The Armenian Genocide
Istanbul, the city on the Bosporus, the capital of my oppressors, a city of hate and disgust, the march upon the Sultan, many died, too many, no one should have died during the plea for hope, for equal rights, I should of left then but I had nowhere to go, my parents dead, my family disappeared. Then it happened, a shimmer of hope among the darkness and deceit of Istanbul I lied in the street only seven when I was saved, a college of my father, whom wasn’t part of the petition, he wasn’t even Armenian I didn’t care, he took me into his home and hided me from the Turks in a way I joined his family. It didn’t last, when the war started, my “family” left to some of their relatives in America, I wasn’t blessed with the opportunity.
I left Istanbul and to my family in Van, the journey was long, I confronted many other travelers along the way but after many weeks of travel I arrived, no home, no money, and no food. I was able to make do, at least I wasn’t constantly looking over my back watching out for Turkish thugs, I ran across some dead bodies on the road to Van, I had no idea why they were there however, I knew I needed to lay low, so I did, in Van.
The burning flesh, its pungent moist scent tainted my nostrils as flowers of death, giving me the gift of the death of my friends. The piles of bodies were decaying slowly, if anything not fast enough, the stench would linger in the air for only a few days however the mold of death would leave a stain of death on the cobblestone roads for many years to come. I had only just escaped; many of my friends had died in the battle in the defense of Van, The Ottoman Empire. My best friend was one of them, Izek he was shot in the back of the head by an Ottoman irregular, and I was right next to him when it happened, it could have been so easily been me instead of him, why had I survived and he died. At least I instantaneously avenged his early death with a single bullet through the Turks eyes. He didn’t even receive a proper burial when the Russians, “Saved,” us both fallen comrades and Turkish scum were thrown in a demeaning pile, they were equal in death. I never trusted the Russians, or is that just due to the Ottoman’s influence over my life and my thoughts, but I still feel that they are Imperialistic Pigs. However all is fair in love and war, we would be dead had the Russians not come to our aid, it just brings me sorrow that so many messengers had to sacrifice their lives to bring the message to the Russian army so far away.
I left Van the day after the Russians had liberated the now broken town, many had died in the processes, in vain and with little of a chance to even save the town. I took my rifle, I had found a scimitar on the body of a dead Turk, I felt that I could escape to Russia in hopes of avoiding deportation, or possibly even death, I was wrong.
The lake stood still, silent, the wind blew across its shallow tranquil waves. The rocky shore was scattered with rounded stones, in the distance across the water a cloud gently blessed the farmers with rain. In the nearby town of Van people were in the streets, working, playing; living. The air tasted fresh and clean, of jasmine and other herbs and scents of the most delicate flavors.
Gunfire echoed across the lake human skulls scattered the shore line, many of them broken and incomplete, the farms all around the lake burned, smoke tainted the blue sky to grey smog. Van was in ruin, bodies scattered the narrow streets and once magnificent chapels, when the first attacked there was only the stench of black powder however it soon evolved into death, and then from that to burning flesh. The piles were tens of feet high, no one was spared and only a few escaped. I was one of them that escaped; I fled to Russia, or at least tried to.
I was at the border, I was with a group of fellow Armenians we were captured. I stood so close to freedom, one by one my fellow travelers were shot until they came to me, they let me go, I was free but was life under Stalin any better than life under The Red Sultan.
Our character lived in Russia, and later the Soviet Union for the remainder of his life, trapped in Stalingrad under its historic siege; he died, just like so many others in the defense of The Mother Land.
Artist Statement
At the time that my project went into exhibition there was no Artist Statement to be seen. The focus of this project was to simply show that there are many genocides out there all equally horrible in nature and evil at heart. My project conveyed this through many means mainly I attempted for the audience to get a connection between themselves and the main character of the story. So they would have the, "That could have been me," feeling.
Project Reflection
I am most proud of the fact that although my project that was not of highest quality it made it to exhibition. Basically the only reason I’m proud of this is it is the only thing to be proud about.
I would have changed everything, and I currently am changing everything. I am actually creating a proper plot line as well as creating dialog fit for a short story. In that dialog I am trying to convey a greater amount of emotion. I am also creating more realistic areas such as Istanbul, Van, and everywhere in between.
I will say sentence craft since for the first paragraph at least wasn’t completely horrible. I will just use the first sentence in the first paragraph as an example for this. I was able to make it of a semi-high quality because I actually tried.
It was definitely weakest in development. The specific example for this will be the entirety of my project. I could have done anything to improve that aspect.
I feel that in the category of organization I might have scored at most a 40%. For the category of development since I did say this was my weakest category I will say 20%. For evidence I too will grace this category with another 40%. Since I said sentence craft was my best category I give myself a 50%. Finally for my proofreading I’ll give myself a 40%, and all together I feel at most I might have possibly gotten a 40%.
