ONE CITY, ONE HUNDRED YEARS

by Burag Peksezer (Ireland)

A leap into the unknown Armenia

ONE CITY, ONE HUNDRED YEARS Armenian for me was a secret language, spoken by only a few people, mostly around my family. We spoke it at home, among us but always carefully. Always secretly. That is why I was so surprised when I landed in Yerevan for the first time. I saw airport signs in my language, ticket desks and even policemen. When they asked for my passport, I happily spoke to them in Armenian and I could not stop smiling. He must have noticed it. He also smiled under his big Soviet-fashioned red hat. He said “Welcome to the motherland.” While I was enjoying every small detail of the world around me, my girlfriend Isilay had the opposite feelings. “Will they stop me because of my Turkish passport?” She asked. “No”, I said. “Don’t worry. I have the same passport.” She was from the Western part of Turkey, a well-traveled and well-educated girl. We had met in college three years ago in Istanbul. I was the first Armenian she had known. Even after all this time, she was still worried to come here. Those worries stemmed from closed borders, angry politicians, and lack of dialogue. This trip was a pilgrimage for me, as for her it was stepping into total unknown. As we took the taxi from the airport, Isilay was afraid of talking to me in Turkish. She tried English first. But the taxi driver understood our accent. He looked at us and asked us immediately ‘’Where are you from?’’. “Istanbul” I said. His dark brown eyes got bigger. “I am also from Turkey, brother. My grandfathers are from Kars.” he exclaimed. Isilay asked him if he had ever been in Turkey. “No, unfortunately”. “But one day, I will.” Our taxi loomed over poorly lit streets. The shadow of the Soviets was still visible through big building blocks, small Lada cars, Russian signs and big bronze statues. I felt the dry cold air from the mountains. The next day, we visited the famous Ararat cognac factory. Then we went to a restaurant with the same name. She asked me “Why everything is named after Ararat here? The mountain is actually in Turkey. I looked around me and pointed the majestic mountain. It was vaguely visible due to fog. “How can you ignore this? I asked. “He sees us all.” On the following days, we strolled around the city. We passed by neighborhoods called Marash, Arabkir and Malatia. Places that took their names after cities in Turkey. They were founded by the survivors who still loved their origins. I had not known this before, nor did she. I had seen a place called Antep lahmajun on the internet. So, I took her to that restaurant. Lahmajun is a popular fast-food in Turkey and she was glad to see it in a different setting. “It is almost the same, but with more chilly” she said. When we were talking in Turkish, a man with a thick black moustache approached us. He greeted us in Turkish. He was the owner. He told us about the journey of his parents that started in South East Turkey ended in Yerevan via Aleppo, Damascus and Beirut.. He spoke Turkish, the one that our grandparents use. He knew a few jokes. We laughed and drank Ararat together. Isilay was amused. On out last day, I wanted to visit the Genocide Memorial. First she refused to come. She was uneasy being a Turkish woman being there. I said “we will go there holding hands, the way it is supposed to be.” I said. We stood next to the eternal flame together. Then I knelt and closed my eyes. I was grateful for being on this small land that still stands and open up for the future in my language. When I opened my eyes, I noticed she was talking to an elderly woman. “Come here” she said. I stepped towards them and I smiled. “This woman is from my city. All the way from Tekirdag. I did not expect this, not at all.” She was genuinely happy for the first time on this trip.