A strange sound—a slight squeak—echoed as changing lights filled the room, making it resemble a disco.
“5, 4, 3, 2, 1… stop!” said young Mardik.
He was sitting at a table where his new gift, a globe night-lamp, illuminated the room. The child studied the outlines, sounding out the names of different states, seas, and oceans, before continuing to rotate the globe and count down to the next STOP.
With every pause, he chose a country and began exploring its cities and rivers…
The door opened, and Grandma Marie startled him. “Mardik, why are you sitting in the dark with only this night-light?”
“Grandma, Grandma, the map of Turkey is projected right on your face! Oh, I can see the Bosphorus,” Mardik said. “Don’t move, Grandma! The light is projecting that part of the world onto your beautiful face.”
Grandma Marie remained speechless. She brought her hands to her face, her thin fingers tracing her nose and forehead. A look of sadness and wonder washed over her expression.
“Mardik, I will tell you about the Bosphorus,” she said softly. “That is my birthplace. Let’s turn on the light. Get your notebook so you can take notes. I want you to tell all of your friends about the beautiful Bosphorus, and about the terrible fate of your ancestors. You, the young generation, must fight so this never happens again.”
Mardik was ten years old, and he already possessed a masterful talent for engaging his friends with his stories. Yet now, he looked up timidly, as if expecting something heavy to fall upon his head. Like a coded instinct, he already carried the burden of the past.
“Grandma Marie, I’m ready,” he said. “Come, sit here next to me.”
“I was very young,” she began, “but I still remember the face of our maid, the gentle Zoia. She rushed into the dining room, breathless: ‘Hanim Elbis, take the children! I have prepared your bag. Leave right away and don’t look back. Walk through the back alleys—the ship leaves in two hours.’ My mother, Elbis, approached Zoia and embraced her, and the two women wept. I felt my mother’s hand squeeze mine, while on my other side, my sister Arusiak tugged me down the stairs. I heard Arusiak sniffling, crying as she asked where Father was. Mother did not answer her.”
“Grandma, what were you thinking back then? Why were you in such a hurry? Where were you going?” Mardik asked, hanging on every word.
“I didn’t suspect a thing. I was only five years old, and Arusiak was eleven. We hurried through the dark, cobblestone streets of Besiktas, the jewel of Constantinople. Suddenly, we heard a loud commotion inside one of the houses—men shouting in Turkish, women screaming… At that moment, my mother scooped me up into her arms, telling me to stay silent and close my eyes. Arusiak gripped mother’s hand tightly, running alongside her.
Breathless, they both paused to rest behind a tree before we continued running and finally reached the ship.
I must have fallen asleep in my mother’s arms, because when I woke up, I found it hard to maintain my balance. Everything was rocking; the ship was out at sea. Mom gave me some bread and cheese—I was starving. Arusiak kissed me, happily whispering that we were going to a new country and that Father would be waiting for us there.
Years passed, I grew up, and I learned the terrible truth about the atrocities committed against those who represented the joy, pride, and talent of our Christian nation. For centuries, Armenians had been the architects, artists, composers, soldiers, intellectuals, and craftsmen—but this legacy was wiped out by massacres. Monstrous, bloodthirsty rulers organized forced death marches of Armenians from Turkey into the Syrian desert of Deir ez-Zor. It is painful to speak of the evils, the victims, and the trauma left in the eyes of every surviving Armenian woman who witnessed it. The men fought back, but it was impossible to defeat a multi-thousand-strong army.
Later, when we settled here in Varna, in this beautiful city on the same Black Sea, everyone talked about what was happening in Turkey. We were constantly searching for relatives, clinging to the hope that they might be alive. My mother used to cry where we couldn’t see her. I understood her pain, but I was powerless to comfort her. I couldn’t understand why, even though we had been rescued, my mother’s eyes remained so sad and distant—as if her mind wandered off to some faraway place, and you had to startle her just to bring her back from her ‘absence’.”
Saddened by this heavy truth, Mardik wrapped his arms around his grandmother. “Grandma, aren’t those bloodthirsty, bad people defeated now?”
The classroom was entirely quiet; only the voice of the teacher reading an essay filled the air. From time to time, she glanced over the rims of her glasses at the pupils, as if searching for an answer in their eyes.
The teacher paused and read the final sentence of the essay:
“This is the story of my grandmother, in whose eyes I see not only grief, but the power of the entire cosmos.”
The teacher closed the notebook, looked out at the class, and asked, “Can anyone guess who wrote this story?”
“Mardik! Mardik! Mardik!” the children shouted in unison.
Fifteen years had passed, but as Mardik sat reading deeply in the Etchmiadzin library, he could still vividly hear the voices of his childhood classmates echoing in his ears.
His academic interests now lay in ethnology and anthropology; he was drawn to natural cycles and the exact sciences. Yet, the innate Armenian awareness of his ancestors’ tragic past still cried out in his mind, echoing with the voice of Grandma Marie.
He put aside the texts of the Alikhanian brothers—the prominent physicists—stood up, and began browsing the history shelves. Row after row of book spines bore grim inscriptions: Ottoman Empire, Armenian Genocide, Documentary Accounts. There were endless photos; his eyes could barely keep up with the titles. He pulled one hefty volume from the shelf and opened it. The black-and-white photographs felt like a physical blow to his face. Horrific images of starving people, the skeletal remains of women and children, the dead…
He stepped back from the shelves, his eyes landing on a massive globe resting on a nearby table. Just as he had done in his childhood, he spun it, and a flood of memories rushed into his mind. His eyes raced from continent to continent, from state to state, but in his mind’s eye, the rivers still ran red…
“Are you traveling the world, young man?” a pleasant female voice interrupted his thoughts.
Mardik turned to see a middle-aged woman with a delicate face and highly sophisticated manners. Using his knowledge of anthropology, he immediately recognized her distinct Indo-European features, a heritage shared by many Armenians.
“Welcome to New York. The weather is beautiful and spring-like, and we wish you a pleasant stay. Thank you for flying with Air Armenia.”
Mardik opened the overhead compartment and retrieved his small briefcase, smiling at the flight attendant before looking out the window from the height of the aircraft. A gentle breeze brushed against his face—a breeze of hope. He knew that very soon, he would be walking the red carpet for the opening of the Tribeca Film Festival.
The venue was bustling. Exquisite women glided past in long evening gowns adorned with glittering jewels, men mingled in sharp tuxedos, and journalists and photographers swarmed the floor. The festive atmosphere was palpable.
Mardik heard the announcement for the screening of Intent to Destroy and caught sight of Joe Berlinger’s smiling face. Stepping onto the red carpet, he felt the warmth of the spotlights on his face. He walked shyly toward the theater doors, behind which waited the documentary narrative of the Armenian Genocide.
The house lights dimmed, a delicate Armenian melody filled the air, and a stark black-and-white photograph appeared on the massive screen: a crowded wagon packed to the brim with children and women in rags, with people clinging even to the roof. As the scenes changed, elderly survivors shared their testimonies, alongside younger-generation Armenians discussing the lasting impact of the Genocide. Suddenly, Mardik felt his grandmother Marie close to him. The voices of the film’s subjects intertwined seamlessly with her voice in his mind.
When the credits rolled, the theater lights came back up, but nobody moved. A heavy silence filled the room. Then, slowly, the audience began to stand, breaking into a resounding ovation. Mardik turned his head and noticed an elderly woman next to him, her eyes glistening with tears.
Suddenly, his phone rang. A gentle voice spoke softly on the line, introducing herself as a relative.
They agreed to meet in one of New York’s most beautiful, well-developed neighborhoods. Two stunningly beautiful women welcomed him with warm embraces and led him into their elegant home. They were identical twins with a striking, charming presence.
“Mardik, you are the only relative we know of from Grandma Marie’s side,” they said.
The sisters spoke rapidly, trading sentences so fast it was hard to keep up with the constant shift between English and Armenian. Mardik shared his own life story and showed them a family photograph featuring his beloved Grandma Marie.
The girls gasped, looking at the picture, and cried out in unison, “This is unbelievable! She looks exactly like our grandmother. They were cousins!”
In turn, they brought out one of their own old photographs. Looking back at him was a woman who appeared just a bit younger than his own grandmother. Mardik looked at his two beautiful cousins and smiled.
“In her eyes, too, I can see the grief of the Armenian daughter, but also the love and the power of the entire cosmos,” Mardik said. “Today, for the very first time, I truly felt hope while walking down that red carpet and watching Joe Berlinger’s film. I felt like I was walking on a carpet of truth, recognition, and solace. I feel it, and now I know for certain: we will all be free one day to share our tragedy with the grandchildren of our killers. They will shed tears, and their hearts will ache for the injustices committed by their ancestors. They will seek forgiveness from us, the young Armenians; they will acknowledge what happened and condemn it. I wish I were a hawk, so I could fly far and wide, circling the globe to spread peace and love.”
The two women watched him, deeply moved by his words, when a soft tapping sound drew their attention to the window. They turned and looked outside. Perched on the sill was a majestic hawk.
2]Bosporus – The Bosporus is the 32 km (20-mile)-long north-south strait that joins the Sea of Marmara with the Black Sea in Istanbul, and separates the continents of Europe and Asia
[3] Hanim – Mrs
[4] Besiktas -Beşiktaş is one of the oldest districts and neighbourhoods of Istanbul, located on the European side of the city. It’s also considered as one of the city centres
[5]Deir ez-Zor is situated 85 km (53 mi) to the northwest of the archaeological remains of Dura-Europos and 120 km (75 mi) northwest of the remains of the ancient city of Mari. The modern town was expanded by the Ottoman Empire in 1867 around the pre-existing town. In 1915, the city became a point for Armenians subjected to death marches during the Armenian Genocide
[6] Varna -is the third-largest city in Bulgaria and the largest city and seaside resort on the Bulgarian Black Sea Coast.
[7] Etchmiadzin – is the mother church of the Armenian Apostolic Church, located in the city of Vagharshapat (Etchmiadzin), Armenia.[D] According to scholars it was the first cathedral built in ancient Armenia,[E] and is considered the oldest cathedral in the world.[F]
[8] Alikhanian brothers – Artem Alikhanian was born in Elizavetpol, Russian Empire, to an Armenian family of a railway engineer and homemaker.[2] They had four children: two sons (the elder, Abraham Alikhanov, became a well-known physicist) and two daughters.
[9] Indo-European –
[10] Joe Berlinger – Joseph “Joe” Berlinger is an American documentary film-maker.Academy Award and seven-time Emmy nominated and Peabody and Emmy-winning filmmaker
