The Past

by Milena Martirosyan (Armenia)

I didn't expect to find Turkey

1915. This is a year that is woven into our DNA. We are all born with that sorrow like it is injected into us still in our mother’s womb. You can always differentiate us in a crowd and do you know what gives us out? Our eyes, always full of grief and hope that one day we will achieve justice. 105 years have passed but our wounds are still bleeding... I remember being a five-year-old girl watching our family photos when I saw an old lady dressed in our national taraz, a very unusual thing for me. -Who is she, grandma? -She is your great-grandmother, darling. -She looks sooo sad, why does not she smile like others? -Because she lost everything, darling. When you grow up a bit I will tell you everything. Since then I was waiting... Remember when I was twelve and once during a history lesson the teacher told us about a slaughter back in 1915 in Western Armenia (now Turkey). The monster named Genocide devoured 1.5 million Armenians but some were lucky enough to flee leaving everything they had. I went home and told my grandmother that I had some guesses about what could have happened to that "sad woman" from the picture. It turned out I was right. The "sad woman" had lost her family, home. She and her brother were the only ones from their family who survived but the sorrow of the past never left them. They were from the city of Van and my great grandmother’s dream was to visit their house just once but it never happened. From that day on that dream nested in my heart and I couldn’t wait to be old enough to realize it. 7 years had passed but the thought of visiting Van never left me. Suddenly I came across a tour on the internet to Western Armenia: Ani, Kars, Mush and finally Van. It was almost impossible to visit those areas unless you were a tourist. So I knew exactly what I should do. It was a sunny June morning when our group headed to our ancestors' land. I don’t remember much of the road as I was sleeping but I exactly remember the feeling that engulfed me as soon as I stepped on that sacred soil: pride, hope, pain, anger came down my cheeks in the form of tears. After several hours we were walking in the city which was once my great grandmother's home. Van greeted us with all its beauty: the turquoise Lake Van shining like a precious gem, proud mountains standing tall like Armenian soul and Van cats with dichromatic eyes of blue and green. Our guide soon took us to a neighborhood where Armenians once lived. The people were very friendly there and one of them even told the story of their neighbor Armenians. He had heard that story from his grandfather as a statement of friendship between nations which were now labeled as enemies. The storyteller said that once there lived the Martirosian family which fled in 1915. It seemed that my heart leaped from my chest. My next thought was to find out everything about that family. He said that he didn’t know much but his grandfather once showed a picture while telling that story and he could show me the picture if I waited for a while. Our entire group was standing there holding their breath as in anticipation of something magical. There it was the old stained group photo. I looked at it trying to find a similar face and soon something grasped my attention. I knew those eyes. That was her, the "sad woman" from our family album. I could not be mistaken as her portrait always followed me even in my dreams. Tears cornered in my eyes as I told myself "You made your ancestors' dream come true". But what was more striking is that the secret of my family name became clear to me. It composes of two parts martiros and ian. Ian is a common particle that is attached to any Armenian surname and martiros is the Armenian for martyr...