Identity: such a simple word, yet such a complex concept.
Do we define our own identity? Or does identity define us? Are we masters of our own selves or is our identity predetermined in some way?
I have learned that shaping one’s identity is a lifelong journey. A journey that is challenging, thought-provoking, a struggle at times, yet a worthwhile, insightful and valuable lesson of life.
Still I ponder: are we defined by our religion? By our faith? By our culture? By our surroundings? Or do we, as individuals, have the freedom to lead our life journey? And in this respect, how do we define freedom?
Such is the question of identity.
The Armenian genocide has shaped the Armenian culture in so many ways. Ways which seem apparent to the naked eye and secrets that are hidden beneath the depths of the suffering forced upon 1.5 million Armenians in 1915 and passed down through feelings of guilt and sadness. An inner sadness which every Armenian carries each day, an inner guilt which every Armenian learns to live with but is never truly gone.
Identity shaped by guilt and sadness.
This very same identity defined by strength and courage. The strength of the people from the past to fight for a religion, a faith, a culture, an identity, a courage passed down from generation to generation, through prayer, through love, through solidarity and through knowledge.
Identity shaped by strength and courage.
An identity forced into silence. No words to describe the pain felt, no sound to save the fate of many. Yet a silence stronger than words could ever tell, a silence that prevailed in 1915 and remains to this very day.
Identity shaped by silence.
An identity that has given so many a voice. A voice that has travelled the world, a voice that marches with the Armenian people and a voice that will never stop echoing until the very day justice is served.
Identity shaped by voice.
An identity strongly encouraged to disappear. A disappearance of approximately 1.5 million Armenian souls, 1915. A disappearance to occur against one people’s will. Yet a disappearance which would later lead to survival, thus that very same voice.
Identity shaped by disappearance.
An identity fighting for life. A life of struggle, a life of pain, a life of tears. Yet a life of strength, a life of solidarity, a life that would and could never truly be taken away.
Identity shaped by life, the most beautiful and wonderful meaning of all. A faith, a culture, a connection and most of all an inner strength which could and would never be taken.
A faith, a culture and a connection celebrated all over the very same world of struggle, pain and commemoration on the traumatic date of the 24th of April.
Identity shaped by life.
An identity shaped by denial, the denial of the Ottoman Empire in 1915, a denial that prevails to this very day.
Identity shaped by denial.
Identity shaped by my beloved grandmother. How gracious and gentle she was, how wonderful and courageous she was and just how full of love she was. An unconditional love shared to this very day. A love that can only make a bond between a grandmother and a granddaughter stronger as each day goes by. An inner and innate strength that cannot be broken. One that cannot be broken even by genocide. Rather, one that is strengthened by genocide.
As a child, I was blessed: blessed with the most loving grandmother that one could hope for. A grandmother born only eight years after genocide. A grandmother born into the world during exile with the pain of genocide she would carry growing up. Yet a pain which would not define my grandmother, an Armenian soul descending from this tragedy. My grandmother’s warmth was unique, a warmth transferred, shared and conveyed through the art of cooking and food, through sweet sayings and words of wisdom and above all, through the most unique love of a grandmother.
Identity shaped by my grandmother.
As I wander through the cemetery where my beloved grandmother now rests in peace, I take a journey back to my childhood and remember. As I traverse grave after grave, I remember traversing these very same graves with my grandmother. As I look back, I remember. I remember the many cupboards filled with delicious Armenian treats. I remember walking arm in arm with my grandmother on a warm summer’s day and on a cold winter evening. I remember sharing some of the most precious and cherished memories and stories through moments of laughter and moments of tears.
Identity shaped by childhood memories.
Finally, a family descending from a ‘forgotten genocide’. Great-grandparents forced to march through deserts, forced to flee the atrocities of 1915, Armenians tortured, killed, starved of food and water, abused and attacked in the most violent ways known to mankind. “They [the Armenians] can live in the desert but nowhere else”, declared Talaat Pasha, one of three leaders of the Young Turk movement of the Ottoman Empire. This was to be the fate of 1.5 million Armenian souls.
The Armenian genocide, the very first genocide of the twentieth century: 1915.
Identity shaped by 1915.
‘The forgotten genocide’ has not been forgotten. In Adolf Hitler’s words: “Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?” As I stand and read this oh so powerful and significant statement, I remember. As I write these words, I remember. As I march onto the streets of London, knowing that others are marching all over the world, calling for justice, I remember. As I pray for justice, pray that my dear Armenian ancestors rest in peace, I remember, just as my ancestors, permanently scarred by the pain of 1915 prayed and remembered and just as my descendants will pray and remember in years, decades, centuries and millenniums to come.
1915, the year of the Armenian genocide.
Voltaire once wrote: “Writing is the painting of the voice”. As I write 25 years on, I hope that many around me will hear my voice and use the painting of my voice to remember with me: Saturday 24th April 1915.