Not Even My Name: A True Storyby Thea Halo
Not Even My Name is a rare eyewitness account of the horrors of a little-known, often denied genocide, in which hundreds of thousands of Armenian and Pontic Greek minorities in Turkey were killed during and after World War I. As told by Sano Halo to her daughter, Thea, this is the story of her survival of the death march at age ten that annihilated her/i>… See more details below
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Not Even My Name is a rare eyewitness account of the horrors of a little-known, often denied genocide, in which hundreds of thousands of Armenian and Pontic Greek minorities in Turkey were killed during and after World War I. As told by Sano Halo to her daughter, Thea, this is the story of her survival of the death march at age ten that annihilated her family, and the mother-daughter pilgrimage to Turkey in search of Sano's home seventy years after her exile. Sano, a Pontic Greek from a small village near the Black Sea, also recounts the end of her ancient, pastoral way of life in the Pontic Mountains.
In the spring of 1920, Turkish soldiers arrived in the village and shouted the proclamation issued by General Kemal Attatürk: "You are to leave this place. You are to take with you only what you can carry . . . " After surviving the march, Sano was sold into marriage at age fifteen to a man three times her age who brought her to America. Not Even My Name follows Sano's marriage, the raising of her ten children, and her transformation from an innocent girl who lived an ancient way of life in a remote place to a woman in twentieth-century New York City.
Although Turkey actively suppresses the truth about the murder of almost three million of its Christian minorities--Greek, Armenian, and Assyrian--during and after World War I, and the exile of millions of others, here is a first-hand account of the horrors of that genocide.
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Read an Excerpt
THE RIVER OF DREAMS
New York CityAugust 1997
Tourists line the railing of the ferry. I take my place among them and watch the river dance toward the ocean in shimmering, jagged peaks the color of steel. Above Ellis Island a single white cloud hangs in a clear blue sky. August is warm on my shoulders. The ferry rumbles, then cuts a slow are around the great green lady holding her torch high above her head. Does she have a bad side? None I can detect from here.
The Great Hall of Ellis Island is grand as I enter, but too pristine. I know it was not so when my parents passed through seventy-two years before. The rows of benches are gone now, but I imagine the clamor of thousands of voices and babies crying as they wait for word. So this was the last leg of my mother's journey, where doctors felt for telltale lumps and searched for sickly eyes, weary from the long ocean crossing. I could almost hear the doctor's voice and see his fingers gently touch the scars on my mother's leg as she raised her skirt for the examination.
"What's this?" the doctor asks my mother of the two small scars.
"All that's left," my mother answers.
"Hurry!" my father says, grabbing her hand, "before they change their minds."
In the photo gallery the faces of hundreds of immigrants stare at me from the walls, bearing the same expression my mother wears in the photo of her at fifteen on the day of her wedding. There is no grimace of pain, no knitted brows;only an unmistakable sorrow that seems to say, [my flame is almost out.
"You've got dimples on your leg, Mommy," I once said when my mother's scars first caught my eye as a child. I pulled down my trousers and looked for dimples on my own leg.
"They're not dimples," my mother said. "You won't find them on your leg, sweetheart."
"Then what are they?" I said.
And for just one moment I saw that look in my mother's eyes as she drifted away from me. "All that's left," she said and closed her eyes. "All that's left."
In the courtyard of Ellis Island, row upon row of silver placards testify to those admitted. I find my parents' names and kneel before them. Sano Themía Halo. Abraham A. Halo. My sister Harty had included my mother's real name on the entry.
"Were you excited when your ship pulled into port and you saw Manhattan across the river sparkling in the August sun?" I once asked my mother.
"Not at first," she said. "I had already learned not to wish for things I couldn't have and along with that went my expectations."
I glide my fingertips over the grooves that spell out their names on the placards and feel the great emotion denied my mother on that day welling up in me.
* * *
There had always been only us: my mother, my father, my five sisters and four brothers, one uncle, an Armenian auntprobably with her own sad story to telland their daughter who married and moved away too soon. Then a void.
We lived on West One hundred second Street in New York City, but it was very different from the way it is now. In the '40s and '50s it was like a page out of West Side Story. We lived in a five-room railroad flat; each room led into the other like boxcars. It was a five-flight walk-up above a half-flight brownstone stoop. For the twenty years that my family lived there, my mother carried bikes and babies, sometimes one on each hip, and groceries and toys, and all the other things one carries up and down, up and down those five flights of stairs.
We grew up among the Irish mostly, although there were other races and nationalities in the surrounding neighborhoods and in our schools. But our heritage had been a mystery to us as children. We came from two lost civilizations. Both my parents came from Turkey, and their people had been there for thousands of years, but they were not Turks. No one had ever heard of my mother's peoplethe Pontic Greeks of Asia Minor (Turkey)and my father's people, the Assyrians, were believed to have lived only in ancient times but were no more. As a child I never mentioned my mother's heritage, and the few times I responded to questions of my father's heritage I was corrected with great authority.
"No, dear. You mean you're Syrian. The Assyrians are an ancient people. They don't exist anymore." Even my teachers told me that.
How could I be something that doesn't exist?
"They called us Rüm," my mother would say about her own people, pronouncing the word "room." And that was even more confusing. What was Rüm? Even my mother's language was lost to her because she had no one with whom she could speak her ancient Greek. Without even the sound of her Greek language to help me identify with her culture as a child, I was left with nothing but her few stories.
But Rüm or Pontic Greek, as a child of the '40s and '50s, I had just assumed that all mothers were more or less like mine. Or rather, I would have assumed it had I given it any thought. She had the kind of figure you might expect on a mother in 1950s America; kind of plump but not fat; perfect for those short-sleeved housedresses that buttoned down the front. They were usually full of flowers. She had a sweet, wistful smile and those innocent black eyeswith just a trace of sadness about the browthat smiled out at you from beneath the rolled wreath of black hair that framed her lovely face.
As to her birthday, my mother had never known the real date of her birth, so someone somewhere along the line had chosen May 10. It usually coincided with Mother's Day appropriately enough. With ten kidsI was the eighthI don't remember her ever just sitting without doing something. There was always so much that had to be done. She was always cooking or cleaning, baking, making clothes, crocheting. And she was always singing. I could recite her favorite songs: "Blue Skies," "Little Man You're Crying," "Oh, Johnny," "Paper Moon," and a hundred more like those, all as American as the proverbial apple pie, which she also baked to perfection.
Her musical ear gave her an easy grasp of languages so I never really noticed an accent. But there were a few words that made us all laugh, like the way she pronounced "wheat" with a heavy emphasis on the H. Haweet. And her attempts at the American slang of the '50s could have you rolling in the aisles. Each time we laughed at her, all she could do was cover her face with her hands and laugh with embarrassment.
"Oooooooh sugar!"' she'd say.
Since my mother rarely talked about her childhood there wasn't too much to remind us that she wasn't born in America. Considering her circumstances when my father happened upon her, some might say he rescued her from oblivion, but sometimes I wonder who rescued whom.
She cooked all of America's traditional fare, and for Christmas there was turkey with rice and chestnut stuffing; sweet potatoes, topped with pineapple and marshmallows; fresh cranberry and walnut sauce; mashed potatoes and gravy; apple and pumpkin pies. But there was also the stuffed grape leaves on holidays, and the meat pies my mother called chamborak, which she fried in a pan, and her special rolls with black seeds. All those exotic scents would mingle to fill the air. My father bought sweets from the Middle Eastern markets: Turkish delight; the pressed sheets of apricot we called garmardine; a sweet made of strung walnuts or pistachios surrounded by a thick grape coating and sprinkled with powdered sugar; and the tins of halvah, and baklava that he'd spread out on the table.
It was those little things like the words mispronounced, a foreign word thrown in, the stories and songs, and the Turkish delight and stuffed grape leaves that reminded us our parents came from someplace else; that there was something unknown about them; that they were separate from us in some unfathomable way.
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