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Winchester, MA
Daddy believed in tolerance
By By Elizabeth Kurkjian-Henry/Special to the Star
GateHouse News Service
Thu Jun 14, 2007, 03:48 PM EDT
Winchester - My father died almost three years ago at the age of 91. He escaped the Armenian Genocide at the hands of the Turkish government at age three by walking across the desert with his mother, an aunt, and a sister and brother. His siblings did not survive. He arrived in Boston in 1915, was raised in Watertown, became a successful commercial artist, married and brought up three children.
Daddy was the kindest man I’ve ever met. Lots of children say that about their fathers, but this is true. He was soft-spoken, gentle and wise. None of us children will ever be as kind although my brother comes closest.
My brother, Stephen recently retired from The Boston Globe. He was a writer for the newspaper for more than 30 years. In 1993, he took my father back to his birthplace, which is now in Turkey. We have the video of my father at the site of his long-gone home, next to Lake Van, tearfully blessing each and every person in his family and thanking God that he had been allowed to see his home again.
We also have lots of pictures of Daddy in the villages that they visited. Not uncharacteristically, he is often surrounded by children. When he came back from Turkey, he talked most about the children. Their often-impoverished lives really bothered him and he said he had kept his pockets filled with loose change and gum wherever he went.
Growing up and hearing about the Turks’ mistreatment of the Armenians, the mass killings, rapes and enforced slavery, made us children naturally hate Turkish people. To be honest, we didn’t meet many Turks, but our grandmother had told us that if we ever did meet one, we were to spit on him.
We were too polite, of course, any of us, to ever do that and I don’t think we ever had the opportunity, but the hate was a part of our lives. If I remember correctly, it was actually kind of exciting to be a child and to hate “the Turks” so vociferously, but without ever having to act on it.
But Daddy never spoke of hating Turks. He never spoke of hating anyone. When questioned, he would always answer, “There’s good and bad in all people.”
When he came back from his trip to Turkey, he seemed even more non-violent, more accepting of the people who had killed so many of his countrymen, his own father included, and driven him and his family out of their homeland.
One Easter, a few years before he died, we had a lively discussion over the roast lamb. Some of us Kurkjians railed mightily against the Turks of yesterday and today, condemning them for not admitting that genocide had ever occurred and vowing once again to hate “the Turks” until the day we died.
Daddy, however, spoke in peaceful words.
“It was a long time ago,” he said. “We need to move on. We cannot allow hate to rule our hearts.”
He continued in this spirit for the rest of his days and never spoke an ill word against the people who had caused him — and us by blood — so much pain.
I teach seventh grade English in a Boston middle school. Most of my students are Hispanic or African Ameican, from single parent or grandparent households, and poor.
Last week, I needed to send a circular around to teachers and staff to get a count on how many were planning to attend a retirement party for three teachers who are leaving at the end of the year.
Minda and Baiyan, who I don’t teach and know only through hall passing, begged to be allowed to help so I gave them the clipboard and the check sheet. When they returned at the end of period there were a few minutes left so we sat and chatted before the next class.
“Baiyan” I asked. “’Baiyan’ — what kind of name is that?”
“Turkish,” she replied.
“Turkish?” I said, surprised. “Where were you born?”
“Istanbul,” she answered. “We came here so my mother could get doctor’s help for her heart problems.”
I was bowled over. I asked her if she knew about Armenians. I showed her an article that my brother had recently written for an Armenian publication about the assassination of an Armenian journalist in Istanbul.
“My mother’s father always referred to them,” she said, pointing to pictures in the magazine, “as ‘those people.’But then my mother came to know ‘those people’ in Istanbul better as she grew up and she said they are kind and nice and just like us.”
We continued to discuss our shared cultures — because, truly there are more similarities than differences, especially in food and music — for the rest of the period.
Excitedly, we made plans to have lunch together on Wednesday when she’ll bring in yalanche (grape leaves) and kufta (lamb meatballs). As we walked to the door I smiled and lightly stroked her hair.
And then it struck me — Father’s Day is Sunday.
And although I feel his presence with me all the time, this time Daddy took more overt action. He sent Baiyan to me, to remind me that there is no room for hate or bitterness or revenge.
From beyond, he sent a messenger to remind me that there is “good and bad in everyone,” and when the good comes to you, embrace it and enjoy it, for you are the chosen one.
Daddy believed in tolerance
By By Elizabeth Kurkjian-Henry/Special to the Star
GateHouse News Service
Thu Jun 14, 2007, 03:48 PM EDT
Winchester - My father died almost three years ago at the age of 91. He escaped the Armenian Genocide at the hands of the Turkish government at age three by walking across the desert with his mother, an aunt, and a sister and brother. His siblings did not survive. He arrived in Boston in 1915, was raised in Watertown, became a successful commercial artist, married and brought up three children.
Daddy was the kindest man I’ve ever met. Lots of children say that about their fathers, but this is true. He was soft-spoken, gentle and wise. None of us children will ever be as kind although my brother comes closest.
My brother, Stephen recently retired from The Boston Globe. He was a writer for the newspaper for more than 30 years. In 1993, he took my father back to his birthplace, which is now in Turkey. We have the video of my father at the site of his long-gone home, next to Lake Van, tearfully blessing each and every person in his family and thanking God that he had been allowed to see his home again.
We also have lots of pictures of Daddy in the villages that they visited. Not uncharacteristically, he is often surrounded by children. When he came back from Turkey, he talked most about the children. Their often-impoverished lives really bothered him and he said he had kept his pockets filled with loose change and gum wherever he went.
Growing up and hearing about the Turks’ mistreatment of the Armenians, the mass killings, rapes and enforced slavery, made us children naturally hate Turkish people. To be honest, we didn’t meet many Turks, but our grandmother had told us that if we ever did meet one, we were to spit on him.
We were too polite, of course, any of us, to ever do that and I don’t think we ever had the opportunity, but the hate was a part of our lives. If I remember correctly, it was actually kind of exciting to be a child and to hate “the Turks” so vociferously, but without ever having to act on it.
But Daddy never spoke of hating Turks. He never spoke of hating anyone. When questioned, he would always answer, “There’s good and bad in all people.”
When he came back from his trip to Turkey, he seemed even more non-violent, more accepting of the people who had killed so many of his countrymen, his own father included, and driven him and his family out of their homeland.
One Easter, a few years before he died, we had a lively discussion over the roast lamb. Some of us Kurkjians railed mightily against the Turks of yesterday and today, condemning them for not admitting that genocide had ever occurred and vowing once again to hate “the Turks” until the day we died.
Daddy, however, spoke in peaceful words.
“It was a long time ago,” he said. “We need to move on. We cannot allow hate to rule our hearts.”
He continued in this spirit for the rest of his days and never spoke an ill word against the people who had caused him — and us by blood — so much pain.
I teach seventh grade English in a Boston middle school. Most of my students are Hispanic or African Ameican, from single parent or grandparent households, and poor.
Last week, I needed to send a circular around to teachers and staff to get a count on how many were planning to attend a retirement party for three teachers who are leaving at the end of the year.
Minda and Baiyan, who I don’t teach and know only through hall passing, begged to be allowed to help so I gave them the clipboard and the check sheet. When they returned at the end of period there were a few minutes left so we sat and chatted before the next class.
“Baiyan” I asked. “’Baiyan’ — what kind of name is that?”
“Turkish,” she replied.
“Turkish?” I said, surprised. “Where were you born?”
“Istanbul,” she answered. “We came here so my mother could get doctor’s help for her heart problems.”
I was bowled over. I asked her if she knew about Armenians. I showed her an article that my brother had recently written for an Armenian publication about the assassination of an Armenian journalist in Istanbul.
“My mother’s father always referred to them,” she said, pointing to pictures in the magazine, “as ‘those people.’But then my mother came to know ‘those people’ in Istanbul better as she grew up and she said they are kind and nice and just like us.”
We continued to discuss our shared cultures — because, truly there are more similarities than differences, especially in food and music — for the rest of the period.
Excitedly, we made plans to have lunch together on Wednesday when she’ll bring in yalanche (grape leaves) and kufta (lamb meatballs). As we walked to the door I smiled and lightly stroked her hair.
And then it struck me — Father’s Day is Sunday.
And although I feel his presence with me all the time, this time Daddy took more overt action. He sent Baiyan to me, to remind me that there is no room for hate or bitterness or revenge.
From beyond, he sent a messenger to remind me that there is “good and bad in everyone,” and when the good comes to you, embrace it and enjoy it, for you are the chosen one.
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