My parents Khanem (Poladian) and Hovhannes Bablanian were survivors of the Genocide Against Armenians. Sadly, my parents’ history is not unique. Ask almost any Armenian and they will share similar tragic stories told to them by their parents or grandparents.
1921, Aleppo. Hovhannes and Khanem Bablanian wedding photo (Photo courtesy of Hrant Bablanian)
I am lucky enough to have tape recordings of my parents Khanem and Hovhannes telling—in their own voices—what they experienced during the genocide. Below are the summaries of their stories, which were tape recorded in Baghdad, Iraq, in 1964.
The Story of my Mother Khanem (Poladian) Bablanian, in Her Own Words
I was born in the town of Urfa, the historical city of Yetesia, and was one of seven children in my family.
I was orphaned at the age of eight. I lost everyone in my family except for my twelve-year old brother, Garabed. He was able to flee and was saved by an Arab family. My father and eldest brother Nerses were taken away and killed by the Turks.
Most of the Armenian women and their children were gathered and ordered to leave their homes without taking a single one of their belongings with them. The Turks claimed this was “temporary relocation,” but a huge caravan of Armenian women and children were deported south to the harsh Syrian desert, accompanied by the armed Turkish Gendarme (officer). We marched for days and my grandmother could not walk any further due to the pain in her legs. She was falling behind and the Turkish Gendarmes were impatient. Eventually, they shot her.
My mother also grew tired, she couldn’t carry the sick baby anymore. She knew that the child would die soon because she did not have enough milk to feed her. Mother kissed the small bundle, held it tight to her heart and later put her down on the side of the road. Soon afterwards, my mother became so weak due to exhaustion and illness.
One night, I was awakened by my mother crying out “Khanem, Khanem, cover me please, I am so cold.” I said, “But mother, I have nothing to cover you with!” Then, I threw myself upon her. But there was not enough warmth left in either of us.
The next morning, as I pulled myself off of her, I realized she was dead. I was left alone with my little brother and sister Haigazoun and Paylazoon. I was crying, confused, and bewildered and somehow lost them in the crowd. I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find them.
Until now, I can’t forgive myself for losing them. I hope they are still living somewhere. Finally, the caravan made it to Deir ez-Zor (Der Zor), where I was taken in by a well-known and respected Arab family—the Al-Matrood family. They looked after me and treated me well. At last, the war was over, the Allies won, the Turks were defeated. An American orphanage was opened in Deir ez-Zor. The Armenian orphans were gathered and admitted to the orphanage. There I stayed until my brother Garabed found me and we went together to Aleppo.
The Story of my Father Hovhannes Bablanian, in His Own Words
I was born in Urfa and had five siblings. Only two of my brothers survived. During WWI, at age of 20, I was taken away by the Turks in the Labour Battalion. Fortunately, I was able to flee, escaping the death that was premeditated for the rest of the Armenian Labour Battalion.
In Aleppo, I was arrested by the Turks for being a deserter. However, I was able to convince them that I was sick and was left behind by my regiment. I was admitted into a Turkish military hospital, and was given the job as assistant in the kitchen. When the head chef disappeared, I became known as the new chef, Chef Aziz. I held this job until I suddenly found my eldest brother Sarkis, who was also a deserter.
We ran away to a safer area. By then, it was almost the end of the war and the Turks were defeated. Sadly, I learned that my sister Markrid threw herself in a well to avoid being captured by the Turks. Unfortunately, I do not know what happened to my youngest sister Yester. My brother Haroutyoun managed to stay alive and ended up in Jerusalem, while my youngest brother Hagop stayed in Urfa, joining the Armenian Resistance of Urfa—the Herosamart—fighting against the Turks, was killed and martyred as a freedom fighter.
In Search of Long Lost Relatives
Once the war was over, my mother and father were introduced to each other by some friends and were married soon after. They had four sons: Hagop, born in Urfa, Nerses and Boghos born in Damascus, and myself, Herant, born in Kirkuk, Iraq in 1931.
Through the years, I have never stopped searching and looking for relatives—long lost as a result of the genocide. My search was more fruitful and rewarding than I could have ever imagined.
In 2008, we met more cousins in Aleppo, and while in Yerevan, thanks to the Armenian telephone operator there, I met more Bablanians in Yerevan and was told that there are more in Shatin village near Noravank.
Now, more than a century after the Armenian genocide began, family members all over the world are united—Bablanians in Toronto, Sydney, London, Aleppo, Beirut, Yerevan, Los Angeles, San Diego, Orange County, Dallas, Baghdad, Kuwait, Amman, and maybe in some other places we have not discovered yet.