turkey. When the doorman at our hotel greeted us after the second day with, “Mr. and Mrs. Najarian, welcome home” we wondered if he was implying a dual meaning.

Our journey into the interior began in Aintab (today called Gaziantep), a large industrial city still famous for its pistachios, spices, and good cooking. Here we took our first walk through what had been an Armenian section of town. On this first walk we experienced a huge disconnect – the sights were simply too much to process. In a neighborhood where three Armenian churches had stood, only St. Mary’s Apostolic Church remained intact, having been converted into a mosque with minarets – a disturbing sight, a massive aberration in full view. The road in front of St. Mary’s was being widened and several buildings, including Armenian homes, had been torn down, exposing the ruined walls of what was once the Armenian Protestant meeting house and further down the street, the Armenian Catholic church. We walked up and down the roadway, hot and dusty, made worse by the construction vehicles; we lingered only long enough to take photos.

From here we headed to the narrow streets of the Armenian quarter where we saw many Armenian homes either boarded up or inhabited by poor Kurds – just as we would see in other towns. Not all the houses were in poor condition, however. For example, the stone three story home of Garouj Karamanoukian (the grandfather of the late Dr. Edward Karian of Watertown) with its elegant marble mosaic floor had been converted into a Turkish ethnographic museum, and the famous home of the Nazaretian family of New Jersey, built in 1892, had its wonderful murals and ornate decorations fairly well-preserved. In the courtyard of that home, was a busy coffeehouse with background music piped in. It was here that we heard Armenian music with Turkish lyrics coming over the loudspeaker.

The young man who ran the coffeehouse had taken it upon himself to preserve the house. He told us that the upstairs rooms, the main part of the house, had been part of the coffeehouse as well, but he had stopped using them as such for fear that the cigarette smoke would accelerate damage to the walls. He told us that the house was on the historic preservation list as it had also been used for the Lebanese Consulate (his error I later found out – it was the Persian Consulate), but that he himself did not have enough money to undertake the preservation work. He was very interested in learning as much as possible about the house and its builder. Originally from Van, he said he was very happy Armenians were coming to visit the house. Then he added, “Maybe I am Armenian, too.” His eyes had already revealed that he might well be – and maybe he was aware of it himself.

As we continued through the narrow streets, Armen pointed out other Armenian homes – the Ashjian house (abandoned), the Barsoumian house, the Jebejian houses, and so on. We could imagine what the Aintab community was like, knowing so many Aintabtzis in America. Here, we could see that they had lived in a tightly-knit community, their churches within walking distance, friends and relatives next door or around the corner. We could imagine the familiar smells of their cooking filling these streets while their children played below. There were no sweet smells now. The churches were destroyed and the children were of another nationality – another azg. It was hard for me to engage with these children, who followed us with outstretched hands, though not beggars, saying “Money...money…money,” a refrain we would hear many times more.

We stopped briefly at the American Hospital founded in the 1800’s and where Dr. Fred Shepherd, who went to Aintab as a medical missionary, had worked. During a quick walk through the first floor, I was impressed with what I saw. The attendant at the front door allowed me in but first I had to put paper covers (common in surgical units) over my shoes – something everyone coming into the hospital had to do. Patients – men, women, and children -- waited in line for their appointments, attendants ushered people into various rooms, while other staff scrubbed and polished the floors. The small area I saw was immaculate and seemed well organized. Up-to-date diagnostic equipment was set up in clean orderly rooms, marked by neat signs posted over each door. Our driver told us that to get good healthcare, like this hospital provided, you had to pay for it; government healthcare was minimal and not very high quality.

Before leaving Aintab, we visited the spice market. It was a lively and colorful place with barrels and barrels of brilliantly colored aromatic spices, ground green pistachios, and other nuts all piled high. In each barrel the contents were neatly shaped into a peak and covered with thin plastic wrap. Dried fruits and vegetables hung from the low ceilings giving the place a festive appearance.

On our way out of the city we passed hundreds of beautiful semi-high-rise condominiums with balconies and colorful facades. They had been built to house the influx of Kurds and Turks to Aintab, which now has a population of about 1 million people. The condos sell for 100,000 new Turkish Lira, with mortgage interest rates of 13-14% a year! Gasoline costs about US$8 a gallon.

Most of the inhabitants from Aintab on eastward are Kurdish and not ethnic Turks (except for cities of Kars and Erzerum which are inhabited by Azeris and conservative Turks, respectively). From Aintab we headed northwest to Marash where we were treated to the famous ice cream of this region at its most famous procurer, Yasar’s. Remarkable as it sounds, one has to eat this ice cream with a knife and fork and even with these utensils it was difficult to cut.

In Malatya we saw the Armenian church, Holy Trinity, its cornerstone nearly obliterated under layers of paved road. Through openings in its thick walls we could see an evergreen tree growing where the altar had been. Down along the main road from the church were several Armenian homes, testament to the memories everyone denies. While we were taking photos of these houses, an elderly man approached us. Armen asked if he knew the Armenian man who had lived here, pointing in the direction of where his house had once stood. The old man said yes, but the house had been torn down and the Armenian had moved to America. The old man said he missed the Armenian who had been his friend; he asked Armen to give him his regards if he saw him in America.

Before leaving Malatya, as was now our custom, we visited the market and as Malatya is famous for its apricots – it was an apricot market. Once again our spirits lifted in the marketplace; we became quite animated moving from shop to shop, bin to bin, checking out the various displays. Maybe we had this reaction because these apricots were whole, a vision of plenty – unlike the Armenian houses and Armenian churches. Or maybe we reacted to the marketplace itself – bustling and lively -- with beautiful displays of dried apricots in every shape and size, packaged and lined up in row after row after row. The market was a place where we could interact with the local people, the vendors selling their goods, using the produce before us as a mediator – a bridge between us and them that was negotiable, tangible, and acceptable. Whatever it was, we enjoyed our trips to the markets and never turned down the opportunity to wander through one.
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Next we were headed to Kharpert (Harput) and the city of Mezireh (Elazig) where we would spend two nights. Mezireh was a place we had heard about over and over again from our relatives. Once a village of 4,000 people that served as the municipal center of Kharpert, it is now a sprawling town of 250,000 Kurds. Our hotel was quite modern and had a large Western-style mall attached to it. In the lobby, a computer with email and a fax machine were available and, as in most of the hotels where we stayed, these were either free or could be used for a minimal charge (this was offset by the exorbitant costs for laundry!) Mezireh was a far cry from the small village we had anticipated based on the stories from our childhoods.

The most intense part of the trip was now before us – Arapgir, Agin, and several villages around Kharpert, the birthplaces of our parents and grandparents.
The first day we toured was rainy and cold. We nearly turned back before reaching Agin -- a several hours drive through the mountains. But it was my grandfather’s (and my Aunt Hasmieg’s father’s) birthplace, as well as the birthplace of many Armenian intellectuals and poets, including Siamanto. We now traveled along the Euphrates River as we wound through the mountain range on the way to Agin. We had had our first views of the river prior to reaching Mezireh. No Armenian can look at the river without being drawn to it. Do rivers have their own histories, the stories of what has gone on around them, stories that need to be told? If so, this river’s story is intertwined with that of the Armenian people – this Euphrates River – once the color red.

After several hours we reached the outskirts of Agin, a university town with a population of 2000 people. The views as we approached were breathtaking – blanketed in a thin fog, the mountains and the river gave us pause to stop to admire the scenery. The Armenian Church, on the main road just before entering the town, had been converted into a Turkish ethnographic museum and coffee shop. As painful as it is to see a church used in this way, at least the structures are being maintained in some fashion, and not allowed to deteriorate -- a small consolation, but a consolation no less. After taking a look through the museum, we drove to the center of Agin, which reminded us of a small village that could have been somewhere in the Alps.

It was time for lunch. Jemal, our driver pulled up in front of the only restaurant in town, but there was no parking space available. No problem – a young man, seeing our problem from inside the restaurant, came right out and moved his car to make room for us. The restaurant was empty when we arrived, but soon university students and elementary school children started streaming in, noisy and hungry! The restaurant was set up like a cafeteria, with all the various dishes displayed on steam tables; the hungry students formed lines, placed their orders, and picked up their food. The food here was familiar to us -- yogurt soup (tanabour), lentil soup, pilaf and kidney beans, lahmajun, and for dessert, rice pudding and khadayif. (Rice pudding was on every dessert menu – now I understand why it was often on my mother’s menu as well!) It was the kind of peasant food we loved – hearty and tasty, as well as nutritious. We lingered over the meal, unnoticed by those around us -- or so it seemed.

After we finished eating, two men approached us who may have been the owners of the restaurant. They asked about who we were, and why we had come to Agin. Our answers seemed to please them – they were happy that ‘tourists’ were interested in their town. They wanted to give us information about 19th c. Agin (Kemaliye to them) which they had published in a book. The museum manager also showed us the book – we bought several copies.

After lunch we walked up and down the one main street looking at the houses noting the ones with Armenian design elements, marveling at the mountains, and studying the river below. It was, indeed, a beautiful place, this small town built in the small valley between the mountains alongside the river Euphrates. The rain was more continuous now and sent a damp chill through us.

Leaving Agin we followed the road back this time stopping in Arapgir. It was late in the afternoon when we arrived there. Children were out of school and the central square was crowded with shoppers. We passed a bakery where several men were at work, one kneading, another rolling dough out into flat rounds, and a third baking the flat bread in a waist-high oven. “Where are you from? Why have you come here?” The usual questions were again asked when we stopped to watch them working.

Armen answered for us: “We are Armenian and their parents (pointing to my aunt and me) were born here.” The men smiled and spoke in chorus: “You are welcome.” The others in our group moved on ahead while Armen and I continued to talk with the bakers. Armen asked if there were any Armenians living in the area. They knew of one whom Armen already knew. Then the head baker said, “Garabed taught me how to bake bread. We can make all kinds of bread – he taught us everything, but he is dead now.” The baker gave us several of the flat round loaves, hot out of the oven. Then he said, “I can bake a loaf with a cross on it – Garabed taught us how to do that,” and he rolled out another round of dough and made a cross in it with his fingers. He seemed pleased to show us that he could decorate his bread with a cross; when that loaf was baked they presented us with that one, too. They asked us in for tea, but we had to move on. With many smiles and thanks we continued up the hill to the main square of Arapgir, anxious to tell the others of our experience.

George by now was surrounded by children all wanting their pictures taken. Hasmieg was standing at the other end of the square. She was just looking at it, the people, the place, trying to understand that this was where her grandfather, a professor of mathematics, had been executed 90 years ago. It was hard to feel the gravity of the place. There were too many small shops, small cars, bicycles, and people bustling about. I tried to picture what it might have been like – people hiding in their homes, the streets deserted and silent except for the wailing of a woman or a child as the men were lined up and executed. I couldn’t imagine it, either. Such events did not seem possible in this easygoing, friendly town.

The Armenian section in Arapgir was a few blocks from the main part of town – a residential area in better condition than most Armenian sections we had seen or would see. That these were Armenian homes was clear from the large windows that allowed women to see out and to be seen, and from the overhanging closed balconies, as in Aintab and Malatya. The Armenian section was built on a hill near a water supply -- easy to defend, Armen explained. A few of the homes were three stories following the incline of the terrain; they were built of brown mud, wood, and stone, flanked by gardens and grapevines. Looking up at one of the houses we saw a group of Kurdish women, their heads loosely draped with white scarves, watching us from their second floor window. They waved and called out to us in Turkish. The same questions were asked and answered, “Who are you? Why have you come?" "We are Armenians from America, come to see the birthplaces of our families." "Welcome. Come in for tea.”

We were continually surprised at their ready hospitality. This time Hasmieg and I desperately wanted to accept, but there was no time. A young girl ran down from another house to speak with us. She told us that two young men had come the day before – Armenians from America – looking for their parent’s home. They spoke no Turkish, and were without a guide. Amazing!

We walked back to the van trying to believe that we were really in Arapgir, and that earlier in the day we had been in Agin. We looked for landmarks and found one: the bathhouse! Large mounds that formed the roof of the bathhouse might have been easily missed had Hasmieg not been looking for them. The bathhouse was a place my grandmother had often spoken of to Hasmieg, telling her how much the women looked forward to spending time together in that steaming place.

We had heard so much about all of these places when we were growing up. My grandfather (like my father, who had talked about his village of Sheykh-haji), often extolled the beauty of his native village, describing how the magnificent mountain seemed to rise straight out of the green Euphrates. We all heard, over and over again, that in the ‘old country’ – the yerkir --the air was the best; that the fruit was bigger and better than any they ever saw again-- the mountains and rivers more beautiful. We listened all the days of their lives, but we didn't hear nor did we understand. We said to them, “You’re exaggerating. It couldn’t be that beautiful, and the fruit could not have been that big.”

I think we never let our parents and grandparents fully savor their memories. How frustrating it must have been for them! Now we could see with our own eyes, and we realized our mistake. We looked at the mountains and the river and the village of Agin and said, “This is truly a magnificent place. Papa was right,” we acknowledged to each other, Hasmieg with tears in her eyes.

In Arapgir, we saw the fruit in the market – the biggest black grapes we’d ever seen – and peaches, plums, melons, strawberries, pomegranates, toot (mulberries), bananas, cranberries, cherries and a wide variety of vegetables. Seeing all this, we envisioned their peasant lives, hard, but close to nature and somehow fulfilling. We wondered how they had made the transition from this place to the tenements of New York. For the first time we truly began to understand what our parents and grandparents had overcome to give us life in the New World. Being here, we gained a new sense of who they had been. Not wanting to dwell on this, we rejected these images of them in this setting. We all agreed that it was hard to picture them here – by the time we knew them, they had adopted many of the ways of their new world; they were no longer village folk. We rationalized, saying it was probably a good thing.

Other things that we experienced stirred our memories and even gave us a sense of belonging, albeit false. Foods, for example, not only pleased our taste buds but warmed our hearts with the memories of Mom’s cooking traditions brought from the yerkir. Pilaf, both rice and bulghur, was prepared as our mothers had with thin egg noodles. Familiar soups such as tanabour, the warm yogurt soup flavored with mint (and not the cilantro used in Armenia), were served in most restaurants. Cheese borags of all kinds were sold in bakeries from Aintab to Van and often appeared on our breakfast buffets. We ate choreg and Kharpert kufteh that were close seconds to my Mom’s. The breads were as we remembered from our childhood: sahje (or dan) hatz – made of flour and water rolled out in large flat rounds; and pideh, a thick round loaf that is no longer easily found, not even in our Armenian-American specialty stores.

And, there were the desserts -- which we knew were not exclusively Armenian, but which we associated with our families – kadayif, khourabia, pakhlava, bourma, khaymak, and cookies such as simit. In the markets of Aintab and Malatya we found bastegh and rojig (known as sujugh in Armenia), prepared with walnuts and pistachios. All were a constant temptation and accounted for the several pounds I gained!

The lamb or beef served in Turkey (never any pork, which is forbidden for Moslems) was not the same as the succulent shish-kebabs Armenians in the Diaspora pride themselves on preparing. Our style of shish-kebab was the one thing we looked for, but never found. Also consistent with Moslem habits, alcohol was not always served and even when available, was rarely offered. One had to ask specifically for it. We were also surprised not to find any lavash, the paper-thin bread common in Armenia and other Middle East countries.

Dinner, our first night in Kharpert, held even more surprises. First, a word about Kharpert. The town is high up on the side of a mountain and behind the Urartu Fortress dating from the 8th century B.C. – a place where my father must have played when visiting his aunts and uncles. This once bustling and vibrant city, in 1915 had a population of 30,000 people, half of whom were Armenian. Today, inhabited by only 1,500 Kurds, it was mostly abandoned after the events of 1915. Euphrates College, where several women in my family had been educated, was gone; not a single stone of its many buildings that filled the hillside where we now stood was left. We held a photo of what was once Euphrates College taken from the point where we now stood and with the empty hillside behind us, took another photo. In my mind’s eye I saw yet another photo, one I had seen in books about Kharpert and in various exhibitions, of Armenian men being marched out of the town, most likely along the street where we were standing. It was here where we would be eating dinner tonight, in a small restaurant overlooking Mezireh.

Armen had already told us two local specialties would be served – Kharpert kufteh and surum! Surum! My aunt Hasmieg and I couldn’t wait! For years we have enjoyed surum (or serim) in our family, but today, few people are familiar with this dish – it is not in any recipe book or on any menu. It is a forgotten food! Hasmieg and I simply could not believe that surum was here, in this desolate town. During the summer, on the days our grandmother baked the flat round bread on the sheet of zinc – the sahje – over the outdoor fire, she would make surum for lunch. Some of the flat rounds of bread would be cooked until thoroughly dried and hard making it possible to store the breads for weeks while others were taken off the sahje while still soft. These she rolled and placed in a large baking pan layered with garlic, butter, and with her own madzoon (yogurt), and then baked. This is surum!

It is hard to explain why the experience of finding a food from one’s childhood in such a place pleased and excited us so much –food that was both familiar and reminded us of home. Anthropologists could have a field day studying the meanings of food to a displaced people – analyzing their connections through space and time. In a strange way, finding such food validated who we are. We did come from that place! Our families did walk those streets! Our parents did have a life and a culture worth preserving and it hasn't all been lost! In some way finding surum validated, too, the values they brought from the yerkir – of hard work, honesty, hospitality, and devotion to community, family, church, and nation. They carried these values with them as they journeyed on foot over mountain ranges, through valleys and across rivers -- and passed them on to their new families. They suffered but they managed to survive. Their food connected them to the yerkir and all the yerkir meant to them.

Maybe my grandmother had those thoughts about her own mother, her village, her other life, each time she rolled out the dough for hatz. I can see her bent over the floured board, rolling the thin dowel back and forth over the dough, shaping to the right thickness and size, then flipping it over the dowel and taking it to my grandfather, who would take the dowel from her and slide the round of dough onto the sahje over the hot wood fire. It was our family’s ritual; my grandmother and grandfather performed it, then my mother and father, and now my nephew and niece.

But now, back to Kharpert….The table at the restaurant in Kharpert was already set for our group when we arrived. We were eating kufteh and the promised surum, drinking, chatting, and enjoying ourselves when suddenly Armenian music came blaring out of the TV. The owner of the restaurant had put on a video of Onnik Dinkjian, Ara his son, and Hachig Kazarian for us playing their instruments when they had visited here a year ago. George couldn’t resist and started to dance with our driver and the restaurateur – this was almost too surreal to believe!

A Moslem man whose mother is Armenian joined us for dinner that night. Armen had met him through other Armenians who had themselves recently ‘found’ him. He was an historian, archeologist, and teacher. He loved Kharpert and Armenians and was trying to learn as much about Kharpert and about Armenians as possible, not only through books, but through overseeing excavations of the Urartu Fortress that once defended this city. He accompanied us the next day to Husenig, Perchench, and Sheykh-haji.

The Armenian section of Husenig is not only intact, there is even a map of the area which has the names of Armenian families written on the streets where they had once lived. (Thanks to Bertha Ketchian of Watertown.) Walking through Husenig with the map was another surreal experience. The map represented the past and the present – but neither fully; it had something to do with us, but what, we were not sure. We walked up and down the streets, map in hand, looking –pointing—trying to identify the houses, the water fountain, the place where the mill had been according to the map. We turned to the left, passed two more unpaved streets and came to the street, where, again according to the map, we found the street marked, “Najarian” – where George’s family had most likely lived and the house his grandfather may have built. We took photos, talked to residents, and talked to each other, trying to figure out what to do to commemorate the moment. Should we scream? Cry? Sing? Were we to celebrate or mourn? We did not know. We took more photos.

An elderly man appeared and started to talk with Armen. He was 77 years old – no, he didn’t know anyone who had lived here before – a few years ago his mother died at age 100 – she would have known. It all happened before he was born. He proudly pointed to some women we had already noticed, sitting cross-legged on the roof of a house at the end of street, and making bread. (We weren’t sure if they were his wives or not.) We continued our walk, waving as we passed, aware that people were as curious about us as we were about them. Following the map we passed the cemetery and moved back toward the center of Husenig, a small, very poor village.

A young Kurdish woman washed lettuce at a fountain, dressed in balloon-type pants common to the region and wearing a blue scarf wrapped loosely around her head and over her mouth. She spoke to Hasmieg and me but we could only smile in return, not understanding a word she said. Armen came along and translated. Her scarf dropped a bit, revealing a broad smile as she extended an invitation for tea. She didn’t seem worried about what might be taken as a forward action on her part. We had no time to accept her invitation, but we did get a photo of her.

Our next stop was Perchench, where George’s mother had been born. It was a poor village, like Husenig, but even smaller, with fewer villagers around. Most of the houses were a dusty light brown, matching the dirt paths that served as streets, again like those in Husenig. But unlike Husenig where we could have stayed longer, here there was little that was inviting or of interest. I asked George later what he felt. He said, he didn’t know. It was strange – he felt that the village was forgotten and forlorn. It was just an impression of a few minutes, but it lingered with him. We drove a short distance to a roadside restaurant where we had lunch and then followed the road up a mountainside to my father’s village of Sheykh-haji, the last family birthplace on our list. On the way up to the village Armen pointed out a mosque built by a man who had become wealthy from pilfering the vacated Armenian homes.

Sheykh-haji (called Yukaribag today), was a mostly deserted village. It felt devoid of any character or memory of the lives that had been lived here. I am at a loss to describe my feelings as I stood in the old center of the village, where the church had been, just below the water fountain. Not a single stone, not a mark of any kind remained to let us know where the Armenian homes had stood. I was sorely disappointed, and exclaimed in disbelief, “This is Sheykh-haji!” I had been hoping for a place like Husenig, where the past is still visible.

Thirteen Kurdish families lived in the remaining upper part of the village, which was the Turkish part. These people lived in what appeared to be extremely poor conditions, if not outright squalor. A Kurdish woman at the fountain confirmed that the open square area where I was standing was where the church had been. (How did she know, I wondered.) In my father’s memoir he wrote that 150 Armenian families lived in Sheykh-haji and that the village was divided into Turkish and Armenian sections. He also wrote about how Armenian homes were built; about the churches, both Armenian Apostolic and Protestant; about the single Armenian school that went to the 4th grade; the flour mill; and the waterfalls and streams where clothes were washed and water hauled.

Most of the Armenians in Sheykh-haji were craftsmen, as was my grandfather. He made and repaired saddles, plying his trade from village to village. In 1908 he left for America, as so many young men did, with the hope of earning enough money to return and buy a small farm. But he never returned.

My father quoted a family friend who said that being in Sheykh-haji was like “sitting in the lap of Buddha, and Buddha with his back to the mountain.” That mountain was Mt. Mastar. My father said it seemed to rise right out of the center of the village. On hot summer nights when he slept on the roof of his house the moon looked “as if it stood right on top of the mountain.”

But for me there was nothing to see, nothing to hold on to, except the mountain, the fountain, and a worn slab where women once did their wash. A path ran from where the Armenian homes had been; my father must have taken this path with his brother and sister. I tried hard to envision them as little children here, running and playing. I picked up a few stones to bring home with me, my heart heavy and empty, and made my way back to the van where George and the others were waiting. But I was glad we had come – at least I had seen his mountain.

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Over the next days we made our way to Van, crossing the plains of Mush, with the Tauros mountains on the south. These were the lands that gave birth to the legend of David of Sassoun. As we crossed the mountains and entered these great plains I had a sense of what was once Historic Armenia without any borders. I imagined Greater Armenia extending from where we were across to Lake Sevan and beyond, north to the Black Sea and down to Cilicia, Syria and Persia. Having traveled through many of these regions I could feel the mountains, the plains, the rivers and lakes all as one magnificent land – the land of a people now scattered throughout the world.

Before reaching Van we stopped in Bitlis, the birthplace of William Saroyan’s family. Bitlis was quite beautiful, its houses tucked into the mountainside, reminiscent of the city of Goris in Armenia. A factory had been built adjacent to the Armenian church we visited. Armen approached the guards for permission to let us in through the gates. We anticipated delays and possibly a refusal, but after making one phone call the guards, who were extremely pleasant, smiled and let us in. No money was required.

From here we drove to the village of Por to see a number of large khatchkars discovered a few years ago. Unfortunately some have been used by the local inhabitants as building blocks of their homes. When we entered Por, women and children came out of these small stone houses to inspect us. Some asked Armen why we had come to look at these stones. Why were these rocks important? Armen explained these were Armenian antiquities to be highly treasured and must be cared for. We were not the first to come and look at these stones; the villagers were beginning to understand these stones were somehow important. (It also was a lesson as to why it is important for ‘tourists’ to visit these sites – it will in the long run, help to preserve them.)

Back on the road, we finally saw the emerald green of Lake Van. Neither words nor pictures can convey the beauty of the lake nor the beauty of Aghtamar. One has to see them to understand their magic. Much larger than any of us anticipated, Lake Van is as big as Artsakh in square kilometers! We drove for hours along the perimeter to our hotel; after settling in, we headed for the village of Varak, referred to by locals as the “village of the seven churches.” To reach the village we had to take a single lane road up a mountainside; to make matters more unnerving, workmen were covering the road with a new layer of gravel giving us a few moments of anxiety when our van was stuck in the gravel.

When the late Archbishop Mesrob Ashjian had visited this village several years ago he wept upon seeing the condition of the church in this small village. A mosque had been built right up against the church, almost hiding it. The Archbishop called the local mullah and made a deal: “This is a holy place, here is some money, please clean it up.” The mullah did. The cattle were removed, a door was put on the front, and a fence erected around the church.

The local leader who had taken charge of the clean-up told Armen that people from Armenia had visited. They had brought the old photos of the church in its original state that we now saw hanging inside. He also told us that his father, on his deathbed, had asked him to preserve the church. He felt bound by this promise. I wondered later if his father might have been part Armenian, or if the deathbed promise was an excuse he could give to anyone asking why he was caring for the church. To get some assistance in this task he had asked the local museum director for help, but this person responded, “We don’t have enough money for our own monuments – how can we take care of Armenian monuments? Let them rot!”

Armen knew that a group of Italian tourists, including some Armenians, had given money a few weeks ago to have the open dome area enclosed; and now, the dome was partially closed, with twigs and branches. We, too, gave the village leader some money and asked him to continue his efforts to preserve this beautiful church with its graceful arches and 17th c. frescoes. It was well worth the trek up the mountainside.

On our way back to the hotel we stopped in Van for some things we needed. In one of the stores George struck up a conversation with the clerk. “Van is a very nice city,” he said slowly, hoping she would be able to understand. “Yes,” she managed. “Van is.” And then, to our utter amazement, she said: “Van… is… city… of… Armenians.” She placed her palm on her chest. “I am Armenian,” she said.

She seemed as shocked as we felt when we responded, “And, we are Armenians!” I think she had no idea we were Armenian. We had not spoken a word of Armenian, and I don’t think we look sufficiently Armenian for her to have suspected, but perhaps she did. I doubt that the conversation would have taken this turn if anyone else had been in the small shop.

We entered into a long conversation, and continued it later that night when we returned to the shop. The next afternoon she and her children accompanied us to Aghtamar; we exchanged addresses and promised to stay in touch. (When we got home George called her sister in San Francisco – a sister she has not seen or spoken to in 26 years. The sister was thrilled, not having had any information about her all of these years.)

During the two days we spent in and around Van the sun shone and the air was warm and dry, to our good fortune. We climbed the fabulous 300 ft. high rock of Van and explored the ruins of a Urartu fortress. From here we had a panoramic view of the lake, the island of Aghtamar way off in the distance (seen with binoculars), and the present city of Van, including the area where Armenians had lived and defended themselves -- Aykastan. From these heights, we watched a family of Kurds by the stream below, beating washed wool on the rocks. The young Kurdish guide who had led us up the rocky path to the pinnacle explained that the family was preparing the wool to make blankets for a couple about to be married. (It was just as we did in our family – the women gathered to make our vermags- each one of us receiving a new one when we were married). Upon learning we were Armenian, he told us how much he liked Armenians and that he probably had Armenian blood, too! (Can we imagine a time when having Armenian blood becomes desirable in Turkey?)

In the afternoon we made the ½ hour boat trip to Aghtamar. Although we’d all seen many photos of Aghtamar, none of us was prepared for its beauty – the ride through the blue-green waters of the lake, seeing the rocky island of Aghtamar come closer and closer, with the mountains of the surrounding region as a backdrop. The island’s rocky foundation rose straight out of the clear green water, and finally we could see the steeple of the monastery showing from behind this rocky terrain. At Armen’s request the boat captain circled the island so that we could see it from all sides.

The monastery was under renovation so we could not go inside; it was hard to appreciate even the external beauty close up. Despite all the photos we’ve seen of the monastery, which would lead you to think there was never a visitor here, we were not alone on Aghtamar. I counted more than 100 visitors in the two hours we were on the island, including a large group of Turkish tour guides in training.

Our small group split up – everyone took off in different directions to view the monastery and the grounds at their own pace. I was walking around the far side of the monastery when a young woman passed back and forth in front of me a few times. She was humming an Armenian tune softly as if she wanted to be sure I heard her. I didn’t say anything. A little later she approached me and spoke to me in English. She said she was one of the leaders of the tour guide group; I told her we (pointing out the other members of our group) were all Armenian, suspecting that this is what she wanted to know. Then she said, “My husband is Armenian; I’m Turkish. I live in Istanbul.”

Just then, another one of our group approached, as did a Turkish member of her group. Unthinkingly I pointed to the tour leader and said, “Her husband is Armenian.” But the tour leader, clearly afraid that my statement had been overheard, exclaimed, “NO – NO – my husband is Turkish – mother – father – all are Turkish. Mine, too!” I apologized profusely for misunderstanding her, though it was clear that I had not.

A little later, another man started a conversation with me, announcing quite loudly that he is Greek, associated with the Greek church in Istanbul, that his wife is Armenian (and he spoke a few words for us to prove it), and is now learning to be a tour guide. He had approached my aunt Hasmieg earlier and made the same proclamation and asked if we were Armenian. He made it clear that he is proud to be a Turkish citizen. He took out his passport to show us how it is marked: Turkish and Christian. He was proud to have ‘Christian’ on his passport; we, on the other hand, were horrified that his religion was stamped on his passport.

Shortly afterward, a young man, another of the Turkish guides in training struck up a conversation. He looked to be in his late 20s and was eager to talk to us. He too asked if we were Armenian and then asked us how we knew about this place. We explained that it resonates through our history. He asked where else we’ve been. We told him – he was surprised and pleased at the extent of our journey. He asked, “What year did your families leave here?” We answered: 1915.

He said: “There was a genocide and it must be recognized, but we can never say, ‘I am sorry.’ It is not in the Turkish national character to say I’m sorry. We have other issues, too, that must be settled in our history – and then we must go on. The Turkish people are far ahead of the government on this issue,” he added, meaning the Armenian genocide. He emphasized that the genocide will be recognized. He then added some words about Turkish overtures to Armenia: “We give them flowers and fruit, but they give us nothing in return.” We argued that what Turkey has offered cannot be described as "flowers and fruit"! The discussion went on for some time. We were amazed at his openness and willingness to discuss the issue of genocide, hereto forbidden by law. We wondered if this conversation would have taken place had not the ‘Armenian Conference’ been held as it was in Istanbul.

On some level things are changing in Turkey. Something was changing in me, too: I was willing to talk with a Turk!

The next morning we went to the Van Museum. It has been written about by many before me so I will not go into the details of the second floor exhibit of the "atrocities" by the Armenians against the Turks. No wonder Armenians in this region are afraid to acknowledge their heritage. As the Armenian we met in Van said, Armenians in that city live “as Turks on the outside, Armenians on the inside”. The exhibit was too awful to look at.

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From here we continued eastward very close to the borders of Iran, Nakhchevan (Azerbaijan) and Armenia. We had lunch in Dogubayazit, a congested border town with only one good place to eat lunch, according to our guidebook. It was packed with truck drivers sitting shoulder to shoulder. The men who were cooking yelled out the orders and filled plates with the usual fare of pilaf, beans, stews, and meats, all of it steaming hot.

Lunching at the same restaurant were two couples from Israel, traveling through the region by car. We chatted with them in the street after we paid our lunch bills. They were complaining to have been cheated in the restaurant – and it seems they were. We asked them why they were traveling through this part of Turkey. Because it is cheap, they said. And, why not Armenia? Interestingly, they seemed to think they would not be allowed to enter Armenia – it was not clear why.

Back on the road we were now headed in the direction of Mt. Ararat. Miles before we could see the mountain, we saw great mounds of green-black lava that had flowed during volcanic eruptions and now covered the surrounding flat plains. Interestingly, nothing like it is seen on the Armenian side. When Ararat finally appeared in the distance, the peak was hidden by clouds. The mountain, as others have reported, does not look as grand from the Turkish side. From Armenia when we look at the mountain, it is as if we own it – that view is our view. Our national identity is wrapped up in that view or so it seems. Looking at its western slope, the mountain was beautiful, but I did not feel any of the same emotions I do when I see the mountain from within Armenia.

Before we left this region we visited the only Kurdish Palace in existence. It was built high up on a mountainside, in the 17th century by Isak Pasha and an Armenian architect. After completing the construction, the architect’s hands were cut off so that he could never design another palace. It was a barbaric practice that befell more than one architect in those cruel days. Once Armen told us the story, we decided we had to visit the palace –the least we could to do to honor the poor architect was to admire his work and we did. Today, the palace is undergoing major renovations, paid for by the Turkish government.

In Igdir, we took a short detour to see the site of the only roadway that crosses to Armenia. As we drove up to the guard post the guards quickly moved forward, waving us back, as the road is blocked to Armenia. But although the border is closed to humans, it is not closed to airwaves: Armen turned on the radio and tuned in to an Armenian station. Reception was loud and clear. (Although Turkey continues to ‘blockade’ land routes to Armenia, one can hop a flight in Istanbul and fly directly to Yerevan!)

Beyond Igdir we picked up Highway 80, which runs along the border with Armenia. On the Armenian side were three small villages I’d been to years ago. I remember watching the cars going by on the Turkish side, wondering who those people were, what they were thinking as they drove by looking at Armenia. Now I was on that other side, looking at Armenia. The only people I could see on the Armenian side were guards – probably Russians – in the towers all along the border.

Armen had warned us that as we moved eastward, foreigners would be less welcome. He was right. We felt no warmth in either Kars or Erzerum, the last of the cities we would visit in Eastern Turkey. Sometimes, in fact, we were treated with outright hostility.

Kars, the birthplace of the famous Armenian poet Yeghishe Charents, is close to the Armenian border, about thirty miles west of Ani. Its architecture is very different from that of other cities we had seen. Many buildings in Kars resemble those of Gyumri (in Armenia), in design and the use of black stone in their facades. A number of the larger buildings, now government offices, had been the homes of wealthy Armenians (as Pamuk noted in Snow). The streets are paved with cobblestones laid in semi-circular patterns which gave a pleasing, refined appearance to the city. But our positive feelings were dispelled when we took an after dinner walk.

The evening air was pleasant and we all wanted a little exercise after our meal. As well, we wanted to see a little of the city on foot. As we walked up one of the main streets, a group of teenage boys began to follow us. They walked arm in arm, so that when they came close to us it felt threatening. They pushed against us, popping plastic bottles in our ears and taunted us by saying “money…money,” in an annoying staccato rhythm. We tried ignoring them. When that did no good we angrily tried to shoo them away. None of our efforts dissuaded them. Our driver, Jemal, came to the rescue, speaking sternly to them in Turkish. Reluctantly, they moved on ahead of us – and we never saw them again.

The history of Kars and Erzerum – the Russian occupation and the hostilities that followed – had, Armen conjectured, made the people of these two cities suspicious and unwelcoming toward strangers. In addition, Kars is almost all Azeri (including some who came here from Karabagh), while Erzerum is Turkish and extremely conservative. We saw many more women in Erzerum who were completely covered in black with only their eyes showing and some even wearing ‘burkas.’

Our hotel in Kars was old, but again met our basic needs – a clean comfortable bed, a bathroom, hot water, and heat. That night, in Kars my sleep was unsettled. That night, I had a nightmare. In it I was screaming and pleading with everyone around me -- “Don’t tell them we are Armenian. If they know, they will kill us… they will kill us…. Don’t tell them we are Armenian.” George heard my incoherent yells and shook me out of my terror.

This had never happened to me anywhere, at any time in my life. Was it the knowledge that we were surrounded by Azeris that brought my fears to the surface? I could not forget what Azeris had done to captured Karabaghtzis. I could not forget about the young Armenian military officer brutally axed in his bed by a crazed Azeri in Budapest. Or was it the cumulative, bone-deep memories of the Armenian Diaspora, memories of genocide finally crashing down on me?

This was the only time on our trip that I felt danger lurked all around – although in the light of day, I knew we were safe. In the morning, I knew we were in the year 2005, and not 1915. I went to breakfast and ate chorag and borag, drank tea, and went about sightseeing as if nothing had happened. We checked out of the hotel and headed East towards Ani.

The drive to Ani took about 30 minutes, across a flat, open plain nearly 5000 ft. above sea level. We were eager to see Ani, but nothing uplifting awaited us. Ani was a sad place in many ways. While Aghtamar was undergoing renovation and had some hope of being preserved, Ani seemed doomed to destruction, not only because of the Turkish government's neglect, but also because Armenians on the far side of the gorge were blasting yellow tuf out of several large quarries. No longer were the Armenians blasting with dynamite, fortunately. However, the rumbling from the trucks and the constant moan of the other equipment at work in the quarries marred our visit. We could only hope that the fragile remains of these historic ruins were not being affected by the vibrations caused by the mining. I overheard a German tourist say, “Look at what the Armenians are doing to this sacred land.” We, too, were astonished and, in this instance, ashamed.

As in Aghtamar, there were many other tourists at Ani, including the German group who were touring the churches of the region. Approaching the Cathedral of Ani on the dirt path that leads from one ruin to the other, I heard singing from within the crumbling church. Moving closer I saw the German tourists in a circle, holding hands and singing. Their leader read from the Bible and then prayed. I wanted to yell out: “This is our place – our church – we should be having our services here.” I was incensed that we could not have a church service here, while another azg could. But the Germans were showing respect to a holy place; in a way they were validating our pain.

Afterward, I learned that the group was here because of their interest in early Christianity. They knew the history of Ani and what the Turkish government had done to the Armenians. The German tourist went on to say that recognition of the Armenian Genocide by Turkey was a very big issue in Germany: if Germany acknowledged their deeds, the Turks had to do the same.

We spent nearly 3 hours at Ani, walking from ruin to ruin under the grey skies and a light drizzle. That was barely enough time to investigate all of the ruins, or to absorb the enormity of the site, the history it represents, the beauty that shines through the barren remains. The energy of what was once Ani came through in the church built by the Armenian king, Gagik, and a path where he must have walked; it came through in the ruins of the caravanserai and the path marked “the silk route” which led down the hillside to the border with Armenia and a ruined the bridge purported to have been crossed by Marco Polo. The crossroads that was Armenia’s past glory is here to be felt in Ani.

It was early afternoon when we made our way back to the van. The clouds were heavier now and a light rain came down steadily.

Erzerum was our next and last stop before flying back to Istanbul. The Erzerum hotel was a surprise – a first class ski resort, with modern accommodations, well up to European standards. The rooms were well designed with modern baths, the lobby large and nicely decorated – but smiles here were courteous, not friendly.

Erzerum is a university town, with a modern shopping district, as well as an old part of town with narrow streets lined with small shops. Before lunch we drove around to get a feel for the place, Armen pointing out the Armenian landmarks. We stopped to see what was once the Sanasarian School. The shell which is all that remains is across the street from an elementary school. Jemal parked in front of the elementary school so that some of the group could get out and take pictures of the Armenian home a few doorways up. While we waited, a few of children who were in the school yard came over to the van. At first we ignored them when they opened the side door pulling even as we tried to close it. More children came and the continued to pull at the side door and then the back door. They continued undeterred, despite our yelling “No” and “Stop” as we pulled the doors shut. They laughed and yelled back --- “Money…money..money” and became more and more aggressive as the group grew in number egging each other on. Their teacher watched from the schoolyard, making no move to stop them.

We started calling and waving for the others to hurry and get back in the van. Even Jemal could not control the situation. We escaped only when he drove off. These children seemed to know they could act with impunity. I don’t think we were in any real danger, but the experience unnerved us even more than the Kars incident.

It was the second day of Ramadan. Many eateries were closed, but we finally found a nice café for a noon time snack. It was bustling with students, and others who were clearly not keeping the Ramadan fast, which surprised us in this conservative town. After eating, we visited a jewelry market filled with obsidian and gold, and a mosque, turned into a museum, that had been built in the Middle Ages. Although many young girls and young women were dressed in jeans and looked quite Western, many more here, than in other cities, were veiled from head to foot. We saw several old, apparently poor women, humped over, walking along with what appeared to be burlap bags pulled over their heads. Erzerum was the only place we saw beggars -- old women sitting on the sidewalks with their faces covered and their hands stretched out.

Armen was right; we definitely did not feel welcome in conservative Erzerum. It was here that no one smiled, here that the school children accosted our vehicle, here that the women seemed oppressed, here where no one asked us why we had come or invited us in for tea. So many Armenians had once lived in Erzerum – yet, we felt nothing here.
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Although I know and understand very little about Turkey, some observations are possible. The streets of the cities and villages were surprisingly clean; in only a few of the poorest areas did we see scattered rubbish, and not much at that. Restrooms were adequate – clean and functioning. Cars were modest -- rarely did we see an SUV or a luxury vehicle even in the larger cities -- but in good repair. The roads were a pleasant surprise: we never hit a pothole, not even in the mountains. The only bumps we encountered were on roads under construction.

We drove approximately 1200 miles in 9 days. We saw no reckless driving – no one speeding, running red lights, or butting one up against the other. I’m sure there are many instances of such driving (on their website the US State Department warns travelers about Turkish drivers), but it was not as one sees in Armenia or many parts of Europe. We felt quite safe and relaxed throughout the journey. We encountered three police checkpoints (because of recent PKK activity) and were required to stop briefly; our driver’s papers were checked and the police verified we were foreign tourists. We were never flagged down by the police for supposed traffic violations.

What we did not see was as important as what we did: no churches, no steeples, no crosses, no Armenian names on shops (as in all other Middle East countries). Christianity and Christians, if they exist in Turkey, were simply not in view. It was strange to be in a country where there were no visible working churches – mile after mile and not a single steeple. That spoke for itself.

Although we saw many women during our journey, in the streets of villages, in markets, and restaurants, I’m sure there were many who remain hidden behind closed doors. That women and young girls are subjected to beatings behind these closed doors, are forced to work as slaves in their own homes, and even the victims of honor killings, is known. (Of course women suffer some of these same fates in many other countries, including Armenia and the United States. A recent WHO report stated that violence against women is up in all countries.) On the other hand, we were surprised at the openness of many of the Kurdish women in the villages. They spoke with us, invited us for tea, and were willing to be photographed. Some women were covered completely including their faces, as I’ve noted, while others were entirely in western clothing, without even head covering. I can only assume that there are deep tensions between these groups of women and the beliefs they represent.

These observations lead me to wonder about how Armenian women mingled with and lived side-by-side with Moslem women for so many centuries. How did our grandmothers and mothers feel living next to women who were not allowed out, not allowed an education, and covered themselves? What of these customs were adopted by Armenians? What of our customs did Moslem women long for?

However, the question that kept coming back to me over and over again as we traveled from village to village over the mountains, alongside the Euphrates, covering the vast distances from one familiar place to another, was this: how did our mothers and grandmothers, carrying little children survive the events of 1915? How did they walk out of this land to reach America? For those who survived it was nothing short of a miracle. Now, I understood a little more about how much of a miracle it really was.

And now, yet another question begs to be answered: could those people whose smiling faces we saw -- the men in the villages, the children, the bakers, and shop owners --- could they do what their ancestors did to ours? Could they carry out heinous crimes against helpless Armenians? And how should we feel toward those who now have Armenian blood in them as a result of those terrible days, because so many little Armenian girls were taken into Turkish homes as servants, slaves, or wives? How should I respond to them and they to me? How do we find common ground? Can we ever feel totally safe again in that land? These questions have no simple or clear answers for me.

What I do know, as a result of this journey, is that I have a new sense of pride in my Armenian heritage. Perhaps it would be more correct to state that I have a new sense of my heritage, as being rooted in Historic Armenia and a renewed pride in that heritage.