My paternal grandfather Istepan survived 1915 in Tokat-Erbaa with the help of some young female relatives and neighbours. Disguised in girls’ clothing and with mud smeared on his face, he was saved thanks to the words “Don’t take that one, she’s ugly.” He became the only surviving member of his six-sibling family at the age of seven. My maternal grandfather Sarkis was born into a family of basket weavers and farmers in Sinop-Gerze. He grew up without learning Armenian, underlined with the importance of hiding his identity. When I asked him about his memories, he would at first hesitate, then recall the beauty of his village’s nature, and eventually recount uncomfortable stories.
LERNA BABİKYAN
Some die, some survive; the saying "those who survive are ours" seems to open a path toward solidarity, expanding our sense of belonging, and becoming a community. But in our lives, in what circumstances and to what extent has this ever gone beyond just words? I leave the judgment to you, and begin my writing.
Like a vine wrapping around a branch or a string as it reaches for the sun, I observed from a very early age that some of my elders clung to life through either silence or shades of anger. As a child, I was eager to dive into the river of life as quickly as possible. Back then, the only place I could somewhat experience that excitement was the streets. Just like any child, my favourite activities were jumping rope, climbing trees, playing hide and seek, chasing kittens and puppies, and trying to retrieve the ball that rolled into the stream—which, although quite polluted, still flowed through Feriköy. But for my grandmother Azaduhi, who stayed home, all this was a source of shame. According to her, only “street girls” played outside; proper girls stayed at home. Each time I was locked in the house by this belief, I would instinctively find the key as if guided by a sixth sense, and rush back to the street to satisfy my need for play and freedom.
As I moved forward over the years in the direction of my dreams, I began to notice a shared negative response among my elders toward the state of being “visible, known, recognized” within the relatively gray area of silence and anger they clung to.
During the years before being visible became as fashionable as it is now, when social media was still emerging, my brief appearances in TV commercials and some campaign posters displayed in central parts of the city were a nightmare for my grandmother Mayda. Although she lacked the power to stop that sudden campaign and what followed, she was quietly fuming each time she saw me on TV.
Remaining unknown and unseen by the masses was so important to her that she would proudly, albeit rarely, recount how—still recovering from childbirth—she once stormed out of her hospital room to chase away journalists who had come to photograph the triplets she had just given birth to in the 1960s.
Regions, Migrations
Although neither of my grandmothers was directly affected by the catastrophe of 1915 due to their already-rooted presence in Istanbul, they learned about it from their husbands and community members. This did not only mean they “knew” of it, but that, in a way, they had “lived” the trauma.
My paternal grandfather Istepan survived 1915 in Tokat-Erbaa with the help of some young female relatives and neighbours. Disguised in girls’ clothing and with mud smeared on his face, he was saved thanks to the words “Don’t take that one, she’s ugly.” He became the only surviving member of his six-sibling family at the age of seven.
The Armenian women and children from the village who, like my grandfather, managed to survive, gathered their savings and migrated to Istanbul in 1926 due to the ongoing fear and isolation they experienced. After settling in a rented house in Gümüşsuyu, some of the younger ones found jobs, while others, like my grandfather, started attending Armenian boarding schools. Eventually, over half of that group migrated to Marseille in 1946. My grandfather was among those who stayed behind, choosing to build a life here—his love for my grandmother reinforcing that decision.
My maternal grandfather Sarkis was born into a family of basket weavers and farmers in Sinop-Gerze. He grew up without learning Armenian, underlined with the importance of hiding his identity. When I asked him about his memories, he would at first hesitate, then recall the beauty of his village’s nature, and eventually recount uncomfortable stories. He would describe visiting another Armenian family in a nearby village for major religious holidays like Easter or Christmas—changing into festive clothes only once they were out of their own village, and changing back on the return.
In the 1950s, Sarkis and his family moved to the then-cosmopolitan district of Dolapdere in Istanbul to find work. Before returning to his original profession of ironworking, he and his siblings did manual labor, including construction.
A few years ago, in 2015, a graduate student who had read my piece Sinop’s Wind published in Agos contacted me. She was researching Armenians from the Black Sea region who had settled in Dolapdere—exactly like my grandfather. She was so excited to interview him that we began planning a meeting. My grandfather was happy to share, but before anything was finalized, the queen of the household—my grandmother—intervened. Within a few days, she forbade the interview and made it clear that he was not to speak. My grandfather didn’t object much to keep the peace at home—after all, my grandmother was always right. I, rather embarrassed, had to cancel the meeting.
For my elders, hiding and avoiding visibility had become essential for survival. As political theorist and historian Achille Mbembe observes, such behaviour patterns—centred on invisibility—became normalized over time, no longer requiring an active perpetrator. Rooted in history, self-censorship grew and reached into both present existence and ancestral narratives.
That I—perhaps unconsciously—chose a profession centred around visibility, and have at times found myself torn between the dynamics of being seen and staying hidden in the performing arts, is surely no coincidence. In nearly every sphere, dominant unhealthy structures replicate themselves, deciding what becomes invisible. But if we examine who pays the price for visibility, what is lost or preserved through the politics of invisibility—culturally, socially, personally, and ecologically—through an inclusive and impartial lens, these losses might transform into seeds of a renewed civilization. And then, those who remain may have the chance to live fully connected, vibrant lives. My wish is that until those beautiful days come, especially those who are made invisible, can say "I exist, I am here" despite everything!