What Happened to the Istanbul Armenians on September 6, 1955: A Memoir

Here, I was convinced, many, many moons ago someone had deposited and embedded huge shiny diamonds into the wall and had forgotten to retrieve them afterwards. Now they were mine; and no one knew about it.

At this time in the afternoon, on a sunny day like today, the diamonds would be ablaze. This luminous, sublime bailiwick was mine and mine alone; I would let myself be enveloped by its magic today again.

As I had done…all summer long.

Waving goodbye to Mother, “I am going now, with Tasso.”

— Do not be late. And on your way back, please stop by the bostan (herb garden) and pick a good bit of parsley for the dolma I am making for tonight.

So off we went…Tasso, my kendi gelen (street dog adopted as a pet) beagle, knew the way… As did Mme. Paulette, my pet chicken.

But where was Mme. Paulette? She was nowhere to be seen. Always underfoot, she would suddenly disappear mysteriously.

“A loose woman like her namesake,” my mother would say! I had named this very colorfully plumed chicken after this exotic Catholic Armenian woman who had been “around” with many men and was also my cousins’ father’s steady poker partner. As she was a regular at my cousins’ winter home, I got to see her every weekend. My child’s eye equated these two in their flamboyancy and dubiousness.

So, on this afternoon, Tasso and I strolled through the high, uncut fragrant grass, past the well, past the bostan, down the first two slopes. Taking a break, we laid on that warm grass a while….But hurry… We must catch the magic hour of the blazing sun when it fell on my diamonds in the wall.

This was my happy place. Also peaceful and safe from intrusion. This is where I felt I belonged.

My parents had come to Kisikli this summer because of my mother’s persisting asthma condition. Her first and most severe bout with asthma had already sent her to a sanitarium in Uludag the summer before. That had helped some. But if she were to shake this asthma once and for all, her doctors advised yet another summer away from the sea level. As she had no intention of going to Uludag again, the next best choice was summering in Kisikli, this being the highest elevation point of Istanbul proper.

And so it was…word of mouth led us to connect with a certain Mr. Keresteciyan (the director of the Armenian Cemetery in the Sisli district of Istanbul). Baron Keresteciyan had an asthmatic wife; they lived in Kisikli year-round. When he heard of our need, he contacted my father at the pharmacy. A certain Cevdet Bey in Kisikli would be willing to rent his cottage behind his main residence (the family konak or large house) to a Christian family.

If we could make do with the most basic amenities of his mustemilat (annex), the place was ours. Mother said “let’s” without blinking an eye.

So Kisikli it got to be. Summer of 1955.

It took my parents several days to prepare for this temporary move: this huge canvas bag called a denk was prepared. It was to transport our bedding, clothes, etc. on this truck alongside our refrigerator, the sewing machine, and the radio. (Mom could not possibly exist 4 months without her sewing machine). I was allowed to pack two toys and some craft items including all my boxes of colored pencils. We all got on the Araba Vaporu (car ferry) at the Kabatas wharf and crossed over to the Asian side.

Cevdet Bey’s one bedroom-kitchen-efficiency, the mustemilat, had been built some time ago, but it looked as if no one had ever lived in it. It had electricity and well water piped into the kitchen and bathroom. The pinkish-tile-covered front patio was soon to become my domain. One day this beagle popped up on that patio; he immediately became my pet.

I named him Tasso.

There were gorgeous mature oaks and elms and mulberry and plum trees around the back of our cottage. The landscape was inviting, though unkempt. In the back, the property extended downhill quite a way. The front yard was not readily accessible to us because Cevdet Bey’s family used it on and off.

That yard had an elaborate Ottoman-built fancy fence and equally elaborate gate.

–Thank you for the parsley…were the tomatoes ripe for picking?

​–Yes, but you did not ask me to bring tomatoes.

–You and Tasso will go again tomorrow. Spend as much time as you can with Tasso because, you do know that when we go back to Bomonti in the fall, we will not be able to take him with us. No dogs are allowed at our apartment building.

–Who will know?

–He will bark.

–Who is going to take care of him here?

–Cevdet Bey or Apti (his son). Tasso was a kendi gelen so I am sure he would be able to fend for himself if need be.

–What about Mme. Paulette?

–We will take her to Kalfayan.

–Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!

They will make a meal out of her.

­–So, eventually, someone will eat her anyway.

Why was my mother so dead realistic with everything. She had “if-there-is-a-problem-solve-it-kind of personality.” Father was not like that. My father would be home by 6:30, our supper time. I will ask him.

I had time to draw and paint on the patio until Father’s arrival. It was still sunny and I had plenty of light before dusk. I moved my chair and table further out from under the mulberry tree so as to avoid ripe dark mulberries falling and staining my clothes and drawing paper. Tasso came and snuggled by my feet; Mme. Paulette had snuggled up next to him but was awake.

Mother yelled: “Time to set the table for dinner.”

Just then, Mme. Paulette jumped ten feet high…clucking and clucking. Cevdet Bey’s younger son, Apti, had stepped onto the patio from behind her. Apti always was fun.

—Somya bak nasil korkuttum tavugu?!!! (Somya, look how I scared the chicken)

—BENIM ADIM SONIA…SOMYA DEGIL! (My name is Sonia, not Somya!)

—Somya, Somya, ne ciziyorsun (Somya, Somya, what is this drawing?)​ ​

–It is this garden. Look here, you will never again call me Somya. I will never speak to you again.

—Canin sag olsun, tamam, demem, soz. Annen nerede? (Be that as it may, where is your mother?).

–Icerde, mutfakta. (she is inside in the kitchen)

Mother had heard us and came out.

—Hayir ola Apti, sen bu saatlerde gorunmezdin ortalikta. Hangi ruzgar atti seni? (My goodness Apti, what are you doing here at this hour? What wind has cast you here?)

—Bak ne soyliyecegim Madam. Bu gun sakin sokaga cikmayin, hele aksam. Kapi pencereyi de kapatip kitleyin. (Look here Madame, do not venture out today, especially after sundown. Keep door and windows closed and locked)

—Neden? (why)

—Karsi tarafta birseyler oluyormus diye radio soyledi. Vapurlar de islemiyormus. Belki bakarsin Musu bu aksam gelmiyebilir. Sakin korkmayin: biz burdayiz. (I heard on the radio that there were agitations on the other side of town. The ferries are not running either. Looks as if Monsieur may not be able to come. Do not be afraid: we are here.)

I did not understand. Karsi taraf was the European side of the city, where our winter apartment was in Bomonti. My father’s pharmacy was a few miles away from our apartment, in Tarlabasi. How could anything that was happening over there affect us here in Kisikli?

I did not ask him. I did not, maybe, because I had sensed the eeriness in his voice, and, maybe, because I did not want to know.

Apti was agitated himself. He seemed to be rushing on. Who else was he going to warn? Then, watching Apti’s figure disappear out of his front yard, this 7-year-old felt danger in her bones. Something told me this was danger beyond my parents’ ability to deal with it.

At that age I could not put a name on such a feeling. I was experiencing a gush of acute pressure on my being. This felt extremely threatening…and there was nothing that I could do to shake it off. Years later, I learned that my mother too felt this way — when she too was only seven years old. That is when the Turkish soldiers came to take her father away on that April day in 1915, in her native Kastamonu.

Apti kept yelling back, “Endiselenme Madam” (do not fret). “My father is on his way here. He will tell you more.”

Indeed, TAP, TAP, TAP… That would be the sound of Cevdet Bey’s cane (the baston) as he was approaching. His silver-handled cane. This was Cevdet Bey’s defining gentleman’s accessory. (He once told me that his cane’s handle was jewel-studded a long time ago…and if any of the jewels had survived, he would have given one to me one as a token of remembrance. I believed him).

I got to know Cevdet Bey as a tall shapely man in his mid-60s. There were all kinds of signs that Cevdet Bey had lived well. He was polite, with a demure posture. He kept himself in good standing as a landlord and neighbor. He always dressed in his formal Ottoman-style gentleman’s suit and vest. I had noticed early on that his clothes were all well-worn; some small tears had been mended. Mother said, “He probably has only this suit. And probably only this shirt, too.” The dull beige shirt was always clean and pressed; but it no longer was white as it had been. He always wore cufflinks and a European-style black tie that fitted into his vest’s V perfectly. In my child’s intuition I knew this person had lived a great life with plenty of joie de vivre. Every once in a while, I would catch a twinkle in his eye. Yet, now, this man was a quiet, introspective, almost depressed individual, old before his time.

Cevdet Bey had taken the long serpentine pathway from his konak to our abode. He looked tired – ashen; not his usual self. He was teetering a bit.

“Buyurun Cevdet Bey. Biraz gec, ama bir kahvemi icersin her halde” said mother. (Welcome Cevdet Bay, even though it is late in the day, I will serve you coffee)

He nodded and turned to me:

—Bu ne siklik kucuk hanim…elbisen yeni mi​? (How beautiful you look, young lady… is this a new dress?)

—Evet, Mamam dikti. Bir tane daha dikti, onu Baglarbasindaki kiliseye Pazarlari giderken giymek icin, gormek ister misin? (Yes, Mother made it; and a second one, too. That other one I am allowed to wear when we go to the Baglarbasi church on Sundays. Would you like to see that one too?)

—Hadi getir. (Go bring it.)

—Bak bu penbe (Look, this one is pink.) Ama hic sevmiyorum. Annem bana hep penbe dikiyor.” (But I do not like it at all. Mother always makes pink clothes for me.)

—Zarari yok. Bak ben sana kirmizi cilek cizeyim, sen de nakis islersin, kirmizi cilekli guzel elbisen oluverir. (Never mind. I will draw some strawberries on your pink dress, you can embroider them in red and your dress can become a bright strawberry red beautiful dress). Bir kirmizi kurdele takar Maman sana kiliseye giderken, bak nasil sahane olursun.” (your mother will tie a red ribbon in your hair when going to church. See how wonderful you will look.)

This man always had an aesthetic assessment of many things he encountered in his daily life. I admired him for it. Such a vision moved him away from boredom. I counted on his advice to me, be it in my drawings or other crafts.

In short, Cevdet Bey was like a grandfather. He knew how to flatter this little girl who was so very lonely on this Kisikli hilltop. Was his finesse genetic or the result of his breeding? I was too young to understand. In hindsight, I am sure it must have been both nature and nurture. He was, after all, the product of the modernization and interculturalism phase pushed forth during the Tanzimat years (1839-1876) of the Ottomans. His wife, whom I never laid eyes on, lived separately from him in the back of the konak. I was told she was an ogre.

Cevdet Bey was sipping his coffee very, very slowly, almost as if he did not want finish it. Mother noticed.

—Bir tane daha yappim mi? (Shall I make another?)

—Yetti, Madam tesekkur ederim (I had enough, thank you). “I should go” he said.

But he did not get up to depart, either.

Mother had sensed the deliberate delay in Cevdet Bey’s winding up his visit this late hour of the day. After Apti’s warning, mother could only speculate. Cevdet Bey had parked himself on our patio with a protective presence of sorts. With his eyes always inspecting the area of the konak by the front gate, and his ears perking up if voices were heard, he sat there a bit on edge. He helped me draw mauve plums, and orange apricots. He said these were future nakis projects for me. “Bir gun iyi nakis ogreneceksin, belkli de cehezine bunlari islersin” (Someday you will learn how to embroider. Perhaps you can work these designs into your dowry pieces).

Bir gun? How far in the future will that be? Who will I be at that juncture? I did think about all this at my tender age of 7.

My father did not come home to Kisikli that night. Cevdet Bay spent the rest of the evening, and night, on an old wooden chair on our patio. He had stood guard for Madame and Kucuk Hanim (young lady).

What a man…I knew I loved him.

My father did not come home for three more days.

When he ultimately did, he took Mother and I with him across on the ferry to see the damage to his pharmacy and witness the carnage in the city. Show and tell, indeed. It must have been too too painful for him to narrate what he had lived through on the night of September 6.

What a sight!

I had never seen a war zone, but older citizens of Istanbul said everywhere we Christians lived and worked in the city now looked just like a war zone. The streets and avenues were littered with goods — I saw tiny things, like bunches of hairpins, and large items, like ovens and refrigerators, all tossed and piled upon each other in the middle of the sidewalks and streets. There was broken glass and metal scraps everywhere… expensive perfume bottles, fancy faux jewelry everywhere.

Hordes of women were still looting clothing from designer shops. The huge amele (laborer) groups, low-lives, were carrying away looted ranges, washing machines, and refrigerators on their own backs. Anything and everything the average Turk could not afford, and now could steal from the Christians citizens, was up for grabs. Whatever they could not steal, they broke and burned. Beyoglu, Tarlabasi and Tepebasi districts were razed. I will never forget that sight.

When we got to our pharmacy, there was nothing there but broken glass.

My father had seen the mob coming; he had dashed across the avenue, barely avoiding the onslaught. He hid all that night under the dark awning of the private home of his doctor friend and watched this nightmare unfold. Unimaginable. In hindsight, I do think the shock of it all caused his cancer illness a few short years afterwards.

Why were these people attacking us, we Armenians, I would ask my parents? What is this is punishment for? They did not know. But they knew it was condoned by the current regime, the Adnan Menderes government.

As young as I was, I remember adults talking about how the current Democratic Party regime had come into power: the Menderes-Bayar ticket came into power in 1954, with promises of equality between Turks and the Greek, Armenian and Jewish citizens of the country. I remember the slogans on the radio. My parents had been skeptical but had voted for Menderes nevertheless. My father and all our relatives did not hesitate to think that the “ax will fall again”: meaning we the minorities would be a scapegoat once again. In fact, the Armenian community had coined a phrase that best summarized this ongoing threat to us: “Sokheen anoushe chellar” (an onion is always pungent; never expect a sweet, pleasant taste from an onion).

Wasn’t it so over and over again? Turkish governments had an enduring track record for inflicting death and destruction on us Armenians ever since the Young Turks’ organization of the 1915 Genocide in the Ottoman Empire [the Young Turks were reformists who overthrew the authoritarian regime of Sultan Abdul Hamid II in 1908]. And, later, during the 1940s Ismet Inonu regime that followed Ataturk’s creation of the Republic, that Varlik Vergisi (Wealth Tax) taxation, wasn’t that a means of inflicting death and destruction upon the country’s non-Muslims? Indeed, we minorities had been a thorn on the side of the Ittihadist Young Turks, then the Nationalists (Kemal Ataturk and Ismet Inonu), and now this?

Everyone was wondering what the government’s explanation for this atrocity was.

The Menderes government downplayed the whole thing. Such an abrupt outbreak of violence had stemmed from the current political impasse Turkey and Greece had entered over Cyprus. The two sovereign nations had not been friends since World War I. Cyprus had been part of the British Commonwealth since 1914. With the British grip letting up in the 1950s, Cyprus could be up for grabs for either the Turks or the Greeks. The island’s Greek and Turkish communities were in strife, with the Greeks posing to gain more autonomy over the Turks. Cyprus’ Greek EOKA was orchestrating attacks on all Turkish interests. The final provocation came with the news that Greece bombed Ataturk’s childhood home in Salonica in their backyard. So in retaliation, a Kristellnacht type of a pogrom was put into action.

The bomb story was a lie. But the pogrom was organized way before the fake bombing news hit the newsstands. The Menderes government had already recruited thugs for months – members of the amele class — and trained and organized them, presenting them with incentives for gains from this operation. These people lived in the periphery of the city, were poor, and could quickly bring in more of their kind from outside the city limits. They were outfitted with clubs, knives and police batons. They were to attack the Greeks only; but the imbeciles did not know the difference. All were gavur (infidel). They swiftly poured into Armenian and Jewish and Greek neighborhoods. The riot turned into a pogrom and got out of control. Mobs swiftly poured into Christian and Jewish neighborhoods destroying, pilfering whatever they could. Death to Greece, death to the GAVUR.

By the end of the night, the operation was over. Mission accomplished: 5,000 businesses, churches and synagogues stood as rubble. Schools, hotels and bars and restaurants were looted, razed and burnt. Some women were raped in their homes. Priests were assaulted and tortured in respective churches and synagogues. The mobs missed nothing.

When the soft peddling was over, and no apology was offered this time by the government, many Armenians and other minorities had had it. They would always be the gavur (the infidel) for the ignorant ferocious Turk. Best pack up and leave if one could.

Then followed a mass exodus of the minorities. The Greeks went to Greece. Many of us Armenians immigrated to Canada, the US, Australia, Europe and Argentia. For the most part, the Jews stayed put but in subsequent years, they would find their way to Israel. In all 100,000 minority citizens got out of Turkey.

Our Armenian community lost over 25,000 of the 60,000 Armenians in total.

Of those of us who stayed, many borrowed money to rebuild our lives. So did my father. By the time his pharmacy was up and running again, he was ailing and depressed. He was in his 70s now. Going on with the pharmacy required Mother’s help on a daily basis. We would proceed this way until his cancer was diagnosed. He died in 1964.

Sokheen anoushe chellar…Sokheen anoushe chellar.

Father never stopped saying so.

One evening, Father asked me to remain longer at the dinner table: “Mom can clear the table, you stay. My precious Sonia, I am sorry that at your tender age here, you have witnessed death and destruction. You witnessed the ultimate political and ethnic discrimination against us Armenians and saw evidence that our well-being hangs here by a thread. This omnipresent reality about what the Turk can do to us will haunt you growing up in Turkey. The Turkish regimes have continuously and methodically usurped the Armenians’ economic power ever since the fall of the Ottoman Empire. I have not told you what the Young Turks did once that empire fell. I have not told you about the 1915 Genocide. Even with the Republic being built by Ataturk in 1920s and with his successor Inonu, we were subjected to pogroms here and in the interior of the country. It never stopped. Then came Inonu’s Varlik Taxation (exiling those who could not pay into hinterlands of Anatolia) in 1942. We paid the price again and again. Always back to square one too…This will never stop. Sokheen anoushe chellar…God knows how I survived, and in surviving, how I maintained this hard life for us. You do not have to.

“It is too late for Mother and I to plan an exit for us. But I implore you, when the time is right, you will leave Turkey. Put this in the back of your mind. Until then, your mission must be to prepare yourself with the best tools for a well-executed exit: arm yourself with an excellent well-rounded education. Hone your perseverance skills, hone some flexibility skills, acquire one or two foreign languages, read about other cultures. Also, it is imperative that you learn all that you can about your Armenian roots in this part of the world before you exit your homeland. You will then transfer your Armenian identity from here to wherever you go. You will always remain an Armenian no matter what the Turks have done to us here. Then, when the time is right, you must leave this cauldron of hate and discrimination. Promise me.”

I did.

I left Turkey 13 years later, in 1968. I never looked back.