Parrhesiapar

Such tiny objects. Yet entire worlds survive inside them. Satinig’s hands touched these threads before her death. Decades later, Valoma touches the same fabric. Textile becomes encounter. Material becomes witness.

What is the connection between Frantz Fanon and Zaven Biberyan?

And perhaps one of the most striking symbols of this blindness is the aircraft that came to be known as the ‘Lolita Express.’ How could so many powerful adults, from business figures to politicians, from academics to scientists, board an aircraft carrying this name without question? A plane named after a young girl became a chilling symbol of how normalized this regime of gaze had become.

These days, every woman following what is being written about the Epstein case should watch Epstein’s videos—especially those recorded after his conviction.

How many Armenians felt a sense of relief in those moments, while simultaneously being engulfed by an overwhelming feeling of guilt? The inability to protect the values one has created is a historical legacy, which isoften entirely unrecognized.

In the Houshamadyan book, there is a section dedicated to Sarkis Usta Kadehciyan under the heading 'The Architect of the Armenian Church of Antep.' This section states that he served as the 'Chief Municipal Architect' for many years, trained many masters, and that many buildings in Antep were his work.

Ecosomatic practices, which are also experiential learning practices, are being widely used globally by experts in various fields—in addition to dance—such as psychology, education, art therapy, healing architectural design, and climate activism. This is because they develop skills like sensory awareness and empathy, and can help re-establish the lost connection with the 'Other.'

One hot summer afternoon, my father asked me to bring back “one kilo of almonds,” (noush in Armenian). I was to try our local grocers first, but if I couldn't find any, I had permission to go to Nor Marash. My wish had finally been granted. That day, I gained the opportunity to cross the avenue that was otherwise off-limits to my nine-year-old self. I entered the first shop with enthusiasm. Noticing that no one was speaking Armenian, I simply said, “Baddi kilo noush” (one kilo of noush in Arabic), not realizing that “noush” was not an Arabic word.

Photographs showing Armenian women with long, braided hair were mostly taken before 1915. After that date, in cities such as Aleppo, Beirut, Jerusalem, Alexandria, Cyprus, Syros, Athens, Piraeus, and elsewhere, surviving Armenian women, orphans and widows alike, appear with their hair cut short or completely shaved. The hair of children, in particular, was often shaven off. Cutting the hair of women and young girls was seen as a precaution against an invisible threat.

Every March 8, various events are held on the Ottoman Armenian women’s movement, and over the years a considerable number of books and opinion pieces have been published about these pioneering writers. Yet I must admit — and this forms the first reason for my “apology” — that their literary production has largely been overshadowed by their life stories.

Hratch Kozibeyokian was born into weaving. His father learned carpet weaving from the surviving women weavers of Kaghtagayan in Aleppo. In 1977, Hratch came from Beirut to California, where he continued the profession of carpet restoration with his father. When Hratch began to take carpets from his collection and “read” their stories one by one, I realized how deprived we are of such fundamental knowledge, and how no amount of listening would ever feel enough. He would look at a single carpet and see an entire lifetime.

What I remember most vividly about my grandma Koharig is her restlessness and her extraordinary talent for preparing food. She could bring together whatever was available at home and make a delicious meal. She gave meaning to her life by constantly cooking and feeding her loved ones (sometimes forcefully). Maybe that was her way of telling the family stories she couldn't put into words. Ursula K. Le Guin, in her essay The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction, opened a critical window onto the notion of the hero in literature. Instead of heroic narratives that often devolve into destructive power over time, she proposed carrier narratives. She reminded us that the first cultural tool wasn’t a weapon for killing, but a bag used to carry and preserve. This view, supported by anthropologist Elizabeth Fisher, places survival, nourishment, and transformation at the center of narrative.

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.

Arek Khachikian was born in 1895 in the village of Khachaluys, “the light of the Cross,” in the town of Khnus, present-day Hinis. She was from a respected family and excelled at the village school. As a girl she was betrothed to a young man from a prosperous family. As fate would have it, though, an unfortunate accident left her lame and caused that good family to reconsider the match. Fortunately, a nice boy named Sako, from a poor family, stepped in and consented to marry her. In 1915, the gendarmes killed Sako and beheaded his and Arek’s two little boys.

Her story in Ereğli ended when she got married at the age of 17 and moved to Istanbul with my grandfather. At that time, Armenian families would marry off their daughters at a young age to Armenian men to protect them. That’s how my grandmother got married and came to Istanbul for the first time—for her own wedding.

This article was written for the exhibition re-membering: Traces of Armenian Life in the Diaspora, held at the Villa Oppenheim, Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf Museum in Berlin. The exhibition was organized in collaboration between the Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf Museum, Akebi, and Houshamadyan. Upon Tamar Sarkissian’s invitation, I contributed a family heirloom violin and photographs to the exhibition curated by Asuman Kırlangıç — and now, we share their story with our readers.

Of course, in modern Armenian literature, it is impossible to overlook the traumas experienced by writers and poets, their sense of displacement, or the traces of their personal histories within their works. And yet, the fact that classical and modern Western Armenian works are still examined primarily through the lens of author biographies, whether in Istanbul or elsewhere, prevents the literature itself from receiving the recognition it deserves. In this way, a deep-rooted and rich literary tradition is reduced, in the Western gaze, to a mere struggle for visibility. What’s more troubling is that this perspective is not only held in the West but is also increasingly internalized within today’s Istanbul Armenian community.

Wasafiri approached this as one of the central themes of its issue. One of the most striking texts was the lead feature titled “Two Armenians Conversing in Two Armenians” by Tamar Marie Boyadjian and Hrach Martirosyan, translated into English by Maral Aktokmakyan. The conversation opens with an editorial note acknowledging the division of the Armenian language into two variants—close enough to be mutually intelligible, yet distant enough to create alienation. In this dialogue, Boyadjian and Martirosyan, each speaking one of the two variants, find common ground in their shared love for the language and its literary heritage.

The relationship between yayas born outside of Istanbul and the Armenian language was also highly intriguing. Some never learned Armenian, while others, speaking in local dialects, were shamed for it. The mistaken belief that Istanbul Armenian was the ideal and most beautiful version of the language played an active role in the rapid loss of these local dialects. The stories of our friends’ yayas in the diaspora are different from ours. The grandmothers of Armenians who migrated from Cilicia to the Aleppo-Beirut route or those who immigrated to the United States carry narratives distinct from those who remained in Turkey

The expected performance of an Istanbulite Armenian woman includes setting up tables during name days, hosting relatives, cooking well, being the one who brings the extended family together, keeping the house constantly clean and organized, and always being well-groomed and stylish. In other words, the Istanbulite Armenian woman must be a type of person beyond perfection!