The Kheranian Family, as told by Matthew Kheranian

Mardiros Kharanian, c. 1930, the scholar and cartographer who created detailed maps of Armenia and of the Armenian Highland. Kheranian and his family lived in Van until 1918, and participated in the defense of Van. Kheranian is the great uncle of author Matthew Karanian.

Mardiros Kheranian was a professional cartographer who had lived in Van during its siege by Ottoman Turkey. He also taught at the Monastery of Varagavank and he participated in the defense of Van in 1915.

I never met Mardiros. Indeed, I never met most of the prominent members of my family who had contributed to the Hye Tahd, the Armenian Cause. So many of them had lived and died one long before I was born. 

But I learned about my Great Uncle Mardik from my grandmother, and from historians, and from the legacy of maps that he created for the Armenian nation.

In 1927, nearly a decade after Van had burned to the ground and after the rest of Van’s Armenians had become refugees, Mardiros created several original maps of Van and of the Armenian Highland.

Mardiros earned part of his living from these maps. He was a teacher and he was known to work on the maps during class, while his students were preparing their lessons. Mardiros would then sell the maps to supplement his income. 

Mardiros Mardik Kheranian was part of the large family of Kheranians who had lived in Van in 1915. The 1930 publication The Defense of Van, which was written by an eyewitness to the siege, identifies family members Mihran Khranian (Kheranian) as the leader of two defense posts, and Khatchig and Vahan Khranian (Kheranian) as combatants. 

Other prominent members of the family include Yeghishe Kheranian, who was a Vartabed (High Priest) at both Varagavank, near Van, and at Karmravor, a monastery located on the south shore of Lake Van. The writer Mkrtich Kheranian was also a Vanetsi (native of Van) and is celebrated in Yerevan for his many books, poems, and literary translations. 

The Kheranian family was split apart by the genocide. Some survivors, including Mardiros, fled south to Syria. Others who had remained in Van until 1918, including the writer Mkrtich, fled to Yerevan. 

My grandfather, the Vanetsi Hovhannes Kheranian, left Van in 1912 when he was 17 years old, three years before the genocide. He traveled to New Britain, Conn., with the intention of earning a lot of money and then returning to Van with his wealth. 

He never returned. Records from the Hairenik newspaper, a US-based periodical that is published in Watertown, Mass., show that on April 22, 1919, my grandfather—who was then about 24 years old—had placed an advertisement searching for information about his lost relatives of Van. But he never saw them again. 

And so the Kheranians are among the hundreds of Armenian families who today count themselves among the last Armenians of Van. And among the first Armenians in America.

For more information and other stories, see the book, The Armenian Highland or visit www.HistoricArmeniaBook.com.

Mary (Ornadzian) Derderian, autobiography, submitted by her daughter, Hosanna Derderian

Mary Ornazian Derderian

This story of my life begins since the time of World War I in 1915. I was born in the village of Govdoon, Armenia in the year 1910. My mother's name was Antarum, my father's name was Gabriel, two sisters Ovsanna and Elizabeth and a brother Nishan, all of whom I did not know. I remember only a few things from my childhood. I remember the black goats that I would go to visit once in awhile and that there were beehives where I unfortunately got bitten.The village in which I resided was massacred in 1915. I was then five years old. I happened to be with a crowd of women and children. We walked until we came to a body of water. This area, my mother later told me was where she had to place her baby daughter for lack of food as the baby was dying. 

I was left behind near this area of water. I laid down for a rest as I was tired and hungry. When I got back on my feet and looked around for the crowd they had disappeared, Sometime later a man with his donkey happened to come by. He picked me up and put me on his donkey. This man who was a Kurd brought me to his house. He was a farmer with bags of garlic to be taken to the market. A few days later he gave me to a friend. I temporarily lost my eyesight. I don't remember very much about this occurrence except that I was blindfolded for quite awhile. Every afternoon I took food to the workers on a donkey. I stayed and took care of their cattle. Toward dusk we came home with plenty of vegetables. I was barefooted and as I walked on roots of wheat I had to be careful not to get splinters on the soles of my feet. I happened to pull carrots from the ground and they were as sweet as sugar. I would ground wheat in stone. I would grind it and make bulghur out of it. I have milked cows and brought food from the fields for the cows. 

One day the missionaries were sending for me but I hid myself so the would not find me. This was in the summertime. The woman who later found me gave me a slap on my left ear because she was searching for me and I wasn't around. The Kurds did not want to give me up so this lady punished them. She put me in an orphanage. This lady came to see me and brought fruit to me. The next day I took the train and arrived in Aleppo. From there I was put in an Armenian orphanage. As time passed on my mother came to the orphanage but I was sick. She lifted the blanket and saw me. She took me out of there. From there we went to the city of Aintab. As this all happened during World War 1 the planes were soaring over our heads as we walked along from one place to another. My mother and I went to Beirut where my mother took care of the sick lady of the house. That's where I first saw a banana and fig trees. From Beirut we went to Constantinople. We had a small photograph taken for our passport. We sailed away from here to America. 

The steamship took 8 weeks to get to America. I was seasick. They always fed us spaghetti on the ship. The name of the ship was King Alexander. It was a Greek ship. We arrived in America on March 2, 1921. We came into the New York port. From there we went to a clean restaurant, which was ready for us and after that they took us to a movie. We stayed a couple of days at a friend's house. Then we got on a train and came to Providence, Rhode Island. My mother re-married. I went to three schools, Chalkstone Avenue (special room where they taught foreigners English). I went to Armenian School and I attended one and one-half years of high school. I learned sewing and cooking with other subjects. I worked in a jewelry shop doing foot press work and soldering. I married Arshag Derderian on July 26, 1931.

Family Stories: Helen Nahabedian

Helen Nahabedian and family

In her own words.

My name is Helen, and I am the daughter of survivors of the Armenian Genocide. My mother Hripsome Alexanian was born in 1895 in the town of Marash, Turkey, and my father Sahag Sharigian was born in 1897 in the town next door, Sepastasia, a town now known as Sivas.

My mother Hripsime and my father Sahag had an arranged marriage by their families. My mother was 2 years older than my father. They were married around 1913, at the ages of 18 & 16, before the genocide began.

I remember my mother telling me that Sahag came by her house one day on a horse and said, "So... I am told we will be married!” My parents were married shortly after that in Sivas, Turkey. Life was good, and my parents had two twin boys Charles (Garabed) and Simon.

In 1915, Turkish soldiers came into the village of Sepastasia and suddenly took away my father, who was 18 years old. The Turks then chased my mother carrying her 2 year old boys to the nearby river. The Turks grabbed little Charlie & Simon away from my mother’s arms, and bayoneted them with swords right before my mother's unbelieving eyes. They then threw little Charlie & Simon's bodies in the river to drown.

The river was red with the blood from all the dead bodies in the water. This murder of my mother’s  two babies was something my mother grieved until the day she died. She never got over that image. She would always say,  "The Turks took my babies" and whimper & weep for them throughout her life. My mother screamed in anguish at the Turkish soldiers, "Why did you do this?" and "What have you done with my husband?" The Turkish soldiers told my mother, "There is a war going on, and your husband is going to fight in the war".  Hripsime never got to say good-bye to Sahag.., And they never were able to grieve together over the loss of their twin boys. My mother never heard from my father... not knowing if he was dead or alive.

Without her husband and babies, my mother Hripsime survived the next 2 years of the Armenian Genocide by being forced to be a housekeeper for a Turkish family. The family was cruel to her, and they told her there was a civil war going on between the Armenians and the Turks. When my mother told the family, “But why did the Turkish soldiers take and kill my babies?" the Turkish family denied this happened and didn’t believe her.

My mother somehow had to survive through the next several years with this Turkish family. She was given very little food, & sometimes had only grass and dirt to eat, She lived day to day, not knowing if her husband, parents and sisters were alive or dead... and with the terrible memory of her babies dying in the river where she had to gather water.

My mother told me that living in Turkey during the Genocide was an unspeakable life... & she saw horrible atrocities. My mother said she cried often and suffered greatly, but she persevered from day to day.

Then somehow... miraculously.... my father Sahag made it back to Sivas after in 1919. My parents were so happy & relieved to be reunited! They immediately made plans to leave, since it was not safe for any Armenian in Turkey. The Turkish soldiers were barbaric, and no one believed the stories of massacre & cruelty that survivors were telling. Armenians like my parents were witnesses to the Turks' barbaric acts, and they feared for their safety.

Sahag and Hripsime somehow made their way to America through Marseilles, France. By the time my parents reached America, their faces showed signs of anguish and old age, even though they were both only in their mid 20's. Sahag & Hripsime dreamed of reaching America, especially Worcester, Mass, where they’d heard other residents of Sepastasia had settled.

After landing on Ellis Island, my parents somehow got themselves to Sutton, Mass, & then to the safety of an apartment in Worcester. The house was next to The Church of Our Saviour, which was the first Armenian church in North America... where we all attended church, and my sister Rose later played the organ. My father Sahag got a job at the Worcester wire mill, and eventually saved enough money to buy a 2 family house on Eastern Ave, Worcester. My parents made a loving home for me and my siblings... 3 daughters, Rose, Mary, and Helen (me) and 2 sons, Charlie and Simon, who my parents named after their precious twins killed at the hands of the Turks.

Their oldest son Charlie was born in 1921, just 3 months after they landed in America on Ellis Island... and their youngest son Simon was born in 1930.  My mother got great joy from her 5 children, yet grieved her whole life over her first 2 sons Charlie and Simon, and never forgot that terrible day in 1915, when her two boys were murdered at the hands of the Turks... It was the day when her life was forever changed.

Growing up, our family was as "poor as church mice". My mother was a wonderful cook and baker, and we all loved and laughed as a family. But behind my parents smiles, there was always a sadness in their eyes from the traumas they experienced during the Genocide, and they both cried easily.

My siblings and I always longed for our grandparents and family members who we never knew, precious family who were killed at the hands of the Turks. When I was in grade school, I had to write a paper about my parents lives. I wrote the above story and my teacher chastised me & told me, “Helen, you have a very vivid imagination! None of this could have ever happened! “When I came home from school that day, I told my mother what my teacher said. She replied, "This is what they all say, but it's true... and don't you ever forget it."

I have never forgotten it.

Family Stories: Heranoush And Hagop Shamlian

As told by their granddaughter, Ellen Sarkisian Chestnut

The Shamlians, Topalians and Berberians. Marash, Turkey, 1921

My mother, Evelyn Shamlian’s family survived the worst years of the Genocide 1915-1916 as my grandfather, Hagop’s tannery produced the best leather in city of Marash. Not only did Hagop and his numerous employees work non-stop during the war years, 1915-1918 but he helped the Armenians of the city in extraordinary and risky ways. He was highly respected also by the Turks.

The tide turned for Hagop in 1920. He was now a wanted man with 50 gold pounds for his head. He fled, along with 3,000 other Armenians in the dead of night and into a terrible blizzard. That left my grandmother, Heranoush to fend for herself and their children. Thank goodness there was financial assistance for destitute Armenian families.

When money ran out, Heranoush announced to her children: “If I’m going to die, I’d like to die under my roof. C’mon children we’re going home.”

Little did she know that a Turkish army officer had taken over the family home. In the dead of night, Heranoush and children walked through the unlocked door, went upstairs where they snuggled together under the quilt and slept.

In the morning, the Turkish army officer confronted Heranoush yelling at the top of his lungs. She calmly replied and told him the local imam gave her permission to return. My Aunt Rebecca recalled that the officer told her that he heard them upstairs and took out his sword, stealthily climbed the stairs to slaughter them. But, he continued, when he saw them asleep some force held onto his arm and he couldn’t do it.

Heranoush and five of her seven children were able to stay on in the house with the  officer and his family for six months.  Hagop, who had miraculously survived and residing in Aleppo, paid for their passage out of Marash.  Hagop was able to hire two Syrian Arab drivers along with a carriage and a covered wagon with money sent from America by his eldest son, Puzant. Once in a while when the drivers stopped at way stations, they did not like how Turkish and Kurdish men were eyeing the girls so they told Heranoush that the teenaged girls would have to be hidden. No more stopping at way stations.  So Helen, step daughter of Heranoush and two girl cousins were at certain points in the journey hidden under quilts and the other children would sit on them to make it look as if the quilts were covering the cushions. They all made it to Aleppo, Syria alive and for the next ten years lived a life of privation but they were all together.

Please visit ellensarkisianchestnut.com for more details and additional stories.