WE ARE ALSO ARMENIANS...
One of the most important aspects of cripto or forcedly Islamized Armenians is the extent the national self-consciousness and strata are preserved. As various sources and facts have come to prove the impulses inciting awake of national self-consciousness or recognition of real identity are quite different, something, that in the future may have different manifestations.
In the 4th issue of 2007 of the monthly “Hanrapetakan” we have spoken about relations between the cripto or Islamized Armenian population and the Armenian “bandits” who became members of left extremist organizations existing in Turkey by different reasons. Among these “bandits” is singled out Orhan Bakir (Armenak Bakrjyan), who is the friend of Hrant Dink and has been long trying to get in touch with cripto Armenians. As you will see below, this circumstance sometimes becomes the incentive of regaining the real identity.
In the 478th issue of the Istanbul based “Agos” newspaper has been published an article, the author of which, Azat Demir, tells how he regained his identity with the help of Orhan Bakir. The story of the son of a cripto Armenian from Dersiom is only one of the suchlike numerous stories. Below is presented the shortened and translated version of the above mentioned article.
R.M.
It was May. That day we brought the herd home later than usual. When we returned, the village seemed to be different. The most curious women of the village approached me and said “Azat, some “revolutionists” have visited your house.” I hurried home and found there four people – two girls and two boys. The state calls them “terrorist, bandit” but the local people - “revolutionist.” My humpbacked ill and old father was also behaving strangely. He, who could hardly get out of bed, was now “serving” the guests. He slaughtered a new born kid of a she-goat, skinned and cooked it by his own methods. However, he himself didn’t sit at the table to eat anything in spite of the persistence of the guests and his sister. With childish exultation on his face he was all the time putting meat on the fire, cooking and serving, than he was asking the guests what else they needed and was telling us to bring all the food we had at home. Moreover, he was from time to time caressing the head of the group’s young leader.
We dined, had tea and the house soon turned into the wedding house. The conversations, discussions, interesting questions were following one another. The face of the group leader seemed to be familiar to me, as if I sow him somewhere. My father took him to the neighbor room holding by his hand. I couldn’t think about anything but them. However the door was closed after them by my father’s walking stick... nothing was heard from inside but something like weeping. Panicking I pushed the door open with all my strength and entered the room. My father was holding him on his knees and was caressing and weeping. I was shocked by this scene. What was wrong with my father? Who is this person? And the most important, where he knew him from? At that moment I cried out nervously and frightened, “What is going on dad.” Father didn’t seem to notice me, he seemed to be vanished. “What is going on here, dad, won’t you explain me?” I cried out again. Father neither got angry nor responded. He wiped his tears, inhaled a smoke of his cigarette, called me to them by his hand and said, “Azat, my son, this is Orhan Bakir.”
In 1978, when Orhan was in Buja prison, he was sent to the Aegean University, from where he was kidnapped by his group members. During this escape one of the soldiers resisting Orhan was killed. After this case Orhan’s photo was published in the press and was told “what a blood-thirsty,” “fierce Armenian terrorist” he was. He was sentenced to death and he was looked for everywhere. Yes, I know him from the photos published in the newspapers; however, I couldn’t understand why my father was crying. Orhan’s group asked the villagers permission saying thank you to everybody and leave and shook hands with everyone. Orhan kissed my father’s hand and could hardly break away from his hugs. Father was murmuring as if he was praying in his language which no one understood.
Father and I were long sitting in silence. He was mixing up the fire with the wood in his hand and singing the song “bingyol” in that strange language. At that moment Father was not the man I knew. He was handsome, peculiar, however, the most important thing was, that he was singing this song for the first time. And I, his 29 years old son, was hearing this song and its words for the first time. I could not wait any more, interrupted my father and asked “Father, for the sake of the God, what is going on? You didn’t answer any of my questions, I understand, but at least say me, what language is the song you sing?”
My father finished the song. His eyes were full of tears. He cast such a beautiful and sincere look that I’ll never forget that moment. A slight smile appeared on his lips and he said, “My boy, this is our language,” he answered, and, as if shadowed by some sadness, he felt silent.
He said nothing in spite of my obstinate claims and even getting angry. Sitting straight he only looked at my face and said, “Azat, one day I’ll tell you everything, that day is sure to come.”
Quite a long time passed. The spring was followed by the summer and then autumn. My father didn’t speak to me any more. Every evening he was walking to the direction of Halvar, sitting at the edge of the destroyed church and seemed to be waiting for somebody’s arrival.
I was all the time wondering over my father’s words “I’ll tell you one day” and waiting for that moment. What was the secret?
The bitter and cruel reality that I learnt later was the expressions of “cripto Christian” and “cripto Armenian...”
We heard about Orhan’s death on the radio. My father was very much shocked and pale. He called me to him and said: “Azat...,- he was swallowing his spit, crying and couldn’t speak. He was terribly suffering. “Orhan is gone. Take me to him.” There was no car. How could I get to that damned place called Karakochan with my father over my back? Besides, Orhan’s body wasn’t given and “the fierce Armenian terrorist” was buried by the police. In his lifetime Orhan expressed a wish “If I die bury me on this top of Farach.” Orhan’s friends realized his wish, stole his body from the place he was buried by the policemen and buried him in Farach.
When we were informed about the funeral my father was at his last breath. He called me, held my hand in his weak ones and said moaning: “Azat, my son, we are also Armenians, go, see your brother his last way off and return.”
There were thousands of people around Orhan’s grave. When I returned, my father was exhausted of crying. We don’t know if he was suffering of pain or Orhan’s sorrow, he was writhing and speaking disconnectedly. My father suffered four more days in this condition. One morning we woke up to find him dead.
After my father’s death I began make inquiries about my real identity. What happened, when? Why did my father hide his real identity? Why did he live that long and only then decided to tell me the truth? I began looking for the answer to my question among my father’s contemporary friends. I was told about those terrible days. For about 25-40 thousand Armenians, who hid themselves in Dersim at the period of massacre were saved. Some Dersim inhabitant tribes also used violence to them, but many of them helped. There were many like my father and they were grateful to Dersim inhabitants.
Many people must appear to write about this hidden reality. This is what we have undergone, and let other people, societies and nations never suffer it...
Turkish-Armenian translation by Ruben Melkonyan
Return