We lived in an area they called the ‘giaour neighbourhood’. All the residents of our neighbourhood were people with strong roots, they knew their family’s history. They might not have been very cultured, but they possessed human virtues. On the other hand, everyone else had been injected with the idea that we were minorities. In fact, let me recount an incident that had a great impact on me. I was five years old, the daughter of our neighbour came, we had a large courtyard, we were sitting and playing a game, I was so happy… Suddenly she said, “You are Armenian, you have the cradle of needles.” She started crying. “Why are you crying, aren’t we playing happily together,” I said. “You have the cradle of needles, you will put me in that cradle and my blood will begin to flow,” she said. I was doing all I could to prevent her from leaving. Our gate was huge, it had a hook, I pulled the hook down to stop her. “No, you’re not going,” I kept saying, but the child was shouting at the top of her voice.
Then her mother came, and started shouting, “You giaours, what did you do to my child?” So words like ‘giaour’ became words that aroused hatred in me. Then my maternal aunt came down from the house and a huge, noisy fight broke out. I had triggered a huge neighbourhood tussle, but that is the issue, you see. We were children, how I was supposed to know what 'being an Armenian’ meant…
“The departure of the Armenians took Diyarbakır’s soul away,” from Diyarbakır’s Armenians Speak, an oral history prepared by Ferda Balancar and published by the Hrant Dink Foundation
(via armeniangenocidehistory)