Reflections on the Armenian Genocide, continued…
I keep looking at the photo I posted of my Grandmother in yesterday’s blog. I am trying to remember how old she is in that photo… maybe 16 or 17? My aunt would know, and I need to call her and ask.
I know that this photo is the only one we have of Grandma from when she was a young girl.
The only one.
I think about my own Little One and the many, many photos we have of her. A digital camera makes that all so easy…almost too easy… relatives come up to her and take photo after photo, (and yes, I do the same…) and I am of course pleased that they are interested in her, at the same time, sometimes, I am actually yearning for a time when photos meant something more. Does that seem odd? I think of this photo of my grandmother as a young girl… it is the only one we have…and we treasure it deeply.
In my own family growing up, we would take a couple of photos a month. In my Grandma’s days, she hardly had any photos of herself, and most all of her belongings, the family’s precious possessions, were all left behind during the forced marches out of their village in Western Armenia.
What did she leave behind?
I know she carried her tattered Bible with her.
What did she leave behind as she left her home, a little four or five year old girl, with her younger brother, older sister and mom? What was she thinking as they began that march out of the village and into the desert…to a destination they did not even know. They just knew they had to go.
I look at that photo, at her eyes, I wonder what stories lie behind those eyes… I think of her getting dressed up and going to get her photo taken…
I want her to come alive from this photo, and I want to talk to her and ask her questions and laugh with her and dance with her. And mostly I want to sing with her. I want to hear her sing. I really want to hear her sing.
I treasure this photo so much.
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April 21st, 2009 at 12:51 pm
Mariam,
Your tribute to your grandmother is stirring and very much appreciated. We know what she left behind by knowing you.
April 21st, 2009 at 1:35 pm
Listen to the voices of your mother..yourself..your daughter. This is your grandmothers song, and she will be singing it as long as you let her.
April 21st, 2009 at 2:18 pm
Mariam:
I believe as kids they didn’t understand what really was going on, other than they have to leave home. The homes they were grow up in, the families they eat with and celebrated holidays with. May the memories of your Grandmother live in your heart.
April 23rd, 2009 at 9:20 am
Mariam,
I met your husband at the BNI meeting yesterday and am speaking with him this afternoon about some business matters. When I saw the link in his e-mail, I wanted to check it out and see what you had going on. I never knew that I would be so touched by the story of your precious grandmother and how her family persevered during such a tragic time in the history of our world. When I saw her photo, I saw the neatly pressed dress, the beautiful hair, eyes and skin, but most prevalent, the cross. This sacred reminder of your grandmother’s faith could have been tucked into her garment, close to her heart to give her a sense of security in knowing her savior, but instead, she wore it proudly for all to see and know that the God who showed Moses and His people through the desert was the same God who showed her family through the desert to safety. Wherever there is oppression, our Savior walks before us down the path, clearing the way for us to go. Thanks for sharing this story of sadness and triumph over the forces of evil that fight against all that is good in humanity. Your grandmother’s memory and all that she stood for will never be forgotten. I know I certainly won’t forget! Many blessings to you and yours.