There Was and There Was Not

1. An Armenian Identity Forged in Diaspora Grief

If somebody says no, what your grandmother suffered was not really quite as heinous as you’re saying it is, they have said that your existence is not really so important.

Identity through trauma. Growing up in the Armenian diaspora, the author's identity was inextricably linked to the narrative of the 1915 genocide. Summer camps, community events, and family stories reinforced a collective memory of suffering and a deep-seated animosity towards Turks, who denied the atrocity. This shared history provided a strong sense of belonging but also felt like a "choke hold," demanding conformity and perpetuating hatred.

Us vs. Them. The diaspora community often drew sharp lines between "Armenian" and "odar" (foreigner/not one of us), fostering a sense of unique solidarity but also suspicion towards outsiders. This binary thinking extended to political views, where questioning the prevailing narrative of Turkish denial and the necessity of genocide recognition was seen as a betrayal. The author felt increasingly alienated by this rigid conformity.

The Armenian Cause. The core purpose of diaspora activism, known as Hai Tahd (the Armenian Cause), centered on:

• Gaining international recognition of the genocide.
• Reclaiming ancestral lands in eastern Turkey.
• Reunifying historic Armenian territories.
  This political agenda permeated cultural life, making it difficult to engage with Armenian identity outside the context of historical grievance and anti-Turkish sentiment.

2. Turkey: A Place Beyond the Narrative of Hate

And here it was, a magnificent, sea-wrapped city, as indifferent to my imagination as I had been to its reality.

Challenging assumptions. The author's first trip to Istanbul in 2005 was driven by a need to confront the abstract idea of Turkey she had been taught to despise. The unexpected beauty and vibrancy of the city immediately shattered her preconceived notions, revealing the years of emotional energy spent on something she had never seen or tried to understand. This encounter sparked a profound sense of loss – not of a physical homeland, but of the comforting certainty that had defined her identity.

Loss of certainty. The realization that Turkey was a real, complex place, not just a terrifying idea, began to unravel the author's rigid worldview. The stark contrast between the imagined enemy and the lived reality of Istanbul highlighted the psychological cost of maintaining a purely negative abstraction. This initial shock was the first step in a quest to understand the "other side" and find a way to reconcile her Armenian identity with the human reality of Turks.

Beyond the boycott. The author felt embarrassed by the reflexive boycotting of Turkish products and the discomfort around friends who enjoyed Turkish culture. Coming to Turkey was an act of rebellion against the constraints of her diaspora identity, a forbidden journey to the last place she was supposed to go. This personal quest for understanding transcended the political demands of her community.

3. Official Denial and the Erasure of History

In other words, the hundreds of years that comprised the height of Armenian civilization in Anatolia—the rise and fall of several Armenian dynasties and kingdoms—were left out of the timeline altogether.

State-sponsored narrative. Turkey's official position on the events of 1915 is one of denial, portraying the massacres as casualties of civil war and Armenian treachery. This narrative is deeply embedded in the education system and public discourse, often presenting Armenians as disloyal subjects who collaborated with enemies during World War I. The state actively promotes a version of history that minimizes Armenian suffering and erases their historical presence in Anatolia.

Invisible history. The author encountered this erasure firsthand in southeastern Turkey, where ancient Armenian churches and ruins were ubiquitous but officially ignored or mislabeled. Museum exhibits focused on Turkish suffering at the hands of Armenians, and historical timelines omitted centuries of Armenian kingdoms and cultural contributions. This deliberate invisibility felt like a continuation of the historical violence.

Language of denial. The Turkish language itself became a site of this struggle, with terms like "soykırım" (genocide) being applied to other events (like the Holocaust or conflicts in Iraq/Gaza) but fiercely resisted for 1915. Article 301 of the penal code criminalized "insulting Turkishness," effectively punishing any open discussion or acknowledgment of the genocide within Turkey, creating a climate of fear and self-censorship.

4. Navigating Diverse Turkish Perspectives

"So you are a bit mixed up now," Nihat Bey concluded.

Beyond the stereotype. The author encountered a wide spectrum of Turkish views on the Armenian issue, challenging the monolithic image of "the Turk" she had carried. From wealthy businessmen like Nihat Bey, who acknowledged Armenian contributions but dismissed genocide claims as political opportunism, to radical intellectuals like Müge, Ertan, and Deniz, who openly criticized the state narrative and advocated for minority rights, the diversity was striking.

The "Good Turk". Turks who acknowledged the genocide or were open to discussing it often became immediate allies for the author, highlighting how quickly trust could form when the historical barrier was lowered. These individuals, often marginalized within Turkish society themselves (Kurds, Alevis, leftists), risked significant backlash for their views, demonstrating a courage that deeply impressed the author.

Subtle resistance. Even among those who didn't explicitly use the word "genocide," there were varying degrees of openness and discomfort with the official line. Some used euphemisms or focused on shared cultural elements (like food or smiles) as a way to bridge the divide, while others simply avoided the topic altogether. The author learned to read these subtle cues, recognizing that even silence or deflection could be a form of navigating a difficult truth.

5. The Precarious Reality of Istanbul Armenians

"The Istanbul Armenians have Stockholm syndrome."

Living in the shadow. The small Armenian community in Istanbul (Bolsahays) exists in a precarious space, navigating their identity as Turkish citizens while preserving their Armenian heritage. Unlike diaspora Armenians who can maintain a more abstract relationship with Turkey, Bolsahays live daily with the consequences of historical tensions and contemporary discrimination. They are often viewed with suspicion by the Turkish state and sometimes criticized by diaspora Armenians for perceived subservience or lack of political engagement.

Agos Newspaper. The Armenian newspaper Agos, founded by Hrant Dink, played a crucial role in bringing the issues of the Bolsahay community into the public sphere in Turkey. By publishing in Turkish, it aimed to reach a wider audience and challenge the prevailing narrative. Its work, however, made it a target for nationalist backlash and legal persecution under laws like Article 301.

Caught in the middle. Bolsahays often find themselves caught between the Turkish state's demands for loyalty and the diaspora's expectations of historical grievance. Their efforts to preserve their culture and institutions within Turkey are sometimes misunderstood or dismissed by diaspora Armenians who have not experienced life as a minority in the country. This unique position fosters a distinct perspective, often prioritizing pragmatic survival and cautious engagement over confrontational politics.

6. Hrant Dink's Murder and its Profound Impact

what was unbearable was that the person who had tried harder than anyone to use love to fight hatred, to believe in the power of patience and compassion, was the one they had killed.

A targeted voice. Hrant Dink, editor of Agos, became a prominent figure in Turkey for his outspoken views on Armenian identity and Turkish-Armenian relations. He advocated for Turks to confront their history and for diaspora Armenians to move beyond hatred, believing that open dialogue was essential for both communities. His willingness to challenge taboos made him a target for nationalist anger and legal prosecution.

The assassination. Hrant's murder in January 2007 sent shockwaves through Turkey and the international community. The killing, carried out by a young nationalist but orchestrated by a network with ties to security forces, highlighted the dangerous climate for those who dared to speak freely about sensitive issues. The immediate aftermath saw unprecedented public mourning, with thousands marching under the slogan "We are all Hrant. We are all Armenian."

Contested legacy. While Hrant's murder sparked a moment of introspection and solidarity in Turkey, it also intensified nationalist backlash. The "We are all Armenian" slogan was met with counter-protests and accusations of treason. His death underscored the high stakes of challenging the official narrative and the deep divisions that persisted within Turkish society regarding its history and minorities. For the author, Hrant's death was a personal blow, reinforcing the danger and difficulty of her own project.

7. Seeking Connection Amidst Deep-Seated Prejudice

"Soft reconciliation is bullshit," she said.

Beyond politeness. The author's attempts to build genuine connections with Turks often ran into the wall of historical denial and prejudice. Simple interactions, like discussing food or shared physical traits, could become fraught with unspoken tensions and condescending undertones. The "narcissism of small similarities" – the tendency to focus on superficial commonalities while ignoring fundamental differences in power and historical experience – became a barrier to deeper understanding.

The limits of empathy. While the author sought to understand Turkish perspectives and empathize with their historical anxieties (like Sèvres syndrome), she found that this empathy was rarely reciprocated when it came to Armenian suffering. The inability or unwillingness of many Turks to acknowledge the historical injustices faced by Armenians created an insurmountable imbalance in the relationship, making true equality and friendship difficult.

Power dynamics. Encounters with Turks who were themselves marginalized (Kurds, Alevis, etc.) proved more fruitful, as they understood the experience of being excluded from the dominant narrative. This reinforced the author's growing realization that the issue was fundamentally about power – the power of the state to dictate history and identity, and the resulting disparity in power between individuals from dominant and minority groups. "Soft reconciliation" efforts, without addressing this power imbalance, felt superficial and ineffective.

8. The Weight of History on Individual Lives

"What matters to me is to feel that richness of all those people from the past. Muslims, Jews, Christians, all of them used to live together in peace."

Inherited trauma. The legacy of 1915 continues to shape individual lives in Turkey in complex ways. Fethiye Çetin's book, "My Grandmother," revealed the hidden histories of Islamized Armenians, prompting others to explore their own family secrets. This phenomenon highlighted how the genocide's impact extended beyond those who were killed or exiled, affecting the identities of subsequent generations who were raised as Muslim Turks or Kurds but carried a hidden Armenian heritage.

Identity choices. For some, like Krikor, discovering Armenian roots led to a profound personal quest and even conversion to Christianity, despite the social stigma and practical difficulties. His desire to reclaim a lost identity, however romanticized, demonstrated the deep human need for connection to the past. For others, like Tunç, the burden of the official Turkish narrative led to a rejection of Turkish identity altogether, a form of nihilistic resistance.

Living with the past. These individual stories illustrate the diverse ways people grapple with a contested history. Whether through denial, selective memory, hidden identities, or radical rejection, the past remains a powerful force shaping present-day experiences and relationships. The difficulty of having an open conversation about 1915 means that individuals are often left to navigate its complexities in isolation, leading to unique and sometimes paradoxical outcomes.

9. Armenia: Homeland, Reality, and Diaspora Expectations

"You are crying because you entered Armenia?" the girl asked. "But we cry every day because we want to get out!"

The imagined homeland. For diaspora Armenians, Armenia often exists as an idealized symbol, a repository of cultural identity and historical longing. Visits can be emotional pilgrimages, fulfilling a lifelong dream of connecting with the ancestral land. This romanticized view, however, often clashes with the complex reality of post-Soviet Armenia.

Reality bites. Armenia faces significant challenges, including economic hardship, corruption, and the ongoing conflict with Azerbaijan over Nagorno-Karabakh. The closed borders with Turkey and Azerbaijan create economic and psychological isolation. For many residents, daily life is a struggle, and emigration is a constant aspiration, creating a disconnect with diaspora Armenians who view Armenia as a haven.

Internal divisions. Even within Armenia, and among Armenians gathered from around the world (like at the Pan-Armenian Games), divisions persist. Political affiliations (Dashnak vs. others), regional origins, and differing experiences create friction. The "Turkish dog" incident at the games highlighted how historical grievances and prejudices could surface even among fellow Armenians, revealing that the idea of a unified global Armenian nation was often more fantasy than reality.

10. Power, Recognition, and the Struggle for Equality

"I don't want the government to tell me that it occurred because I don't want any government ever to tell me that it didn't occur."

The state's role. The author's journey led to the realization that the conflict was deeply intertwined with state power. Turkey's government actively promotes a narrative of denial and uses legal and political tools to suppress dissenting voices and maintain control over history and identity. This top-down control creates an environment where individual relationships are strained by systemic inequality and distrust.

Recognition as a tool. While initially skeptical of the diaspora's singular focus on genocide recognition, the author came to see its potential importance, not as a purely historical or emotional goal, but as a means to challenge state power and promote equality in Turkey. International recognition could pressure the Turkish government to confront its past and dismantle discriminatory structures, thereby creating space for genuine reconciliation and equal footing for minorities.

Beyond sentiment. The Akhtamar church restoration, while presented as a gesture of goodwill, ultimately highlighted the limitations of symbolic acts without genuine acknowledgment. The inability of Turkish officials to use the word "Armenian" underscored the depth of the denial and the state's continued control over the narrative. True progress, the author concluded, required challenging the power structures that perpetuated denial and inequality, making recognition a necessary step towards a more just and open society in Turkey.

11. The Personal Toll of Bridging the Divide

Because of who she was, Istanbul could not love her back.

The cost of engagement. The author's prolonged immersion in Turkish society, while yielding valuable insights, came at a significant personal cost. Constantly having to navigate the complexities of her identity, anticipate reactions, and manage the emotional burden of historical tensions became exhausting. The effort to bridge the divide and find common ground required a level of vigilance and self-contortion that was ultimately unsustainable.

Internal conflict. The experience exacerbated the author's existing discomfort with her diaspora identity while simultaneously failing to provide a comfortable alternative in Turkey. She felt like an outsider in both worlds, struggling to reconcile her personal experiences and evolving views with the rigid expectations of both communities. This internal conflict was compounded by the fear and anxiety her project caused her family.

Seeking escape. The culminating incident at the Berlin airport, where the author felt compelled to accept a stranger's luggage due to a complex mix of cultural norms, personal history, and the underlying power dynamic of being Armenian in relation to a Turk, served as a breaking point. This seemingly small event highlighted how deeply the tensions had permeated her psyche, leading to a realization that she could no longer maintain her position in Istanbul without losing herself. The decision to leave was an act of self-preservation.

Last updated: June 8, 2025