In the Shadows of Genocide

Ne՛ne՛

Act XII

Whenever the neighborhood grandmothers and aunties visit my Ne՛ne՛, they speak in Turkish about the places they come from. They talk of bizi՛m orda՛. “Back in our home…” they say.

At nine years old, I understand, my home and their home are not the same. Their home's somewhere else. 

  My Ne՛ne՛ doesn't speak much. She doesn't leave the house; glued to her armchair, she smokes all day. Layers of black, brown, and gray fabric cover her wobbly knees. A cheesecloth with tiny purple beads laced along the edges covers her snow-white hair, pulled back in a bun. The wrinkles on her face form deep grooves, like the water pathways on the parched soil in our backyard—her hand trembles when she lifts the cigarette between her two yellowed fingers to her lips. The smoke from her cigarettes rises, curls, thickens in the air of our living room, settles in Ne՛ne՛'s cloudy eyes, turns into a shield no one can penetrate, especially Mama.

  Mama, a local, doesn't speak Turkish, doesn't prepare the same dishes Ne՛ne՛ does. Neither do my Tati՛, my maternal grandmother, and my two aunts and uncles. Whenever I visit them, we eat potatoes fried in ghee, borscht, greens like seendz and seebekh, grape leaves stuffed with beans, chickpeas, lentils, not minced lamb, and bulgur that Ne՛ne՛ likes. The day Mama serves yogurt soup made with barley and cilantro, Ne՛ne՛ starves herself.

"Cilantro, like termites- not edible," Ne՛ne՛ says. She pushes her bowl away

with her bony fingers. She prefers yogurt soup with mint and meatballs – ko՛fte՛.

  On New Year’s Day, and on Easter, which also happens to be my brother’s name day and cannot be missed, my aunts and uncles, my cousins, on both sides of the family, gather at our home at 29 Tserents Street in a neighborhood in the suburbs of Yerevan known as Akhparashen – the home of the akhpars – where east meets west.

  My uncles, the locals, toast and drink with my akhpar Papa and the men on his side of the family. They are jolly and tell funny jokes in Eastern Armenian. Uncle Levon sings like an opera singer, while Uncle Gevorg's voice is soft and melodic when he sings his favorite love song, "Tsir-ani tsa-ri dag-in," in Western Armenian. Everyone hums along. My always cheerful aunts exchange recipes with Mama and the women on Papa's side.

  My grandmothers, the elders of my family, sit at the head of the table elbow to elbow but don't talk. Both have lost their husbands early in their marriage, although they each have managed to give birth to multiple children, five and nine. Every so often, my Tati՛ asks questions in Eastern Armenian, and Ne՛ne՛ mumbles things in Turkish. Soon they both fall silent. I assume Ne՛ne՛ doesn't like to talk; she seldom speaks to anyone in my household.

But on a few occasions when Mama is not around, I hear Ne՛ne՛ converse with her Turkish-speaking neighbors who come to visit. They drink coffee and complain about their daughters-in-law. No doubt,  Ne՛ne՛'s silence is voluntary.

"She threw out the kilim rug I’d held on to for years. Kilis to Ayntep, then to 

Syria and Armenia…." Ne՛ne՛ says in a wistful tone.

"The uncultured local-asses, what do they know?" Esther Ne՛ne՛, Garabed Ammo's wife, says. They have immigrated from Lebanon.

"Ours thinks a banana is a giant okra," she says, speaking of her local-ass daughter-in-law.

"If it weren't for us, they wouldn't know the taste of coffee," Eleni Ne՛ne՛ says. She's come from Greece, speaks in broken Armenian since no one else understands Greek.

"What did we get in return? Dust and rock, that's what!" Esther Ne՛ne՛ says. She never says anything nice. That makes Esther Ne՛ne՛ evil.

I know, those words target the locals – Mama, Tati՛, my aunts, whom I love dearly.

This makes me part local-ass as well. I begin to resent all things akhpar.

In their native lands in historic Western Armenia, the women in my neighborhood lived very different lifestyles, but they shared a common tragedy. What they had in common, the enemy's language, came from a dark place and had spears pointed towards the outside world – my world, my mother's world. It spoke of death, rape, pain, and sorrow that buried them alive back in their homes.

Eventually, my mother learned and spoke Turkish fluently. I did, too. My Ne՛ne՛, on the other hand, refused to utter a word in Armenian until the day she died.

Displacement is a traumatic experience. It alters the life and the psyche of a person in unimaginable ways.