Untitled Document

        This story only touches the surface of what happened to the Armenian population

in Turkish Anatolia during World War I. Millions of Armenians endured far more horrific

and soul-wrenching experiences than what are portrayed here. Anyone who has studied their

history cannot deny the incomprehensible brutality these people suffered as targets of the Young

Turk government. Forcibly relocated, Armenians were often without water, food or shelter,

bearing the worst of inhumane treatment. Over a million and a half died. Survivors and descendants

of the genocide met the added atrocity of widespread denial by the perpetrators’ successors.

        If healing is ever possible, we may have to look to an entirely different worldview.

How else will we stop the cycle of ceaseless revenge? Political systems have inflicted genocide on

entire populations since the shadow of patriarchy first swept across civilization.

        Anatolia means “land of the mothers,” reflecting the Goddess-worshipping cultures that

thrived there millennia ago. Two well-known, uncovered sites are Çatal Hüyük and Hacilar. These

matri-focal centers, where women were held in high esteem, appear to have maintained relatively

peaceful, agricultural communities and trade centers with strong emphases on art and daily spiritual

practice of homage to the Earth Goddess.    Because they lived prior to the bronze, copper and iron

ages, the focus on warfare that has characterized patriarchy was absent at Çatal Hüyük. A strong

devotion to existence kept them going for nearly two thousand years. Religion appears to have been

part of their daily lives.

        The forging of metals and invention of weapons changed all that. It secured the domination

and subjugation system we now know. Yet traces of Anatolia’s mysterious past flourish to this day in its

distinctive art and music.

        Raks al sharki, “the dance of the east” is a symbolic example. Its body language of wavy and

circular movements communicates inclusiveness and reverence for the feminine divine. It called to women

mystics of the Middle Ages and inspired the Anatolian Sufis. Re-emerging from the captivity of the harems,

this dance thrived during women’s rights debates of the early twentieth century. Central to my story, raks al

sharki honors the Light of Anatolia, those ancestors who bring enemies together.

        Illumined by the subtle radiance of a forgotten worldview, adversaries choose love over hatred

and realize their absolute interdependence. Despite many dangers, they strive toward a more genuine

harmony. Long-buried voices grow stronger, as if the ancient First World War, against the mothers and

their knowledge, against the earth and its bounty, might not have to be replayed in perpetuity all over the

globe.
        In the spring of 1916, near the sun-dappled waters of the Golden Horn, a young woman of

Constantinople was just beginning her day . . .

        Neyla walked into the dimly-lit, mildewed hallway resolved to flee the war’s dangers for good.

She would book passage this weekend. No more endless lectures in stifling rooms, she vowed. According

to the note in her pocket, her school might close sooner than graduation anyway.

        She had maintained a respectable gait as she hurried toward the International All Girls’ College

of Constantinople that Friday morning. “See you at four!” she called to the driver in the black car as it rumbled

past purple lilacs on the other side of the street. The scent of fresh rainfall had encouraged her, and the stern

copper domes of the old city beyond Seraglio Point seemed almost cheerful for a change.

        Inside, she dropped the usual load of books on the floor to hang her hijab, black outer garment,

and charshaf, head covering on the hooks provided. Young women around her scurried to reach different

rooms down the hall before the final bell. The final bell . . .Neyla wiped a stray tear before entering her first

class.
        At lunch, she shared a table with her best friend, Aroushi Hamparian. Recent warm weather had

made it possible for students to eat outside again, in the open courtyard. A light breeze stirred her plaited hair,

free of the charshaf within the school’s outer walls.

        Now, Aroushi fluttered her eyes in disbelief. “Why are you quitting right before graduation?”

        “I smell a change as surely as the fragrance of that Daphne.” Neyla pointed to the bushes with their

pink and white blooms. “Only it’s not sweet, believe me.”

Aroushi scowled, “You and your nose!”

“I can’t help it if its one of my strongest senses.” It had been Mama’s too, but she hadn’t

heeded it at the end, Neyla thought, then added, “Guess what I’ll be dancing at the embassy party tonight?”

Her friend stared, uncomprehending for a moment. “You wouldn’t dare!” She was the only

one at school who knew of Neyla’s interest in raks al sharki, which westerners called ‘belly dance.’ Aroushi

lived only a few blocks from Neyla and had joined her now and then in practicing the sensuous movements, always

in private, as was the custom. "Yes, I would. It’s my birthday this weekend, and I want to dance something exciting!”

“But it’s not done in public, by respectable women. Especially not in Pera.” They both lived

there, in the new, western neighborhood across the Galata Bridge. The Golden Horn, a body of sweet water

separated it form Stamboul, the “Old City” where they attended school.

“I’ve performed it at tea parties.” Aroushi wagged a finger, saying, “For women, to raise funds

for your grandparents’ school.” “ Which is now in jeopardy, anyway,” Neyla said as they opened their lunchboxes and began to eat

in silence. The primary school for orphans was located next door to Neyla’s home. Her mother had taught there,

too, before Neyla was born. She had been expected to continue the tradition, but the war rendered its future

uncertain. Her grandparents had hoped to keep it open for another year or two before retiring back to the United

States. The elder couple often socialized with diplomats, like Aroushi’s father. Her friend’s family lived in

a large sprawling house just down the block. Abuela, Neyla’s grandmother, often commented on its disarray. “How

such a pretty young thing can emerge from that mess every day is beyond me.”

But Aroushi’s clan seemed comfortable enough with their menagerie of antiques, books, and cats

as well as Julius Caesar, the monkey they rescued from the Grand Bazaar some years ago. He kept them in fits

of hysterical laughter with his antics!

Now, across the table, her friend interrupted her musings. “What happened to being a dance

teacher at our own ‘crossroads of Europe and Asia’?”

Neyla swallowed a bite of cheese and said, “Impossible with this war. I want to be like

Isadora Duncan, and she doesn’t wear a charshaf.” She stopped to greet two girls who passed their table

speaking German. Although English was the school’s official language, students spoke their native tongues

in their own groups when not in class. Neyla loved the sound of different languages. She understood three,

although English was her best. Everyone at school dressed in European-styled clothes and lace up boots.

A light colored blouse and a dark skirt were required. But at least their severe outer garments stayed on

the hooks until the end of the day.

        Aroushi leaned in close. “But why even think of raks al sharki at an embassy function?”

        “Because I promised Hassan a special surprise,” Neyla said with a shrug. “And I’ll be leaving soon.”

        “What does Teyze think of your idea?” Teyze, meaning aunt, was officially her grandmother’s

housekeeper. But as a retired street performer she was also Neyla’s belly dance teacher.

        “Oh, I didn’t tell her. She’d think I was crazy to try it on the diplomats.”

        “I’ll think so, too.”

        Neyla made a face and went back to her meal. She didn’t understand why most people found

the dance so unsettling. Teyze’s early lessons only intrigued her more. “You seemed interested enough in

\learning it,” she said.

“Before the war,” Aroushi reminded her. Shortly after they’d met in Pera’s Secondary School,

they had established a routine. Knowing Aroushi’s parents always left promptly at noon for their Saturday

outings, they could count on a few hours of time to practice dancing. At twelve-thirty, Lars, her grandmother’s

blond chauffeur, would drop Neyla off at her friend’s ramshackle home.

“Can you imagine what our Christian classmates would say if they saw us now?” Aroushi often

giggled. They’d clear a space from the piles of clothes on the floor in Aroushi’s room and practice the

newest steps while Julius Caesar romped around screeching his delight and imitating them. Finally,they’d

don their hijabs and, with Lars as their chaperone, head down the street to the coffee shop.

        Thick with smoke and men in fezzes, the coffee shop was a good place to practice their

Turkish dialogue and read the daily news. They would giggle over bursting out in a dance right before

the bearded crowd, while Lars snapped his newspaper to hush the

        The five-minute bell brought Neyla back. “I know,” she said brightly, putting her food away.

“Let’s perform a duet at the party. We’ll present a united effort.”

        “You’re not serious! My father would kill me.” In recent months he had forbidden the

Saturday excursions, thinking it too dangerous for Aroushi to associate with Neyla outside school

any more, given her infamous name.

        Neyla scraped her chair back. “Well, that’s another reason I don’t want to stay,” she

said. “We can’t do anything we used to . . .” It was hard losing Aroushi’s company. She hadn’t been

allowed friends in Konya, the city where she’d once lived with her parents. Papa had discouraged it,

suspicious of everyone in that mostly Muslim area. Muslim or not, men always seemed to dictate

women’s lives, to limit them somehow.

        “As you said, we’re in the midst of war.”

        “And that’s an excuse to suppress art and . . . all women’s freedoms?”

        Aroushi crossed her arms. “Well, what could you accomplish dancing that at Prince Hassan’s?”

        “Remember all the talk of the 90s and those Egyptian dancers at the World’s Columbian

Exposition? You know, in America. They opened westerners’ eyes to a whole new way of being.

Why can’t I do the same thing in Pera before I go?”

        Aroushi gathered her books. “Pera may be modern, but it’s not America, and you’re not

Elizabeth Cady—Sampson.”

        “Stanton.” Neyla smiled good-naturedly as she closed her lunchbox and stood.

        “Whoever she is, you’re forgetting who you are, and where you are. Besides, there’s no

telling who might beat Prince Hassan’s party.”

        That was true. A shadow passed overhead and Neyla rubbed her arms against the chill it stirred.

        “Besides, I thought you were going to wear that pretty blue-green outfit you got for your birthday,

” Aroushi offered. “It matches your eyes, and sets off that copper hair of yours so well.”

        “You sound just like my grandmother. Perhaps I won’t do raks al sharki until Saturday night,

at my own birthday party.” She followed her friend out of the bright courtyard.

        “Good!” Aroushi held the heavy door open for her. “It’ll be safer at your house tomorrow, if

you’re still determined. Too bad my parents won’t let me see it.”

        “Well, ‘the rebel’s daughter’ plans to be on a boat by Monday in any case.” As they entered

the dark hallway, Neyla wrinkled her nose at its sharp mustiness. “So this is goodbye, my friend.”

        “Don’t say that.” Aroushi sighed, “Are you still arguing with your grandparents about not

wanting to be a school teacher?
”
             “As always. Tell me, what do you know about Armenians suffering in the interior?”

Neyla reached for a letter in her skirt pocket.

        “No one believes a word of it! My father says the government simply couldn’t be so

cruel. Why even think —” The bell rang. " I can’t be late to class,” Aroushi added. “We’ll talk later.”

        “Say hi to Julius Caesar for me,” Neyla called over her shoulder. She tucked the

letter away and continued down the hall toward the gymnasium.

        A young Armenian boy had delivered it to the house yesterday. No one else knew,

but she’d wanted to show Aroushi. Her father’s message, smuggled from prison, read: " You must leave the

capital at once, before the pashas arrest and deport you. I mean it! Thousands are dying daily in the interior.”

       Neyla chewed her at fingernail, unable to move. She knew her father was famous for shock

effect. Even her grandfather, whom she called Abuelo, insisted that the foreign news accounts were

exaggerations. She patted her skirt pocket. I’ll give Abuelo the note after the party tonight, she

determined, trying to calm her nerves.

Opening the door to the gym, she was soothed by its familiar wood floor smells, and the

brightness of the tall, sunlit windows. The gramophone was cranked and playing a fox trot. Most

students were already dancing while Mrs. Hagossian, the only female teacher at school, made notes

in her attendance log.

“Come on!” a classmate urged. “We’re going to be tested on this dance at the end

of the period
.
Neyla dropped her books at the table and joined her partner in practice. As they

moved about the floor in unison, she relaxed a bit. Music had a way of doing that. This particular

rhythm brought back the hypnotic line dancing of the villages. Next to raks al sharki, they were

still her favorites. In Konya, where she had lived for ten years, the music of different traveling

groups had delighted both her father and her. He could pick up any song quickly, and play it on his

Armenian tar, a small stringed instrument. Neyla would memorize the folk dancers’ steps
.
She missed those special times, sharing the only thing father and daughter had seemed to have

in common.

There wasn’t much village dancing in the capital. Nationalist sentiment being what it was,

any Greek, Albanian, Yugoslav or Armenian music was scarce. Especially since those groups had

risen up to revolt. All the more reason not to stay, she resolved.

In History of European Civilization, her last class of the afternoon, Neyla’s eyes wandered

to the graceful flocks of birds outside the window. Each time her professor cleared his throat, she

shifted her gaze to his bobbing goatee for a moment.

Back outside at the end of the school day, she turned for a last look at the International

College, while unbuttoning her hijab to let it open freely.Blossoms spent their fragrance all around

her. She breathed in deeply, not caring that her charshaf had

slipped down. After today she’d never have to wear it or the ugly black outer covering again.

She walked down the street, hearing the banter of open market booths not far from

the Grand Bazaar, whose gleaming gold and silver fabrics caught the eye just as colorful

spice barrels seduced the nose. But in this city she was not allowed to visit

them on her own. She always had to confine herself to only the street in front of school waiting

for Lars. No matter, soon enough she’d walk down different streets, and without a chaperone.

Neyla bit her lip. The Young Turks, with their Committee of Union and Progress,

had promised an end to the oppressions of the old Ottoman regime. And everyone had so

much faith in them initially. But since the war had begun, new privileges were now

being revoked, and not just with regard to women.

No one could deny how the political situation grew more ominous every day,

especially for minorities in Constantinople. Last year the tobacco shop of old Mr. Sarafian

was raided and when he protested, he’d been beaten by Turkish thugs. Off and on

gangs like that were allowed to brutalize innocent folks for no reason. Her father had been

arrested along with more respectable members of the Armenian community who hadn’t

even been revolutionaries like him. And the foreign presses’ accounts . . . No one

believed them? Not true. Neyla’s own grandparents admitted that some Armenians might

have been driven from their homes in the eastern interior and subject to the cruelties reported.

“If a few rebels plotted with enemy Russians to overthrow the Ottoman Empire

and establish an Armenian homeland there, then retaliation could be expected,” Abuelo

had said. “But the tales of mass death among all the millets, communities, to the east

would never be tolerated. Someone would intervene.”

Neyla released a heavy breath as she paced along the spot where Lars picked her

up every day. The interior sounds so ominous, she thought, a place I’d never want to go

to again. Seven years before, she had lost her mother and brother there, out on the

Anatolian plain. That kind of violence wasn’t supposed to happen again.

At the corner, she glanced once more towards the harbor and made a mental note

to check Sunday’s departure schedules. Ships out of the capital were getting scarcer, and

she didn’t want to lose her options.

At the sound of stomping boots her breath froze. She pulled the scarf back up and

listened for their source. Even the market sounds died off at the advance of those

hammer-like steps. A voice shouted, “Yolleh!” (hurry) while pedestrians scrambled out

of their path. Neyla recoiled in the old way, wishing she could disappear. Why did she

have to be Tigran Zaroukian’s daughter?

As a member of the Dashnaksoutiun, Armenian Revolutionary Party, he’d caused

grief for her mother’s family for a long time. Over the years she had tried to understand

his drive for a separate Armenian homeland. It had been a central part of their life,

especially in the Anatolian city of Konya where he’d taken his wife and children to live

in 1899. Incensed by Abdulhamid’s, “the Red Sultan’s” bold massacres on Armenian

citizens there, Tigran vowed never to return to the capital.

Neyla bowed her head with the memory of past sorrows. When Ana Rosa, her

Mexican-American mother, was killed with her younger brother, Kourken, during the

1909 Adana massacres, she had returned to live in the capital with her mother’s parents

and try to understand why her own life was spared. She had wanted to die, too before

Dayi and Teyze taught her about finding her purpose in life. Over time she’d begun to

forgive her father for being so hell-bent the revenge that surely caused their family’s

deaths. Dayi showed her how. Through him she had also come to know Rumi’s poetry

and through Teyze the soul-touching poems of Rabia.

Ah, Rabia . . . the fifteenth century author had been terribly scarred by life yet had

found healing and forgiveness in music. Neyla remembered how her first reading of “It

Acts Like Love” had brought a catharsis of emotion. She still read it often, to the orphans

of her grandmother’s school, as a message that someone long ago also knew that “music

tells the feet, ‘you do not have to be so burdened.’”

Neyla wasn’t surprised that her father, Tigran, stayed in the interior, carrying on

his fight until his arrest last year. “Our people lived there a thousand years before the

Ottomans!” he’d ranted at her grandfather so many times.

Abuelo had just shaken his head. “Our people lived in America a thousand years

before invaders came from the east, too. Will you ever stop playing the trump card of

vengeance?”

Neyla released a tense breath. She had a life of the spirit now, so why worry?

There was also her American passport, due to her mother having been a U.S. citizen. Her

maternal grandparents were Catholic missionaries and had operated their small school in

Pera for thirty years. They planned to retire back to New Mexico as soon as Neyla

graduated. But was that soon enough?

Boot steps gained momentum, drew nearer. The sun ricocheted off the first

swords at the intersection. Should she turn and run back to school? As if on cue, one of

the soldiers jerked his head her way.