Many of the stories shared below are part of projects which have produced publications, websites, or other resources. The Armenian Museum is sharing these resources with the community so that we may more completely remember victims and survivors of the Genocide. The Museum does not in any way profit from the sale or use of these resources.
Dadour Dadourian
August 2021
Written by Shant Dadourian, Manhasset NY
My great grandfather, Dadour Dadourian, was born in 1905 in Gurin, Turkey. The Armenian genocide started when he was 10 years old when his father, Alexander, and all the men and boys in his village were taken by the Turks and killed. Only Dadour, his grandmother, step mother and baby brother survived. Dadour survived by fooling the Turks and dressing up as a girl. Everyone else in his family was killed including seven brothers and sisters.
Dadour, his grandmother, step mother and baby brother were forced to march through the desert to Der Zor, a town in Syria, along with thousands of other Armenians, most of whom were women and children. Sadly, his brother and step mother did not survive the long, deadly journey. After many days and miles of marching, Dadour and his grandmother managed to escape and made their way back to Gurin where Dadour vowed to avenge his families’ deaths and fight the Turks.
By 1919 it became very clear to them that it was no longer safe in Gurin, so Dadour and his grandmother managed to travel to Constantople in hopes of finding some surviving relatives.
Unbeknownst to Dadour, he had two uncles, Harry and Dikran, who had emigrated to America, gained citizenship and lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts. When they learned that Dadour and his Grandmother were alive, Harry was sent to Costantople to find and bring them to America, along with other surviving members of his family. Unfortunately, Dadour was not interested in getting on the ship to America but rather to hunt down and kill Turks so when Harry found them, Dadour ran away. Sadly, Harry left Constantinople empty handed.
Dikran refused to give up trying to find his relatives so in 1920 he sent Harry back to Constantinople to find Dadour and his grandmother. Fortunately, Dadour cooperated with Harry and he and his Grandmother left Constantople to begin their new lives in America.
Once in Cambridge Dadour lived with his Uncle Dickran and attended the Boston School of Commerce from 1920 to 1924. Following graduation he moved to New York City and in 1932 married Elise Salibian of Beirut, Lebanon. Dadour and Elise had four sons who all worked in the family business.
Dadour learned the export business from his uncles, Dikran and Harry. Along with his close friend, Artin Aslanian, and cousin, Poozant Piranian, Dadour established the Dadourian Export Corporation, which exported used clothing to the Middle East, India and Asia. They also invested in real estate on the Lower East Side, including Chinatown.
Dadour used his entrepreneurial skills he developed in business to help build and support the Armenian community in the United States. He was constantly donating and fundraising for Armenian causes, never taking “no” for an answer. This included St.
Vartan Armenian Cathedral in New York City, which was one of the first Armenian cathedrals in North America, as well as establishing other parishes such as Holy Martyrs Armenian Church in Queens, New York and St. Mary’s Armenian Church in New Jersey.
Dadour helped develop the St. Nersess Seminary in New Rochelle, New York, which was the first Armenian seminary in the US. Dadour started Dadourian Sans, an organization for orphaned Armenian children from Turkey, bringing them to Jerusalem to be educated. In 1960 Dadour received the Medal of St. Gregory, the highest honor given to an Armenian layman, for his service to the church and community. He also founded the Armenian Endowment Fund.
He supported the Holy Martyrs Day School along with his second wife, Sara, who was the principal.
In addition to 4 sons Dadour and Elise also had 11 grandchildren. Dadour died in 1990 at the age of 85.
Who Were Your Ancestors? The Sahatjian/Srvantziants Family History and Genealogy
Garegin Srvadztiants
My name is Ronald Sahatjian from Watertown, MA. Many of you know me and my family as typical Armenian-Americans. World War I and the Armenian Genocide was a catastrophic time in the history of Armenia. This is the story of my family during that time; the Srvantzian-Sahatjians are direct descendants of Bishop Garekin Srvantzian and General Hamazasp Srvantzian, the 3rd highest ranking commander of the Armenian Volunteer Armies that defended Yerevan.
I learned that I had a famous family from discussions and original photos and musical never displayed before, and shown here for the first time—some of which, many believe were suppressed by the Soviets.
Our story began in Armenia in the early 1900s. This presentation was created from a series of pictures that my grandmother brought with her from Armenia and were shown to me by my father. It is about intrigue, betrayal, assassination, and the heroism of my grandmother Prapion, her sister Peprone, and her brother Vagharshag Srvantzian.
In 1922, my grandmother Prapion Srvantzian Sahatjian, niece of Bishop Garekin, fled persecution from the Bolsheviks, by coming to America with my father Vartan and brother Levon. Hamazasp had been assassinated by the Bolsheviks, and Prapion’s sister, Peprone, fled to Tabriz on foot. Her husband Victor Sahatjian died in Erzurum, and his nephews Haigh and Sarkis Sahatjian are well known in Fresno, CA.
Prapion and family moved to Arlington, MA, and my uncle Levon went to Juliard Musical school, while my father went to work to support the family after getting only an 8th grade education. Later, Prapion’s brother Vagharshag came to live with them after studying with Komitas Vartabed. Vagharshag was a famous composer and lived in Fresno later in life, and his musical compositions are shown in this presentation.
My mother Roxy Abrahamian and my father sacrificed much so that my sister Elizabeth, my brother Ed, and I could receive a good education. Because of them, my brother received an MS in Psychology, I received a Ph.D. in Chemistry, and my sister received a JD and became a lawyer.
This is our story.
Haigouhi Khederian, told by her Granddaughter, Joyce Khederian Chiulli
Arslanian family, 1914
Boghos and Haigouhi with Harry and little Myron in 1925.
This is the Genocide survival story of my father‘s mother, my Grandmother, Haigouhi Arakelian Arslanian Khederian, born in 1895 to Boghos & Tourvanda (Kalfayan) Arakelian. Haigouhi grew up in Yozgat, Turkey with her three brothers, Arakel, Levon, & Garabed, along with her sister Zarouhi.
At the age of 17, Haigouhi married Asadour Arslanian, also of Yozgat, through an arranged marriage. The year was 1912. Asadour was a personable businessman working for Metropolitan Life Insurance Company. He was the first salesman to sell life insurance to the residents of Turkey. Asadour had 2 brothers, one a lawyer and the other a businessman dealing with imports and exports.
Haigouhi and her new husband Asadour soon had a child in January of 1913, Harry Asadour Arslanian.
This 1914 family photo above shows my Grandmother Haigouhi on the far left with her husband Asadour next to her. Asadour's two brothers and sister are standing next to him. Seated are Asadour's parents, with baby Harry in the lap of Asadour's mother. The girl in front is Asadour's little sister Vergin (Virginia).
In 1915, all the men in this Arslanian family photo were dragged out of their family home in Yozgat and murdered by Turkish soldiers. Asadour was shot and killed along with his two brothers and father in front of their family home.
It was now 1915, and the Armenian Genocide had begun. The Turkish Government wanted to eliminate Armenian intellectuals first, and the Arslanian men fit into that category.
The Turkish soldiers then came back into the Arslanian home, yelling for any other males in the house. Haigouhi’s baby Harry was still in the house, and the women knew if the soldiers found him, they’d kill him for being an Armenian male. The frightened women desperately hid baby Harry under a pile of blankets, with Asadour’s little sister Virginia sitting on top of him. They prayed little Harry would not cry.
Luckily baby Harry remained silent under the blankets. The soldiers then sternly gave an order: the women must leave Yozgat by morning. The women were devastated by the killings they’d just witnessed, but they gathered up all they could carry. My grandmother Haigouhi could only manage little Harry. Asadour’s little sister Virginia helped by carrying some food, a few belongings, and the family photo.
The following day, the women began to walk from their family home in Yozgat into the unknown. This walk is what was eventually known as the "Death March"... the long line of Armenian women, children, and elders who were forced from their homes, following each other into the hot desert.
Haigouhi’s mother-in-law sadly did not survive the death march, succumbing to heat, starvation, and exhaustion, as well as dying of a broken heart after watching her husband and three sons shot to death. Although Virginia and her sister were devastated to lose their mother, they had no choice but to continue on.
Twenty year old Haigouhi carried Harry in her arms day after day, for weeks and months. They walked through Turkey, hiding Harry, disguising him as a girl. They were occasionally able to take shelter in “safe houses” along the way.
One time a family hid them in their dry well for a few days. They lowered baby Harry, Haigouhi, Virginia, and Virginia's sister down the well in buckets. The four of them hid in the dark, muddy, awful smelling bottom of the well all day long. They waited there each day until the Turkish soldiers came through looking for Armenians. If Harry had cried or made a sound in the well, they would have been discovered, and Turkish soldiers would have killed them all. It was a life of constant fear.
Haigouhi and the others found whatever they could for food, sometimes eating grass along the way. If they found poppies, they picked them. They could use the poppies to give to Turkish men in exchange for food, because the men would use the poppies to make opium.
If they reached a town center, little Virginia would go to the markets to beg or steal whatever little food she could. She would often get beaten by the food sellers. If there was a barrel of honey, Virginia would dip her hand in the honey, and then dip her hand in nuts, oats, or wheat. Then Virginia would run to Haigouhi and the others, who would lick the honey, nuts, and grain off her fingers. This was the only nourishment they would have for their entire day.
The group would then move to the next town, looking through garbage wherever they would go. While looking through trash piles for food, they would sometimes have the good fortune of finding rags or scraps of material. The women would then use the bits of material to sew clothes for dolls or babies.
Virginia would try to sell these baby clothes to passersby in the next town. Whatever money she could get was used to buy food at the market to survive until the next day.
Haigouhi, Virginia, Virginia's older sister and little Harry lived like this for five long years through the Middle East & Syria. They never knew from one day to the next where their next meal was coming from, nor where they would sleep for the night. They were nomadic refugees, who would walk day after day, from place to place, with little more than the clothes on their backs.
In 1918, the Turkish killings of the Armenians had ended, but Haigouhi and the others continued their nomadic life, with no place to call home.
By 1920, the Red Cross had become involved in the Middle East, trying to reunite displaced Armenian refugees with any of their living family members. Although Haigouhi only spoke Armenian and Turkish, the Red Cross informed her that two of her brothers were alive. Haigouhi’s brothers Levon & Garabed were alive and living in America!
Levon and Garabed arranged to send Haigouhi money to buy tickets to America. It was an incredible relief that family members were about to rescue Haigouhi from her life of fear and homelessness. Haigouhi was going to America!
Haigouhi, little Harry, Virginia, and Virginia’s sister got themselves to Greece where they boarded the USS Pannonia on April 4, 1920. After two long months at sea, the ship landed in Ellis Island, New York on June 7, 1920.
Haigouhi was now 25, and Harry was a boy of 7. The group had endured five long frightening years together as nomads. Now they were about to enter a foreign country where they spoke not a word of English, but they were no longer homeless, hungry, hiding, and scared for their lives.
After getting through the processing at Ellis Island, Haigouhi was reunited with her two brothers Levon and Garabed. Haigouhi learned that her oldest brother Arakel had been murdered by Turkish soldiers in 1915, and his wife Shnorig died in the death march with their two babies.
Haigouhi also learned that Arakel’s oldest son Badrig, her nephew, was alive, and had been living in an orphanage, along with Haigouhi’s younger sister Zarouhi. The brothers sent money for Zarouhi and Badrig to buy tickets to America too.
The large group lived with Levon and Garabed Arakelian in Philadelphia, a popular region where many residents of Yozgat had settled. The blended family now lived together under one roof in crowded living quarters.
Virginia and her sister eventually moved on and settled in Chicago with relatives. Virginia ended up in California, where she worked as a talented seamstress. She was hired as the head seamstress for Elizabeth Arden in Beverly Hills. Her clients included Hollywood elites, who gave her tips of several hundred dollars per fitting. This was a far cry from her days of trying to steal a few nuts to survive each day.
After several months of the Arakelians living together in Philadelphia, Haigouhi was introduced to Boghos Khederian from Boston, who soon asked for her hand in marriage. They were married in Philadelphia in 1922, and settled in Massachusetts for the rest of their lives.
Boghos Khederian had not been involved in the Genocide. Boghos was born in 1889 in Kayseri, Turkey (historically named Caesarea). Boghos and his brothers Assadoor and Garabed immigrated to America in the early 1900’s, after hearing rumblings that the Turkish government would be causing more trouble for the Armenians. They left behind their parents, grandparents, and four younger siblings in Kayseri, all of whom tragically perished during the Genocide.
In 1923, Haigouhi and Boghos had their first child, my father, Myron Paul Khederian. In 1926, Haigouhi and Boghos had a second son named Henry. Then, in 1932, they were blessed with their only daughter, who they named Anahid (Anita).
In Massachusetts, Boghos and his brother Garabed (Charles) opened a grocery store called Kidder Brothers Market in Roslindale, where my grandfather Boghos was the butcher. However, after the Great Depression, their business folded.
Boghos and Haigouhi then moved their family to Somerville, where Boghos opened another small market. Eventually Boghos and Haigouhi moved their family to Belmont. But in the late 1930's, my grandfather Boghos's health failed, and he sadly passed away in 1941 at the age of 52.
Boghos’s death left Haigouhi a devastated young widow of 46. However, she had a useful talent from her years of sewing those small scraps of cloth to make clothes during the Genocide. Haigouhi had also taught herself to sew on a sewing machine. So after Boghos died, Haigouhi was hired as a seamstress for Eastern Coat Company in Watertown, making high class men’s coats and suits.
Haigouhi was a caring, hard-working mother of four, and loving grandmother to six. She had survived the Armenian Genocide and made a life for herself in America, and became very involved with the St. Stephen’s Armenian Church community in Watertown. Haigouhi was a gifted seamstress, knitter, and crocheter. She was also a talented cook and baker, whose specialties included souboereg, manti, choereg, khourabia, and ashma (katah).
My grandmother Haigouhi Khederian, who we affectionately called Grammy, passed away in 1972 at the age of 77, after a day of baking Armenian delicacies for Thanksgiving. Her son Harry lived a long happy life as a devoted husband, father, and grandfather, passing away at the age of 92.
My grandmother Haigouhi never learned to speak much English in her life. She never spoke to me or her other grandchildren about the Genocide. She never mentioned the horrific shootings in Yozgat, or the atrocities she witnessed on the death march. Like other Genocide survivors, her experiences during those five frightening years were all too painful for her to talk about. Grammy smiled and laughed often, but there was always a fear and sadness she carried with her from her days of living through the Genocide.
As a child, I would spend my Saturdays with my grandmother after Armenian school. As I would work on my Armenian studies with Grammy, I sometimes asked her about the Genocide. All she ever replied were these broken English words into my ear: “Never trust a Turk”. That’s all she ever said, but she’d say those words in a loud whisper, as if she were still frightened for her life. Turkish soldiers had killed her precious family members and had destroyed the life she had made back in Yozgat, a life I’m sure she thought of often, but never spoke about.
I have carried my grandmother’s story in my head and heart my whole life.
I am now able to be my grandmother’s voice, and am grateful for this opportunity to share her tale of survival through the Armenian Genocide...a story which was too painful for her to ever retell on her own.
Armenag Der Mesropian, as told through his letter published in the paper, Lousaper and submitted by his great-grandson Karekin Jelalian
picture accompanying the letter
“A voice from the prison of Sepastia”
Arm. Der Mesrobian
The day the men of Sepastia were arrested
June 30, 1915
The Sunday of Vartevar
My dear mother Dzagheeg, my father Yeghiseh, my brother Vahan, my wife Noyemzar, my brother’s wife Vartanoush, and kids,
From what I understand this battle will not last very long. Try to stay somewhere (drakyoutyan jampah). Even if you need to change your name (?) do so to stay alive, as long as you don’t allow any marriages with Turks. The Turks have planned to destroy the Armenian race. This plan will be executed without delay. Even those who ask you to change your religion are mistaken. Think wisely, one cannot trust the Dajiks/Muslims.
Please send me all my necessities for my “trip.” Do your best to stay alive. Changing your religion, even temporarily, has no value/meaning. If there is a marriage with a Turk everything will be lost. It will be good to burn the house and sacrifice yourself. In every situation I feel hopeless. This is our tragic end.
You all will also “take a trip.” Afterwards they will torture and kill all the prisoners. We have accepted that happily and are ready to for this in the name of Christ.
It is unbearable for me to figure out how you will go on by yourselves, without a home or a place, as a family.
It is better to die than to take even one step in that state because the bad part is in the journey. Do as you see fit. During your emigration, take whatever measures you need to…
Naturally, you won’t be able to take gold or silver with you. Bury it. Also, write down a memoir. Teach the children about everybody. That’s inevitable. Go with solid Christian and complete faith in yourself. God be with you. But where? God knows. Towards death and destruction. Let God be the one to take revenge on this people. Presently, with these two lines, I come to bid you your last goodbye. Goodbye my dear father, mother, and brother; Goodbye my dear wife Noyemzar, Mesrop, my innocent Zabel, and my little lambs Haig, Nevart, and angel-like Veron. God take them, if we don’t see each other again, just don’t become a Turk.
Take Kulegjian Garabed’s wife Yeghisapet with you. Reply to my letter if you can.
Signatures A.D.M. (Armenag Der Mesrobian) Prisoner
Serop Seradarian* *Sahag Seradarian’s Uncle’s Grandchild, Teacher
Martin (Mardiros) Derderian, as told by his daughter, Diane Schaefer
Mr. Derderian wearing ribbons at an orphanage
My father Martin (Mardiros) Derderian was born in Palou, Turkey on March 1, 1915. He was the younger son of Gulistan and Masoup Derderian. Masoup was killed by the Turks when Martin was 1 1/2 years old. Gulistan was left with two boys Martin and his older brother Peter (Bedros). Being a strong and determined woman, my grandmother Gulistan was going to make sure nothing happened to her sons. To help the Armenians against the Turkish attacks, Gulistan became a courier who ran from village to village bringing messages.
When the opportunity became available for Gulistan to send her children to orphanages outside of Turkey, Peter was sent to an orphanage in Greece, and Martin age 7 was sent to Antilyas Orphanage in Beirut, Syria.
My father began his schooling at Antilyas Orphanage where he had his classes outside. When he was old enough, Martin was given the opportunity to select a trade to learn. Since he liked seeing people in nice, fine clothes, he decided to become a tailor. Little did he know that someday he would have his own tailor shop in a far-off land.
Besides engaging the children in academic and trade school learning, the orphanage provided physical education activities and held Field Day events each year. In 1925, Martin participated in his first relay race where he won a blue ribbon for the Small Boys Handicap group. Each year from 1925 to 1927 Martin won ribbons in the Australasian Unit Field Day Relay Races. These seven ribbons were highly cherished and accompanied Martin to the United States when he was 14 years old. Gulistan had married an Armenian man with the intent to reunite with her two sons in Providence, Rhode Island.
Upon coming to Providence, Martin had to attend middle school. For the next two years, his Mother received notes from his teacher stating that Martin's many absences would not be tolerated, for he had to attend school until the age of 16. As soon as my father was able to leave school, Martin got a job at a dry-cleaning shop. Working hard but not satisfied with the situation, Martin at the age of 19 opened OK Cleaners in Providence. Always doing his best and wanting to please his customers, OK Cleaners provided a lifetime of success for Martin, his wife Sylvia Mazmanian, and his three children Michael, Diane, and Linda.
While my father rarely spoke of his early life and the hardship he faced as a result of the Turkish Massacre, his determination to succeed and his love of his heritage instilled love, kindness, generosity, and ethnic pride in his daily life. One of his customers, Warren Walden, a sports broadcaster for a local TV station who always signed off the air with "Carry on" to his viewers, would always leave OK Cleaners saying, "There'll always be an Armenia", for he knew how proud Martin was of his heritage.
Badrig Arakelian, told by his daughter, Mary Ann Arakelian Kazanjian
Yozgat 1912: (l to r) Cousin Badrig Papazian, Grandmother Sasede Berberian, Badrig Arakelian sole survivor in photo, Grandfather Roupen Berberian, Cousin Garabed Berberian.
Belmont 1978: (l to r) Edward Kazanjian, Mary Ann Kazanjian, Karen Kazanjian, Badrig Arakelian, Krista Kazanjian, Elizabeth Arakelian
I, Mary Ann Kazanjian, am the daughter and only child of Badrig Arakelian, survivor of the 1915 Genocide of the Armenians in Turkey. Badrig, the eldest son of Arakel and Shnorig (Berberian) Arakelian, was born in Yozgat, Turkey in 1909. Yozgat, a rich and vast forest area, was located in central Turkey near the present day capital of Ankara. It was first established by the Armenian Capanoglu family of the “Tekke" tribe in the early 1700s who came from Yerevan in the East to escape Turkish and Kurdish atrocities. The Capanoglu family surname derived from the meaning “Shepherd’s Son” and the land was named Yozgat, heavily inhabited by Armenians and Greeks. The Greek name for Yozgat was Bozouki.
Architect Simon (Sinan) from Yerevan was commissioned to build the grand palace for the Capanoglus and a mosque in 1779, twin to the magjificent Mosque Suleymaniye in Istanbul. Simon’s son, Haci Arslan (meaning lion), was the first usage of the Arslanian name.
Simon’s grandson was Ohan Chorbaji Arslanian (1784-1874), and together with Simon they were the major benefactors and developers of Yozgat in the 1800s, building schools, bridges, bazaars and the Sourp Asdvadzadzin Church.
Badrig was a seventh generation direct descendant of the wealthy Yozgat Arslanian family. He was the great, great grandson of Hovhannes or Ohan Chorbaji Arslanian on his maternal side. His legacy has now continued three additional generations with his daughter, Mary Ann, son-in-law Edward Kazanjian, his two granddaughters Krista and Karen Kazanjian Lilla and husband Paul, and his two great grandchildren Marianna and Damian Lilla.
Badrig’s family lived on a street named Rue Tekke in Yozgat. He had a younger sister, Armenouhi, and an even younger brother, Haroutiun. His father and paternal grandfather had a comfortable living in the importing and exporting business in partnership with a Greek family.
In 1912, Badrig’s family moved North to Samson on the Black Sea and expanded their wholesale business with this Greek family in a huge warehouse on the waterfront. They dealt again in dry goods such as walnuts, soaps and dry fruit. Badrig, being the oldest, spent a lot of time with his father Arakel at this warehouse. Samson was a warmer semi-tropical climate and the Armenians, Greeks, and Turkish people lived cooperatively among each other. His Arakelian grandparents parents, Boghos and Turvanda, joined his family in Samson along with his father Arakel’s youngest sister, Zarouhi. Shortly thereafter both grandparents passed away before the Armenian Genocide began in 1915. The family lived in a comfortable hillside two story home with a view of the sea next to an Armenian church and graveyard. There was a new military building across the street built in 1911 where his father reported, dressed in a Turkish uniform, paid required fees and served in the National Guard.
There were mansions of wealthier Armenians on the hillside. Badrig befriended an Armenian boy whom he referred to as very rich because he had a tricycle and would treat Badrig to Hershey chocolate bars. This family had a tobacco factory manufacturing cigarettes. Badrig’s family took refuge in this friend’s huge cellar and watched the allied Russian and American ships during WW1 bombardments, while the elders opened their Bibles and prayed.
In 1918, Badrig’s father, Arakel, was taken away from his home by soldiers. The family was told that he was now serving in the military but he never returned. Two weeks later a notice was posted at the bazaar that all Armenians were ordered by the government to leave Samson within the week. His mother said she had an inkling of where his father was and decided to hire a wagon and go look for him with her two younger children in tow. Promising that she would return, she left both Badrig under the charge of his Aunt Zarouhi, age 19, who was still living with them, in the safety of the Greek partner’s home. His Mother also left all her jewelry to sell in order to care for Badrig and Zarouhi. Since all the Armenians had left, the Turks assumed Badrig was Greek, attending a Greek school. After six months, word was out that the Armenians could reclaim their houses so Badrig and his Aunt Zarouhi returned. The house was ransacked and all valuables were gone. For three months they sold off furnishings and what was left to survive. It was later reported to the extended family that Badrig’s mother, sister and brother had all perished on the forced march to the desert.
There was word of a Turkish orphanage in neighboring Marsovan, in what was once Anatolia College. His Aunt Zarouhi hired a wagon and took them there where Badrig stayed and she served as a nurse’s aide. They slept in filthy conditions on the earth floor with no coverings and given a quarter of a loaf of bread each day along with eating grass to survive. Badrig scratched his hands and faked a skin disease in order to go to the infirmary to see his aunt and get more food. Unfortunately he contacted a disease all over his body there, which took over a month to heal.
There was a maternal Uncle Roupen Berberian in Constantinople (present day Istanbul) that heard through a Marsovan Armenian family that Badrig was still alive. The family urged him to escape the orphanage, come to their home, where a covered wagon was waiting with a hired Turkish driver to take him to Samson. It was an overnight trip where they encountered a German soldier who spoke Armenian and asked “Hye es?” and escorted him the rest of the way. The next morning he boarded a fishing boat with only an orange and an apple in his hand answering to his name, Badrig. It was another overnight trip to Constantinople where he met his uncle. He lived with him there in Kadikoy on the Asian side in a very comfortable home for about six months attending Armenian school. He was in awe of first seeing trolley cars and the famous Galata Bridge. There was no hint of danger or fear there. His Aunt Zarouhi also arrived from the Marsovan orphanage and they were sent tickets by two other uncles who heard they were alive. These two uncles, Vahan Berberian and Levon Arakelian, had already come to America before 1915 to study and work and send money back to the Yozgat families. They organized and actively supported the Yozgat Union in Philadelphia to support schools and families in Yozgat.
In February 1920, Badrig and Zarouhi traveled to Greece where they boarded the ship S.S. President Wilson traveling in first class luxury to Ellis Island, New York. He was unable to enjoy the beautiful food since the voyage was very rough and he was always seasick. Due to being an orphan, it took two days of processing his entrance into America. They then went from Penn Station to Philadelphia where they met up with both the uncles who Badrig recalled bought him his first toy, a windup automobile. He lived with the Arakelians there and started first grade at nine years old, not knowing a word of English and being made fun of and physically bullied by non-Armenians.
At age 16 he quit school in grade six and worked with his Uncle Levon, whom he loved and respected, in the dry cleaning/tailor business. At age 18 he opened his own dry cleaning business but lost it in the Depression. In 1934 he moved to Massachusetts to help his father’s brother, Charles Arakelian, in Roslindale, with his bleaching business. Working for his uncle proved to be a very difficult situation, so Badrig then returned to Philadelphia and to High School. But he was summoned again by his Uncle Charles in MA who needed help again because he had broken his leg.
His uncle desperately needed his help back in Massachusetts and made many promises to him if he’d return again to Watertown, MA. Once again it was a difficult situation working together. So Badrig went out on his own renting a room for $3.00 a week on Dexter Ave., Watertown, MA. His landlord operated an Armenian Restaurant on the site of the former Kay’s Market on Mt. Auburn St., Watertown, MA. He also secured a job earning $6.00 a week pressing clothes (even though he was promised $12.00 a week).
Badrig met Elizabeth Boyajian in 1944 from Belmont, MA. His cousin Harry Arslanian spotted her in the window of her father’s Belmont Provision Market on Belmont St. and suggested to Badrig to ask her out on a blind date. They married on Jan. 21, 1945 at St. James Armenian Church in Watertown. I was born the following year on Jan. 29, 1946 and was their only child. They lived at 40 Alma Ave. in Belmont and Badrig and Elizabeth were proprietors of Belmont Cleaners on Belmont St. Belmont. His one week a year vacation consisted of motoring to Atlantic City, NJ to enjoy the beautiful beach and exciting boardwalk attractions and of course visiting the extended family in Philadelphia and New Jersey. They later moved to 123 Winter St. Belmont and then to Barnard Road, Belmont.
Badrig and Elizabeth were active members of the community and St. James Armenian Church where Badrig first organized the Men’s Club, Bingo and the first New Year’s Eve party.
He served on the St. James Parish Council and was a member of the Belmont Beaver Masonic Lodge. Elizabeth was the first organist at St. James and served for fifty years along with being a charter member of the St. James Women’s Guild. They were both recognized as Parishioners of the Year in 1986. Just two years later, Badrig died in 1988.
Badrig always strove to be a good, proud citizen of the United States. Although an orphan and enduring a loss of great magnitude, he built a new family and reunited and enjoyed the many cousins and relatives of his and Elizabeth’s extended family in the United States. He was never bitter or angry with what happened in Turkey and wanted to look forward not behind. He supported the April 24 observances of the Armenian Genocide but also was concerned that politicizing would jeopardize the safety of the many Armenians still living in Istanbul.
Fast forward to 2009 and 2010 when my husband, Edward Kazanjian, and I made two pilgrimages, covering 3000 miles and 100 historic Armenian villages. As part of these journeys, we visited Yozgat, Samson, Marsovan and Istanbul,Turkey following in Badrig’s footsteps.
Badrig’s maternal Uncle Vahan Berberian had painted, after his arrival in America, a Yozgat landscape scene. I brought a copy with me and amazingly found the same location as the painting depicted.
We also found the beautifully renovated historic Arslanian home which was now a museum, furnished as it was in the early 1900s. But also on the doorstep was the original tombstone with dates honoring Ohan Chorbaji Arslanian!
We also found Rue Tekke, the street where the Arakelian family lived. I was one of the 12 leading plaintiffs of the N.Y. Life Insurance Co. lawsuit that was settled in 2005, since I had my grandfather Arakel’s original policy invoices with his address.
We went on to Samson where we discovered the newly built 1911 military building and the Armenian hillside homes. We also went to Marsovan where we located the Turkish orphanage. We walked the streets of Kadikoy, Istanbul, passing several Armenian churches and neighborhoods.
It was very emotional and rewarding to walk the streets of all our grandparents’ ancestral villages. We also brought back soil to share with family and friends. It provided a physical connection to.the homeland. Also,making many public presentations and DVDs was our gift to the community. We wonder what our parents and grandparents would have thought of us making such a journey and to have come full circle. We experienced the beauty of the land, the familiar food and music, breathed the same air, drank the same water and connected with them spiritually. Badrig, along with many survivors, never wanted to return, feeling it was in the past and there was nothing there. But we now know “There is Something There”!
Tamom Salbashian, as told by Peter and Chuck Hajinian
My name is Peter Hajinian. This ring was given to my great-grandmother Tamom Salbashian when she married Haji- Sarkis Hajinian in 1909 and moved into his family’s house in the village of Tomarza. A village of 10,000 or so Armenians, with a few Greeks and Turks, Tomarza sat by the base of Mount Erciyes near Kayseri in the Ottoman Empire. A few years later, Sarkis left to find his fortune in the New World. Passing through Jerusalem in 1913, he got a tattoo to mark the event and became Haji-Sarkis Hajinian. From there he traveled to Buenos Aires, Argentina, and then on to South Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Meanwhile, Tamom lived with her mother-in-law Catherine, sister-in-law, nephew Hratch and niece Melonie. Having no children of her own, Hratch and Melonie would have kept her busy.
August 25, 1915, everything changed. This was the date for the general deportation of Tomarza. As the men had already been called up to labor battalions, now the rest of the Armenian villagers were required to pack up what they could and march south toward the Syrian deserts. Tamom hid this gold ring in her clothing, and helped carry food for her elderly mother-in-law and young niece and nephew. The deportation took them down dirt roads over small mountain ranges. Villagers from Jujune, Dashan, and others joined them along the way. Armenians had lived in this province for centuries, since Levon the Great created the kingdom during the time of the Crusades.
Food soon ran low, and hundreds died each day. Of the 10,000 or so Armenians from Tomarza, an estimated 1500 survived. Tamom’s mother-in-law Catherine was the first to die among the Hajinian caravan. She had been knitting as they walked, and when Tamom asked what it was Catherine replied, “My burial clothes.” She laid her hands on her daughter in law Tamom and said "Go to America and find your husband, my son Haji Sarkis, I give you the Hajinian Family Blessings." Closing her eyes. Glory Beckoned.
Melonie, Tamom’s young niece, was next to succumb to the harsh conditions. Tamom’s sister-in-law also died.
By the end of 1915, Tamom and Hratch ended up in a refuge camp near Aleppo, Syria. From here the details of her story are few and far between. We know that her uncle, Arch-Priest Smpad Salbashian, went around finding Armenian orphans among Kurdish and Bedouin tribes, paying for their release and sending them to orphanages and camps in Lebanon, Damascus, and Jerusalem—perhaps he found her and helped her get out. There is a rumor a relative worked for the Ottoman telegraph company in Beirut, perhaps he found her and alerted her husband in America. What we do know is that by 1920, Haji-Sarkis found Tamom and Hratch in Lebanon.
In 1921 Tamom and Haji-Sarkis travel to Izmir, then on to America, and in 1922 their first daughter was born. Through it all, Tamom still carried the ring. She gave it to her third child, my grandfather Nazar, and when he passed away my father inherited it.
It’s a reminder of how far our family has traveled, what it has lost, but how it has been fruitful and grown. Hasnutiun. Peter Hajiniam
We, the Hajinian ancestors, are the fruit of that God ordained blessing.
Ohannes Kavoukian, as told by his granddaughter Victoria Parian
5 generations of genocide survivors: My (Victoria's) sister Mary Etian with her daughter Arda my mother Haigouhi Behesnilian, her mother, my grandmother, Paramtzem Markariam, her mother Agul Matosian my great grand-mother
The Turkish mayor of the city of Adana had advised my grandfather, “… you should gather your family and get out of the city.” It was 1915 and though Armenians represented a quarter of the population of the city of Adana, they were expecting the worst.
Grandfather, Ohannes Kavoukian came up with a plan to use his artistic skills. From a small photo, he sketched a black and white portrait of Jemal Pasha, the commanding officer of the Turkish Army. He wanted to present the drawing to Jemal hoping that he and his family would not be deported to Der-Zor. He wondered how the Pasha will react when he sees his drawing. His friends in the military admired it and somehow the news went to Jemal Pasha, who immediately summoned the artist with the portrait. The guard seeing him come with the drawing in hand told him, “Get in! The Pasha is expecting you.” He slowly moved forward and found himself in front of the desk of Jemal Pasha.
Nervously he turned the picture and showed it to him. Jamal looked at it and pondered. There was no expression on his face, he played with his mustache as Grandfather Ohannes’s heart pounded in his chest. To his great surprise, Jemal Pasha started talking in a pleasant tone. He asked, “Who made this portrait?”
“I did, sir,”
“Good, we need a drawing instructor in our schools in Jerusalem, now take your family and go there and start teaching.” he ordered.
Grandfather Kavoukian mustered his courage and asked for papers that would give him and his family, permission to travel. Jemal Pasha granted his wish. Within one night grandfather Kavoukian and my grandfather gathered their families - 30 people.
The group consisted of Kavoukians, Matossians, Markarians, and my father-Behesnilian.
The group walked at night and slept in barns during the day.
After many nights of travel and hardship, they finally arrived in the Armenian convent in Jerusalem. To make a living, my father bought a shop in the old city and sold jewelry. That is how our family survived the Genocide and I was born in Jerusalem.
For more information, see the book, The Girl From Jerusalem
Levon Yotnakhparian, as told by his grandson, Levon Parian
Women and children in an AGBU Damascus refugee home, rescued from tribes in Aarbit in 1919 by Levon. Prapion Navabedian sitting next to the shelter’s supervisor Hmayag Ughurlian, Levon Yotnakhparian and his fiancee, Vartouhi Arekagian on the right.
My Grandfather, Levon Yotnakhparian, had joined the Ottoman military in 1909 just before WWI. Trained as a master tailor before joining, he often found himself repairing the uniforms of officers and enlisted men. A talent that saves his life as the Armenian soldiers are disarmed and forced into hard labor. After escaping from the military he works his way across the Syrian desert to Al Aqaba. A small town off the Red Sea where Arab and British forces had joined to drive the Turks out of the Levant. During his journey my grandfather dictates a letter to a scribe in Arabic about the plight of the Armenians and sends it to the King of the Arabs, Sharif Sayyid Hussein bin-Ali. He asks for Ali’s help. Sharif bin- Ali immediately writes a letter to his son’s Emir Faisal (King of Iraq in 1921) and Emir Abdallah (who became King of Jordan) stating that “we must defend the Armenians as we would our own, because they are the protected people of the Moslems.” This is the beginning of a powerful relationship between my grandfather and the Arab Hashemite Royals. They help him get to Al Aqaba then once there, he meets up with members of the fledgling AGBU that are looking for ways to bring survivors to safety. They see a capable and rugged individual in Levon Yotnakhparian and they ask him to lead a group back into the desert. He agrees and finds himself with a small group of men 5 Armenians and 14 of Emir Faisal’s men. Dressed as Duze to cover their identities they traveled back through the desert to find survivors of the massacres and bring them to safety. They found their way to Jabal ad-Druze under the protection of the Druze Sultan- Pasha al-Atrash. The Turks had discovered that Levon and his Arab escort were there, and threatened the Druze to give them up, but the Sultan al-Atrash refused. As my grandfahter’s band went out looking for Armenians, they were robbed by bandits. Eventually with the help of Emir Faisal’s letters that allowed Levon’s band to stop any military train and place Armenian survivors on board without charge or question. My grandfather and his expedition were able to bring over 4,000 of his country men, women and mostly children to safety in orphanages and camps in Damascus and Dera. One of those orphans was his own younger brother, Dickran. They had a wonderful reunion and then Dickran explained how he had left his mother with an Arab soldier while their caravan had been attacked by a band of Turks. Levon later found out that his father had been hung in the square of Urfa before the rest of the family was deported out of the city. To read the entire memoir, look up Crows of the Desert, in English and Armenian. By Levon Parian
For more information see the book, Crows of the Desert