To Hotinko and Emrah

[muratkanat6907]

Wrong. You cling to this when it is clearly proven wrong. And if this is your only argument then I suggest you just conceed now and accept the truth. Just because you choose not to actually read the true scholarly/historical record and understand these events does not mean that your opinion - based on laughable and ficticious assumptions - should be taken seriously. You have no real argument. This is one reason we dismiss you so - you bring nothing worthy of real discussion. You are not nearly on the level of even a basic understanding of (cause and) events of this time. How in the world do you expect to be taken seriously. You are just a very easy target for (deserved) insult and dirersion.




Things were not at all out of control - this is a myth that is countered by obvservation and record of the times and by statements made by CUP memebers and Turkish Government officials during and after this time. And think about what you are saying - "Condemnation of a nation" - well your "nations" continued denial is condemning itself - instead of honestly condenming the perpetrators of these crimes - your nation chooses to shield them and identify itself with them...of course - considering the histlry of the founding of your Republic (and its myths and lies) - its no wonder...



Ha! Absolutly this is your position - that those who died (were killed...who were overwhelmingly Armenian & Greek) were deserving - because of false belief - on your part - that this was some equal inter-ethnic conflict - which is entirely false - this is a myth perpetrated by your governments propoganda that is entirely discredited by fact and observation. You have no clue. You are ignorant and/or a liar!



Are you tired of it or are you not - please be clear! LOL

Look -you have yet to be truthful or say anything accurate in this post...and perhaps ever in this forum. The shoe fits buddy boy. You are tired? Can you imagine how we Armenians might feel by the likes of you?



hahahahahahahaha...you are certainly a jokester....

You are refering to David Irving perhaps....oh I'm sorry that is a denialist fraud of that other genocide....your BS is just laughable. "Unfair to focus on the suffering of one side"? FU! ...thats like taking pity on a mass murderer who is on death row...poor guy...l just look how he suffers...how can we be so one sided in our sympathy for the victims! What an outrage!



I'm impressed you can string (meaningless and unsupported) English words together (at least to the extent that you can fool yourself that you have made some kind foa valid point. We are not fooled however. - were just a bit more educated on this subject then you are...we actually understand what happened...we actually have read a few (real) books on this matter...etc

People like you 1,5; make "understanding each other" impossible...
I hope more "joseph"s will occur among you and us, to bring this to an end...

[Joseph]

People like you 1,5; make "understanding each other" impossible...
I hope more "joseph"s will occur among you and us, to bring this to an end...

I hope you understand clearly that although I may think in moderate terms, I believe in recognition of the Armenian Genocide and I see the Turkish state as the enemy of Armenians (but not necessarily the Turkish people per se.)

[muratkanat6907]

I hope you understand clearly that although I may think in moderate terms, I believe in recognition of the Armenian Genocide and I see the Turkish state as the enemy of Armenians (but not necessarily the Turkish people per se.)

Well then I should correct my previous quote: "I hope more josephs, like I pictured in my mind, will participate from both sides in this forum"....

[Gavur]

Better late then never I guess but kinda weak come back.

[Joseph]

Better late then never I guess but kinda weak come back.

It took him quite some time to gather his thoughts I suppose

[Nick_A]

Line Abrahamian

Thank you for a fine opening post Yavrum. The question does seem to be how to remember and forgive at the same time. How to know who and what to accept? How do we see individuals as individuals and yet recognize the group think that can commit such attrocities.

“The denial of genocide is the final stage of genocide: it murders the dignity of the survivors and destroys the remembrance of the crime. Denial of genocide strives to reshape history in order to rehabilitate the perpetrators and demonize the victims.” AYF.org

Very true and exactly why I am adamant about recognition of the Armenian Genocide as a moral necessity. Until the truth is admitted for what it is, I don't see how an Armenian could ever trust. There are of course some fine Turkish people. It is their obligation though to admit the Armenian Genocide for what it is and join with Armenians in standing against all genocides including the Armenian genocide.

The following is an article by an Armenian caught up in the same question. In the middle it gets a little rough as certain attrocities are remembered so those that prefer rose colored glasses are encouraged to avoid reading that part. But here is her question:

http://www.readersdigest.ca/mag/2006/10/hate_to_hope.php

My Journey From Hate to Hope
The Armenian Genocide almost annihilated my ancestors. How could I not hate Turks?

By Line Abrahamian

When I heard in April that Turkey threatened economic sanctions against Canada and recalled its ambassador because Prime Minister Stephen Harper publicly recognized the Armenian Genocide, all the anger I’ve felt towards Turks came rushing back. Why do they use scare tactics on anyone who acknowledges that, between 1915 and 1923, the Ottoman Turks killed 1.5 million Armenians in the first genocide of the 20th century? Twenty-one countries have recognized it, and the European Union has been urging Turkey to face up to its past if it wants to join. I know you should never hate, but how else am I supposed to feel about a nation that tried to annihilate my ancestors—and is still denying it?

Instinctively I cringed when a co-worker first told me his wife was Turkish. As an Armenian-Canadian, I’d been raised with stories of the Genocide. I was five when I first saw a black-and white photo from the massacre, of a crying Armenian boy so emaciated his ribs were sticking out. That kid could’ve been me. So at age five, I decided to hate all Turks. At my Armenian school in Montreal, the worst insult you could hurl at another kid wasn’t a four-letter word, it was “Turk lover.”

Three years ago, at 28, I met my co-worker’s wife. She was the first Turkish person I had ever met. I shook her hand and smiled. She was lovely, but when we sat down and talked, it was not about the past. And that bothered me. I think I expected her to apologize profusely for what her ancestors did in 1915 or to slam her government for nearly a century of denial. She didn’t. So I decided to hate her, too.

It might have been irrational, but I wasn’t alone in feeling this way. When I asked an educated Jewish woman how she felt whenever she met a German, she offered up a guilty smile. “Whenever I meet an older German, I wonder, Were you the one who pushed my aunt into the oven? And if it’s a young German, I can’t help but think, Did your grandparents kill any Jews during the Holocaust? In my mind, I know I shouldn’t feel this anger. But my heart won’t let me forgive.”

This, even after Germany apologized and made restitutions. All over the world, Holocaust deniers are shunned and put on trial. Yet Turkey has gotten away with denying the Genocide for 91 years because most of the world doesn’t know that before Sudan, Rwanda, Cambodia and Nazi Germany, the Ottoman Turks killed 1.5 million Armenians in massacres and deportation marches through the deserts of Mesopotamia (parts of today’s Turkey, Syria and Iraq). Many people don’t even know what an Armenian is—“So you speak Arabic?” “No, I speak Armenian.” “Right. Your country is Russia.” “No, my country is Armenia.” The victims are largely unmourned. And last year Turkey dragged its most renowned novelist, Orhan Pamuk, to court for “insulting Turkishness” after he was quoted as saying a million Armenians were killed in his country.

Can you blame me for holding a grudge?

I walk into Manoug Khatchadourian’s apartment and hug him. We’ve never met, yet I feel an instant connection. Manoug, 104, is a Genocide survivor.

He asks me to make Armenian coffee, expecting that since I’m Armenian, I must know how to brew it—like baking choereg (Armenian bread) or cooking dolma (stuffed vegetables). I don’t. Still, I have a go, but it turns out thick and gloppy. Manoug takes a sip and cringes, not subtly. I smile apologetically. But he has survived far worse than bad coffee.

My eyes fix on a painting above Manoug’s head. A Turkish soldier is stabbing an Armenian woman. Another is ripping a baby from his pleading mother’s arms. An Armenian mother is cradling her dead daughter.

“How could I not hate them?” says Manoug, his body trembling. “They killed our mothers, fathers, children! No, I can’t forgive them. I still live it today.” His mind races back to a day in his childhood, on the deportation march in Mesopotamia, in July 1915.

“Have you seen Mama?” 13-year-old Manoug asked pleadingly, but the haggard Armenians mutely trudged past him, their tongues lolling, and threw themselves into a puddle of rain mingled with animal urine. They hadn’t had a drop for two days. Manoug had wriggled through the throng to fetch water for his family but had now lost them. “Have you seen Mama?” he asked anyone who would listen. But no one had.
The caravan set off once more. It had been four weeks since they’d been dragged from their homes in Kharpert, and every day marchers died of hunger, thirst, heat—or the dagger of a guard. Now Manoug was alone.

Suddenly a band of Turkish and Kurdish marauders came riding down with a roar. The frightened marchers scattered, but many were xxxxxled under crushing hooves. Horsemen snatched up pretty girls and looted marchers; a few fell on a woman and began breaking out her gold teeth with a hammer.

Then a Turk started chasing Manoug. The boy ran, but his legs were weak. His assailant caught up, throwing Manoug to the ground, beating him fiercely with his bayonet, then stripping off his clothes.

Bloody and naked, Manoug staggered behind a boulder and collapsed. Some Armenian boys rushed to help him. “Leave me,” Manoug breathed. “I’ve lost my family. This is where I want to die.”

The phone rings in Manoug’s apartment. As he answers it, I think, How could he not hate the Turks? My eyes stray back to the painting. I hate them all over again.

As I enter the Ararat carpet store in Montreal, I can almost hear the giggle of my six-year-old self, climbing up carpet mountains and through carpet tunnels with store owner Kerop Bedoukian while Dad was with clients.

“This place hasn’t changed much since you were last here, has it?” asks Kerop’s son, Harold, who inherited Ararat when Kerop died in 1981. But it has. The carpets are neatly displayed on the floor instead of rolled into fun tunnels for the pint-sized and pigtailed. Kerop’s office looks different, but his original desk is still there. And tucked in a bookshelf is The Urchin, the book he wrote about his experiences on the deportation march. When I was a girl, I had no idea the man who playfully scaled carpet hills with me had climbed different kinds of mountains in the summer of 1915.

Nine-year-old Kerop couldn’t remember the last time they were allowed to rest. They clambered up yet another mountain, flanked by a steep drop. His eyes were fixed on a donkey swaying dangerously under its load. It lost its footing and toppled over the edge. The boy peeked down to see if donkeys land like cats do. They don’t. But he wondered why the lady who’d been leading it hadn’t let go of its halter when it fell. So many marchers tripped and toppled, reminding Kerop of shooting stars.

It was almost dusk. Still they ploughed on. Kerop noticed a Turkish guard creep over. He seemed intensely interested in someone in the caravan. The guard quickened his pace, slunk deep into the crowd—and pounced on a girl, drag-ging her behind a boulder as she kicked and screamed. Soon, the guard reappeared, pulling up his pants, and strode away. Kerop waited for the girl to emerge, too. But she didn’t. She must have been 15.

“I hated them for destroying an innocent and beautiful girl,” Kerop later wrote in The Urchin.

Harold tells me now, “That was the first time my dad said he felt hatred for Turks. But he didn’t hate all Turks.” His family had Turkish friends who trudged with them as far as they could on the deportation road, Harold explains. “I’m less generous in my anger than he was. Still, your generation seems to feel the strongest. When my son was ten, he came home one day with ‘Death to all Turks’ written on his arm. We were stunned. We’d told him about the Genocide but hadn’t taught him to hate.”

Every April 24—Genocide commemoration day—thousands of Armenians converge in front of the Turkish Embassy in Ottawa and chant, “Recognize the Genocide!”

I was there as a five-year-old. At that age, do we even know what we’re fighting for? We do. Every one of the 27 years she has been a teacher at an Armenian kindergarten, my mom has taught children about the Genocide.

I ask her if she thinks five is too young to hear about this. “You have to put it in their blood early on,” she says, “otherwise they won’t grow up with that fire in their belly to fight for our cause. That’s what we did with you.”

“So would I be less loyal to my heritage if I didn’t hate Turks?” I ask her.

“Yes,” my mom replies unflinchingly.

“So it’s okay for me to hate another human being?”

“No, not just anyone,” she says. “But after what they did, how could you not hate a Turk?”

“But is it fair not to distinguish between the generations?” I venture.

“Fair?” she snaps. “When they were massacring the Armenians, did they distinguish between the women, the children, the elderly? And today’s Turk is just as bad, for denying it happened.”

I’m watching the documentary The Genocide in Me, in which 32-year-old Armenian-Canadian filmmaker Araz Artinian tries to understand her father’s obsession with his heritage through a personal journey that leads her back to the roots of it all.

Five-year-old Vartan Hartunian clutched his father’s hand as Turkish soldiers herded hundreds of Armenians into a church in Marash, in the southern Ottoman Empire. Suddenly, horrifying shouts issued from nearby. Vartan peered outside and saw Turkish soldiers pouring kerosene on a neighbouring church and setting it on fire, ignoring
the cries of the men, women and children inside.

A woman emerged from the flames. A soldier shot her down. The fire soon silenced the voices within the church.

Now, inside Vartan’s church, thick smoke was filling the air. The men madly tried to contain the blaze, but it was too wild. Suddenly, bullets whizzed overhead—Turkish soldiers had opened fire. The Armenians flung themselves to the floor, but the gunfire intensified. There was no escape. Tears streaming down his face, Vartan’s father huddled with his family and cried, “My dear ones, don’t be frightened, soon all of us will be in heaven together.”

“I’ll never forget that,” Vartan, 86, recalls. His voice trails off. The camera keeps rolling. A moment later Artinian asks, “Do you hate the Turks?”

I listen closely, expecting to hear “Of course! They tried to burn us alive!”

“No,” he says. “I don’t hate the Turks. Hatred is like putting poison in your own psyche. If you hate a Turk, you don’t hurt a Turk; you hurt yourself. My criticism of the Turks is in their [government’s] official denial of the Armenian Genocide. I think this hurts the Turks because it prevents them from coming up into the class of civilized nations who are admitting past errors. I don’t feel angry. I feel sorry for them.

“Armenians must learn that there are good Turks, and many Armenians will testify that Turks helped them survive. Unless we break through the walls of hatred, the question of Genocide is never going to be resolved.”

I couldn’t believe it. How could this survivor feel no hatred, yet I do?

Since my first meeting with his wife had soured, my co-worker found me a new Turkish friend. Born in Istanbul, she moved to Canada three years ago. “You’re going to love her!” he said. I doubted it.

I call her, and she immediately invites me to her apartment. Walk into the enemy’s turf? “Sure, I’ll see you soon,” I say hesitantly.

I knock on her door, and a short brunette with a warm smile opens it. “Come in,” she stretches out an enthusiastic hand. The apartment is Bohemian and homey—save for a mannequin in her living room. She chuckles, saying she often dresses it and it has become part of the family.

I laugh—I never imagined a Turk could have a sense of humour. My anxiety melts. I tell her of my reservations about coming over and ask if she feels any animosity towards Armenians.

The woman (who agreed to use her name but later changed her mind) tells me her parents never brought her up to hate, but in school there was an implicit hatred. She hadn’t even heard about the Genocide there; no teacher dared talk about it, and history books taught them that during World War I, the Armenians were stirring for independence, revolting against an already crumbling Ottoman Empire by joining forces with the Russians. So in self-defence the Ottoman Turks “relocated” these rebellious Armenians.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. If they were deporting the “rebellious” Armenians, why deport women and children? Why were Armenians deprived of food and water? Why were girls raped and babies killed? If they were being “relocated,” why had most Armenians in the Ottoman Empire disappeared?

I finally find my voice. “How did they justify what happened on the deportation marches?”

“They say, ‘It was wartime, you have to accept that.’ But,” she presses on, “I found myself questioning, Why are we supposed to hate Armenians? If [their deaths] were a terrible consequence of a terrible war, why cover it up?”

She found the answers in university, during the classes taught by influential Turkish historian, Halil Berktay.

“Then it started to dawn on me that it really was genocide,” she reveals. “I realized there wasn’t one single interpretation of history, as the nationalist ideology claimed. What do nationalist leaders do? They choose a scapegoat. In this case, the Armenians. The other side is, the Ottomans were responsible for what went wrong, which is true, but the government is having a hard time saying that because the Ottomans are where we come from; how can we be associated with murderers?”
“Has any Armenian told you, ‘Your ancestors killed my ancestors’?” I ask.
“No. And if they did, I don’t know how I’d react. If you dismiss me like that, you’re closing dialogue forever.”

The problem, she says, is the majority thinks the Ottomans back then are the same as Turks today. “Now when I meet an Armenian, I feel like making an explanation that I’m not associated with Ottoman Turks or people who deny the Genocide.”

I must have a look on my face somewhere between admiration and confusion that Turks like her exist: She asks, “Hasn’t it occurred to you that not all Turks are bad? That there might be Turks who recognize the Genocide?”

“Honestly…no,” I reply.

She tells me there are more of them than I think. “Then, why don’t we hear more from you guys?” I ask heatedly.

“When you talk about this in Turkey, there’s the danger of going to prison or being persecuted. But I do feel responsible for doing something in Turkey to open up discussion.”

Still, many Turkish youth know nothing about the Genocide, “because the only side they’ve been exposed to is what’s in their history books,” she says. “Should they be blamed? Perhaps, for not being curious about all sides, for blindly accepting as truth what they’re being told.”

We talk for hours, about everything from the Genocide to our careers to relationships. As I leave, she asks, “It was strange to hear that you hated all Turks. So when you meet a Turk you actually like, do you start questioning hating all of them?”

The word Turk still sends chills up my spine. But when I left the young Turkish woman’s apartment, I didn’t hate her.

In her I no longer saw that soldier in Manoug’s painting, ripping the baby from his mother’s arms; I saw a friend.

But later, when she told me she couldn’t be part of this article, my heart sank. My first instinct was to dismiss her as being “like every other Turk.” But then I read that another Turkish scholar is facing trial for referring to the Genocide in her book. How can I dismiss an entire nation when there are some fighting for us? How can I hate a Turk who tells me she’s striving for Genocide recognition—even if it’s in the privacy of her living room?

I’m not ready to say I don’t hate Turks in general. But I don’t want to hate. I don’t want to teach my kids to hate. In this violent world, I don’t want to believe blind hatred is the solution. Hopefully that makes me no less of an Armenian—but more human.