MY DEAR UNCLE RUPEN: Recollections of an American Physician from Istanbul Sharing his Treasured Family Tale with AGOS Readers and Hrant Dink
MY DEAR UNCLE RUPEN: Recollections of an American Physician from Istanbul Sharing his Treasured Family Tale with AGOS Readers and Hrant Dink (Translated from Turkish to English)
AGOS
July 5, 2005
By Alen J. Salerian, MD
It was a Friday morning a few months ago. “You seem down, doctor,” on of my patients had commented. “Is it because of your recent travels to Istanbul?”
“Fatigue”, I commented. “I had just returned from Istanbul.”
Lately, I have been thinking a lot about the comment my patient made on that Friday. Truly, as a physician, I have been very lucky. In so many different ways my life feels like as if it is a dream. One day I am in Washington DC and a few days later I am visiting New York, London or Istanbul attending a conference. My family lives in Istanbul and I am so fortunate to enjoy my sister, brother-in-law and mother so often. My old friends from medical school, many of them doctors still living and practicing Istanbul, have been very complimentary and joking cal me “Professor”. I am not accustomed to such fanfare in Washington. But am I happy with Istanbul?
In Istanbul I feel confused. One of the reasons is the old battle wounds from Turkish-Armenian conflicts. Exile, loyalty, genocide, treason, terrorism and other words echo everywhere. Newspapers are full of war stories from 1915. Wounds are open, yet they look closed.
As a doctor, I know the following. For any wound to heal, it is necessary to open it first and manage to analyze its core. Nowadays historical analysis is an impossibility in Istanbul. Why? Extreme sensitivity and historical ignorance. Ignorance is no one’s fault. Everything that is sensitive has become a taboo and has become intellectually banned and never taught. I grew up in Istanbul, studied in Armenian elementary school and later graduated from a Turkish middle school and medical school. Yet, I had remained ignorant. For instance, I never knew that in 1915 Talat Pasha had 10 poets, 16 congressman, 36 reporters, 62 doctors and 7 pharmacists exiled before sending them to heaven. They were all killed because their last name ended in –ian.
My family was extremely sensitive as well. The best example is the story of my great-uncle, Dr. Rupen. My uncle was one of the intellectuals – a poet, a physician, a colonel in the Ottoman Army – who had perished in 1915 at Cankiri.
My uncle was born in Istanbul in 1885. He grew up in Istanbul, later went to medical school in Lausanne, Switzerland and married a German-Swiss. My uncle’s son, Leon, was born in Lausanne. My aunt Jeanine and her relatives strongly opposed my uncle’s decision to return to Istanbul after his studies. They all believed the lives of Armenians and all Christians in Istanbul were in danger. They begged him to practice in Europe in any town he wished to live.
“You Europeans do not appreciate how progressive my country has become!” were the words my uncle yelled before his return to Istanbul.
Fights, conflicts, temper tantrums and threats…At the end, in early 1914, the Orient Express took my Uncle to Istanbul. By boat through Nice, my Aunt Jeanine and Leon joined him a month later. A frightening treacherous journey…I used to listen to my aunt telling the family tales of my aunt’s boat trip while she was sobbing. During the sea voyage, my Aunt Jeanine vomited forty times and lost five pounds. She was pregnant. At the port of Karakoy she was taken to Surppirgic Hospital by horse carriage. A week after her return, my Uncle Rupen left for Gallipoli as an officer. There were family tales about the beauty of his white horse, which he brought back to Istanbul upon his return from Gallipoli. Apparently he was quite busy in Istanbul as a physician, a teacher and poet. He lectured frequently. One of the lectures titled “The Importance of Sex Education in High School” always struck me as so ahead of his time. He founded the first formal training for nurses in Istanbul.
On the 24th of April 1915, three soldiers showed up at my uncle’s house approximately 10 o’clock in the evening, banging on the front door. My uncle, a cigarette in his mouth, sipping his coffee, lost in his poetry, half asleep, half dreaming rushed down. My Aunt Jeanine yelled, “Don’t open.”
Three young soldiers greeted him. One of them with a low voice said, “Doctor, forgive us but we have to take you to the police station.”
Suddenly my Aunt Jeanine threw herself in between her husband and the soldiers, her eyes full of fire, face reddened, sobbing and begging, “No, no, no.”
My Uncle Rupen’s voice was calm, “Don’t worry my angel, I am an officer. Nobody can harm a Turkish officer.” He kissed his wife and son and left with the soldiers.
The door closed.
That night my uncle slept in the Four Seasons Hotel in Istanbul. Those days, the Four Seasons Hotel was a prison.
The following day the ferry took him to Haydarpasha, then by train to Cankiri. This was his last journey.
In Cankiri, for four months he worked as a physician.
On August 27, 1915, with two poet friends Taniel Varoujan and Siamanto, he traveled to heaven. Before his last journey there was an important event, however, when he could have saved his life. Is this a story, dream or a family tale? I do not know. Yet, this is our family story repeated thousands of times all over the world from Rome to Mexico City, from Istanbul to Rome and Rome to Washington DC. My memory is filled with those memories and words. These memories have penetrated our tribal blood and traveled to the farthest points in the world…Stories, roots with emotions, tears and happiness entwined.
This is the story. July 1915 exile. A patient, a young girl sick with pneumonia unable to breathe, coughing with a high fever. Family members distraught, dreading the inevitable…
God is great. The patient is young and my uncle lucky. The girl recovered suddenly. A few days later the girl’s father visits my uncle. “My dear doctor,you are young. I am wealthy and have power. If you let me, I can spare your life. This is what you need to do. Sever your ties to your family, become a Muslim and marry my daughter. You are in trouble because you are Armenian.”
I do not know where the letter i. It may be in Switzerland or some other place in Texas or France. But in our family tale the letter is sacred and every new member is blessed with its content. I know that I will not forget a single word, letter or comma of this letter. And I will repeat them, eyes closed, even at the age of 120.
The letter is in French.
My Dearest Angel, Jeanine.
There are things in life more important than life such as honor, roots, love and loyalty. Please accept my decision. Please accept my decision with my love despite your tears. I had my best moments of life with you and I am confident we will unite in heaven, and until then I don’t believe I would be able to enjoy heaven. My only request is this. Please express your gratitude to the man who made it possible for you to get this letter. Let’s pray for him and his family. With deep love, Rupen S.
For wounds to heal, we need dialog and exploration. In the past we could not have talked about those things. Yet today in new Istanbul in modern Turkey it is possible. I am a dreamer. My dream is this. In the near future my Istanbul, my beautiful Istanbul of Fatih Mehmet, Mimar Sinan and Justinian, at the homes and schools with pride will teach new generations of Turkish citizens the proud history of Colonel Doctor Rupen. And that day I will say I am a proud and happy man of Armenian descent from Turkey.