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  • Reaching Across Armenian-Turkish Divide

    COMMENTARY: REACHING ACROSS ARMENIAN-TURKISH DIVIDE

    Santa Fe New Mexican.com
    April 28 2013

    By Michael Krikorian
    Los Angeles Times SantaFeNewMexican.com | 0 comments

    In 2001, I wrote a story for the Los Angeles Times about April 24,
    the annual Armenian Day of Remembrance, that had this lead: "The
    Armenian genocide."

    That was it, the entire first paragraph.

    I was proud of it because it didn't say "the alleged genocide" or
    "what the Armenians consider a genocide." It just called the 1915
    massacre of a million Armenians what it was, even though the U.S.

    government - in deference to official Turkish denials and our air
    bases in Turkey - won't use the word.

    When I was a teenager, I used to go with my grandfather Nahabed to
    April 24 protest marches on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood and later
    on Wilshire Boulevard. I've been to maybe 25.

    I heard the tales of horror from both pairs of grandparents, Nahabed
    and Siranoush, from the city of Kharpert, and Moses and Siran, from
    a village near Van. Siranoush saw her pregnant sister bayoneted, the
    fetus coming back out on the blade. For my other grandmother, Siran,
    there was never enough distance to completely wipe away what happened.

    It all enraged me, eliciting a young man's desire for revenge.

    When 19-year-old Hampig "Harry" Sassounian shot and killed the Turkish
    counsel general at a stoplight on Wilshire Boulevard and Comstock
    in Westwood in 1982, I mostly admired him. What a bold thing to do,
    I thought then, to kill this Turkish official who denied the ultimate
    crime.

    In those years, whenever I saw or heard about anything Turkish,
    I hated it. Even Turkish Taffy. I'm not joking. On Redondo Beach
    Boulevard near Prairie Avenue, there was a bar called Turk's Grass
    Hut. I doubt the owner was even a Turk, but every time I drove by at
    night, I considered shooting out the sign with my .38.

    When I met Turks, which happened a few times, I immediately said I
    was Armenian. It's an example of my vast ignorance that I was always
    surprised when they didn't recoil in hatred.

    One of them said he had been engaged to an Armenian girl, but her
    parents wouldn't allow the marriage. Big deal, I thought. Why would
    anyone want to marry a Turk anyway?

    I knew, of course, that all Turks weren't bad. My Uncle Harry and
    Uncle Aram told me that many had helped Armenians in their darkest
    hour. But the rest of them had killed my ancestors, or stood by and
    then denied the atrocities.

    Years passed. My anger eased. And I met Murat Kayali.

    He was a delivery driver for the restaurant my girlfriend owns. When I
    saw this new guy lingering in the parking lot, I introduced myself. As
    I do with just about everyone I meet, I challenged him with a "Where
    you from?" (I've probably been hanging out in Watts too long.)

    "Turkey," he said.

    I said, "I'm Armenian."

    And his face lit up.

    He told me of the many Armenian friends he had back home in Ankara
    and how much he loved the Armenian people. He had this engaging smile
    and a contagious exuberance. We talked for a while.

    I walked into the restaurant thinking, "Hmm, I liked that guy. I like
    that Turk."

    Every time I saw him, he greeted me with, "Michael, eench bes es?" -
    the phonetic version of "How are you?" in Armenian. I started to seek
    him out.

    Turned out he had a UCLA engineering degree and was working at the
    restaurant to put away some money. His goal was a good job in his
    homeland. He invited me to his wedding at home in Ankara, promising
    me I would be treated like family.

    How could I not like him? How could anyone not like this guy, even
    someone like me?

    On the afternoon of the Oscars last year, the to-go orders were piling
    up at the restaurant. I went into the kitchen to help. Organize the
    time sequence of the orders for the delivery drivers, I was told.

    Soon, Murat joined me, sorting the tickets.

    "Check it out," I said loudly to the staff. "An Armenian and a Turk
    working side by side."

    "And having fun," Murat said. "Someone take a picture."

    We laughed and gave each other a hard sideways five. Pop. The sting
    felt good.

    Murat finally moved back to Turkey. Two weeks ago, he Facebooked me.

    He had his dream job as an engineer in Ankara. His marriage was a
    delight. He was happy. I was happy for him. He wrote, "You are one
    of my best friends in USA." He told me to come visit. Again.

    Imagine that. Me going to Ankara to see a Turkish friend. Maybe I
    will. Maybe there's hope for the planet after all.

    http://www.santafenewmexican.com/opinion/commentary/article_85707dc4-ec3b-51b7-86d5-6b49708098e4.html

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