There’s a long table on the stage, where the speakers, including Erebuni, are sitting, mics in front of them. Erebuni is listening intently to the woman on her left. I read her name tag—Dr. SetaMarkarian—and remember she’s the professor Erebuni told me about the first day I met her. Erebuni doesn’t notice me walking in, but as I slip into an aisle seat near the back, the chair, like an old movie theater chair with a velvet seat, squeaks under my weight. Her eyes dart up, and we see each other. She looks so serious—noble, even—and I feel this pride for her.That’s my girl,I think.
Dr. Markarian is saying, “What many people don’t realize about the continued denial of the first genocide of the twentieth century is that the very identity of modern Turkey hinges upon it. The political turmoil in Turkey during the First World War was the ideal backdrop for genocide. Armenians were classic scapegoats; we see it today. Everything in your life that is bad is due to the Armenians. They steal your jobs, they don’t pay their fair share, et cetera.”
Listen, it’s interesting, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to examine it. Maybe because the horror is too big. That’s been my family’s line. Nene won’t talk about it because her parents, survivors of the genocide, didn’t talk about it. I don’t know how they made it out. The tiny bit I got is that my mom once said their Turkish neighbors hid her grandparents in their basement. But then what? And how did they make it to Syria, then Lebanon eventually? It’s possible Dad’s parents knew about their history, but they died too long ago for me to ask them, and Dadnevertalked about it, always said that, yes, it was a tragedy, but Armenians need to move on. They should be more focused on being model citizens here in America.
A group of three people walks in, and I am relieved that I’m not the latest attendee. They sit in the same row as me, on the other side. I then spot the back of Janette’s, Arek’s, and Vache’sheads (sleek, gelled, and fuzzy, respectively). I’d have to climb over four strangers to get to the empty seat near them, which does not feel worth it. I’m not trying to draw more attention to my lateness.
Dr. Markarian is speaking. “When a country is a true democracy, there’s less ability to hide a sordid past. The mass killings and genocides of Native and aboriginal peoples in America and Australia, for instance, are not unknown by the general population.”
Erebuni interrupts, “Though, the genocide of the Indigenous peoples of America isn’t exactly taught in American schools, and it’s rarely acknowledged that we are living on stolen land—we are on Muwekma Ohlone land here in Berkeley—but I understand your meaning. It’s not a crime to mention it, unlike in Turkey, where it’s the crime of ‘insulting Turkishness.’ In America, students may discover it later in their education. There are documentaries, books, et cetera.”
“Precisely.”
A hand shoots up from the group next to me, and a man is saying, “Excuse me,” quite insistently. It sounds like he has an Armenian accent. Most of the audience turns back to look at him, and I’m thankful we’re sitting at least six seats apart so no one thinks we’re together.
Erebuni looks toward him; a shadow of annoyance passes over her face, then disappears. “Thank you, we are taking questions at the end,” she says.
The young man, who appears to be in his early twenties, ignores the whole hell out of that. He stands up and says, “You are here discussing the so-called Armenian genocide when there are hundreds of documents proving that it never existed. In fact, myancestors are from the Mardin region, where Armenians committed genocides against us. It’s documented in my family that Armenians came in the night, murdered the men, raped the women, beheaded—”
What in the actual hell? The energy in the room has abruptly shifted, like the room itself is sitting straight up and is willing this unwanted presence to please go away. That was definitely not an Armenian accent, but a Turkish one. And, yes, cool, Turkish people should come to these events, too, but, uh, not like this. Like, holy hell, the things he’s saying are chilling. That’s what we’ve been taught that the Turks did tous, and he’s throwing it right back. There are thousands of eyewitness accounts about the atrocities that were committed beyond killing, and now he’s sayingwedid it?
My eyes have been focused on the tan wood of the seat in front of me, the fading veneer gloss chipped or rubbed off in areas. I wonder, suddenly, if it’s safe for me, for all of us, in this room. The audience seems to be mostly older, people in their fifties to seventies, and I’m worried for all of us. Did he and his group show up armed with words, or something more violent?
Then I hear Erebuni. She is looking stern as all hell. When she speaks it is still slow, a type of calm, but there is a rumble to it that betrays her fury. “Pardon me. I assume, based on what you’re saying, that you—or your ancestors—are Turkish?”
He pipes up, “I’m a proud Turk, and—”
She interrupts, the boom of the mic no match for whatever he was going to say next. “Thank you. I appreciate that you came here, and I firmly believe there is a dialogue that can happen between the Armenian and Turkish people, but interrupting our discourse midway with a string of fallacies is not the way to do it.If you are willing to make a good faith attempt at a conversation, we’ll happily accept it.”
I am internally screaming. Goddamn, she is good. How can she possibly maintain her composure like that? I’m ready to tell them to get the hell out—you know, if I ever had the guts to do something like that.
Erebuni is flanked by a man on the panel who half stands, ready to take action. But Erebuni glances in his direction and gives him a quick shake of her head. He sits.
A woman in the Turkish group speaks up, seemingly made of calm and rage. “How you can say that when you create events to spread lies and propaganda? We know the truth: Armenians are the perpetrators, but you play victim to the whole world. You act so innocent, but you are the killers and the rapists—”
There are shouts from the audience, and I swear one of them is Arek, whose head is turned menacingly toward the intruders. Erebuni has taken a deep breath and then interrupts yet again. “Listen, this isn’t a dialogue when you come with guns blazing. I understand why you’re saying what you’re saying—that’s what this entire lecture series is about. Confronting the truth would be an existential crisis for the Turkish people, not to mention the possibility of reparations that the country would likely have to pay.”
The group is scoffing and protesting, but Erebuni continues, voice louder than ever, “I understand where you are coming from. Listen to the words of Hrant Dink—a Turkish Armenian journalist assassinated for voicing his views.”
She shuffles papers in front of her and pulls one out, and amid their objections, starts to read: “To the Armenians I say, try to see some honor in the Turks’ position. They say, ‘No, there was no genocide, because genocide is a goddamned thing that myancestors never could have done.’ And to the Turks I say, dwell for a moment on what the Armenians are saying and ask yourself why they insist so much.” She looks up from the page. “So when I say I understand, I do understand, and I wish we would have—”
The Turkish guy is now standing while shouting, “Hrant Dink? You quote to us Hrant Dink? That traitor of a Turk—”
But now the man next to Erebuni stands—he is a hulking beast of a dude—and makes his way into the aisle, looking like he’s ready to throw down. The crowd, too, has had it, and some of them are again shouting back at the Turkish lecture crashers. Arek is standing, but Janette is pulling on his jacket and seems to be imploring him to sit. Vache is shaking his head over and over. If there’s an all-out brawl, I wonder if I’m small enough to hide under the seats. At least I can run like hell out of here, but it feels cowardly considering Erebuni is still sitting up there.
Erebuni says, “I’m very sorry for the interruption, everyone.” But when it becomes clear that the group of three isn’t leaving and that they brought muscle of their own (the only one who hasn’t spoken is now standing up, blocking his friends), several members of the crowd panic and begin to disperse, fast.
“If you can please stay seated, I’m sure we can finish the end of our program,” Erebuni requests, a strain in her voice. It’s too late, and she knows it. More and more of the crowd is either leaving or forming a circle around the crashers, and Erebuni’s face crumples.
•••
We’re sitting inthe dim sum shop, each with two steaming pork buns in front of us. Gallantly, I paid for them, and as I handed over the cash, I mused that this is our first dinner date.Not how either of us expected it to go, I imagine. Erebuni looks sunken, sitting across from me in the little wooden booth, like she’s short at the wick. On our walk over she called the lecture a disaster and chided herself for not handling it better, but I told her there was nothing else she could do. We met up briefly with Janette, Arek, and Vache, but Arek was still so hotheaded that Janette steered him away. Vache seemed like he wanted to be alone and left without a substantial goodbye.
She’s peeling the wrapper off her bao so slowly it’s like she doesn’t want to eat it at all. “I should have expected it, brought in security, at least had a check-in area.”
It seems like she’s being harsh on herself. Who expects their academic lecture to be crashed? “How could you have known, though?”
I take my first bite and I burn my tongue on the sizzling-hot pork. Even my teeth ache from it.
