ITP #30: Whether you're sharing a home together living under the same roof, or sharing memories together across the globe, the tie that binds the family together is love. This week on Episode 30, Anush explores that connection, on Inside the Pomegranate.
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Showing posts with label genocide. Show all posts
Showing posts with label genocide. Show all posts
03 February 2014
Family Connections
I really had a beautiful week. It all started last week with my birthday. It was such a wonderful day that I was on this pink cloud when Monday came around. I met a new homeless friend, Joseph who is only 19.
I've shared with you my desire to have a job where I can work with the homeless or needy population. And for a while I was so down on being where I am at my office job. But I have also been working on surrendering my will and focusing on being grateful for what I DO have rather than what I don't. And this week showed me that I am where I need to be for now. Because of my job downtown, I may not be working directly with the homeless, but I do get to interact with them. Because of our In His Shoes homeless outreach, over the years, I've made some contacts with various agencies that may be able to help him. And so for now, Joseph was able to use these resources to take a shower, wash his clothes, and get cleaned up. He is still on the street, and we're still working on getting him off the street and into a shelter with a program to help him get a job and some life skills. Like I said, we're working on it.
The first few times I met Joseph, I gave him money and food on my way into the office. The next time I saw him, he was sitting on the corner of 7th and Fig with his sign, and I was stopped at the red light waiting to cross, and I asked him, "So what's your story?" I think I surprised him. "What's my story?" "Yeah, why are you here? what brought you here?" So we started talking. He's here from Portland, Oregon. When I heard that I said, "Portland? You left Portland to come here?" After all, I loved the Oregon coast and I even took that little quiz on Facebook, you know the one - "Where should you live?" - and outcome said that I would be a perfect fit in Portland! He asked me if I had ever been to Portland (I hadn't)...and if so, have I ever spent a winter there. He said it was bitterly cold. And if you're homeless you won't survive on the street. So he came here to sunny southern California. And then his first week on the street his phone and ID were stolen. Talk about bad luck.
So what is this 19 year old kid doing homeless? I asked if he had family. His mother died when he was very young of lymphoma. And he had never known his father. "Who raised you, I asked?" He said he did...he managed. He slept wherever he could at different people's homes that took him in. I asked if he had gone to school. He was able to graduate high school, but only because his old girlfriend's parents had taken him in and allowed him to stay with them. And that was pretty much it. No family, no support systems. Completely on his own.
But I can still see hope in Joseph's eyes, and that is what is needed for him to help himself to get off the street. There are r
esources out there, and connections that need to be made, but he will need to be persistent and patient, to try to make a life for himself. It's very difficult with out family and a support system. And I'll take my own advice now and be just as persistent in trying to find him some help. With that, and continued prayer, I am hopeful that we'll be able to help.
We get so much love and support from our families. This is a huge blessing. This week, we had family visiting us from Argentina, and as I was trying to think about what to share with you, I was thinking about Joseph, my week's events, and it all came together. Family. In Armenian, the word family is "Undaneek". Literally it translates to "under the roof". In other words, people that share a household...or are under one roof. And in a practical sense, that's true. But there is extended family, and then family of the heart as well. Like I said, my cousins are visiting us from Buenos Aires. I never really thought of how we are related at all. Only that we are cousins. When I was a kid, my grandmother would tell us about our our Uncle Nubar, Auntie Zabelle and Uncle Gughmez in South America. She would share letters with us that contained photos of them, and my cousins. My Uncle Gughmez came to America to visit grandma in the late 70's and we had a great time showing him all around our city and getting to know him. Some thirty-five years ago, when I married Ani's dad, my South American cousins made the trip and came to our wedding. And I got to meet them. Making connections. When my sister Sona got married, my cousins again came out. My cousin Sonia was even in her wedding. And through the years my family has kept in touch. It wasn't really until a couple days ago that I tried to figure out HOW we were related. It turns out that my grandmother (who had gone through the genocide), and Uncle Noubar's father were first cousins. That goes wayyyy back, right?
But here's what I'm getting at. Two nights ago, my sister in law and brother invited us over to dinner to visit
with our cousins. We shared a very fun night with my cousin Martha and her husband Tato, and their two children. We were hugging, laughing, reminiscing as if we see each other all the time. There is this family bond there. And although we don't see them for years at a time, there is love there that bonds us together and we can pick up right where we left off. We are family in the true sense. And this trip, Martha's kids were able to bond with my sister's Sona's kids. And the bond is made and will continue.
On our way home that night, Mamajan and I were talking about what a nice evening we had. We owe this family bond to her, really. Even though the relationship is on my father's side, it was always my mother that kept the connections. It was mom that would write letters and update their family with our news. And it's always been my mom that connected our relatives in Armenia as well, again on my father's side. Interesting. So we talked a little bit about that on our drive home as well.
My mom is the child of genocide survivors. Because of this, other than her mother and father, brother and sister, she had no family to grow up with. Her grandparents, aunts and uncles had been killed by the Turks. Her parents where left orphaned and met in the orphanage in Aleppo. It actually wasn't until my grandmother was in her 30's that she found out that her two brothers - two out of the six children - had made it through the genocide and were living in France. They reunited. My two uncles in Marseilles, had started their families there...and so we have cousins there in Marseilles as well. My mom grew up knowing that she had family, but they were overseas. Mind you, in those days, there was no internet, and calling overseas would have been way too costly. So she wrote letters to the family that she longed for. And they wrote back. When my mom was a teen, her cousin Rouben came to America and spent a year or so living with them. Finally, family.
And then when Mamajan married Babajan, his my father's family became my mother's family. Whether they were in Armenia or Buenos Aires, her longing for family kept it all together. Mom shared with me what my Uncle Gughmez had told her back in the 70's. He told her it was important to keep the ties of family tight, because the world was uncertain. If there was turmoil or problems in one country, you would always have a home with your family abroad. My nephew just returned from a work study in Buenos Aires. He spent 5 months working on his Masters degree there. And he was able to make his own connections to our family there who opened their hearts and home to him during his stay. Deeper connections made.
Our stories are not uncommon though. We're Armenian. Those that made it through the genocide were scattered all over the world, having to fend for themselves and rebuild their lives. Holding on to each other, blood relations or "family of the heart" in order to survive. Our immediate families include our grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, inlaws, and an array of "aunties" and "uncles" that are close enough to be family...and so they are! When I've spoken of our family get togethers to my non-Armenian friends, they've been blown away by my refering to cooking for a small group of 20 or so "because the whole family won't be able to make it." We've been brought up to view the family as sacred. And to cherish the family ties that bind us together whether connected through bloodlines or not.
In a sense, I think the internet has kept those connections together for the new generation. I know that my niece will now add her South American cousins to her Facebook friends, and they will be able to share their lives together as well. But I'm also seeing the downside to it too.. My mother is a letter writer, and I think that's a lost art. As much as I love to write, my letters to family are through email. Here today, and in your computer's trash bin the next. They are not lasting...unless you file them in a folder, but even that is fleeting. How many things moved things to a folder to save only to lose track of where I've saved them on my laptop. As Mamajan gets older, I'm understanding that perhaps I will need to take over that gift. The gift of tieing us all together through something more permanent...the handwritten letter. Before the internet, I too used to write to my cousins in France. I had met them when my mom and I took a trip when I was a teen. We wrote the first year or two, but through the years, I stopped writing. I couldn't write in French and I'm not confident in writing Armenian. My cousins can't read Armenian, and didn't read English...so we stopped. But now I'm thinking that it doesn't really matter what language I write in as long as I write. The letter will always get translated one way or the other, and the true language of the letter will be love. Love is understood by all.
We are so very blessed to have this beautiful family that spread out worldwide. Family in Armenia...family here in the states, family in Buenos Aires and Marseilles. And then I think of my family of the heart...in London, in Australia, in Japan...all over. Beautiful connections of love and support to share the ups and downs of life with. God bless all our families and keep us tied together with love always. And to my cousins Martha, Tato, Philip and Anush, have a safe trip back....and we miss you already!
I've shared with you my desire to have a job where I can work with the homeless or needy population. And for a while I was so down on being where I am at my office job. But I have also been working on surrendering my will and focusing on being grateful for what I DO have rather than what I don't. And this week showed me that I am where I need to be for now. Because of my job downtown, I may not be working directly with the homeless, but I do get to interact with them. Because of our In His Shoes homeless outreach, over the years, I've made some contacts with various agencies that may be able to help him. And so for now, Joseph was able to use these resources to take a shower, wash his clothes, and get cleaned up. He is still on the street, and we're still working on getting him off the street and into a shelter with a program to help him get a job and some life skills. Like I said, we're working on it.The first few times I met Joseph, I gave him money and food on my way into the office. The next time I saw him, he was sitting on the corner of 7th and Fig with his sign, and I was stopped at the red light waiting to cross, and I asked him, "So what's your story?" I think I surprised him. "What's my story?" "Yeah, why are you here? what brought you here?" So we started talking. He's here from Portland, Oregon. When I heard that I said, "Portland? You left Portland to come here?" After all, I loved the Oregon coast and I even took that little quiz on Facebook, you know the one - "Where should you live?" - and outcome said that I would be a perfect fit in Portland! He asked me if I had ever been to Portland (I hadn't)...and if so, have I ever spent a winter there. He said it was bitterly cold. And if you're homeless you won't survive on the street. So he came here to sunny southern California. And then his first week on the street his phone and ID were stolen. Talk about bad luck.
So what is this 19 year old kid doing homeless? I asked if he had family. His mother died when he was very young of lymphoma. And he had never known his father. "Who raised you, I asked?" He said he did...he managed. He slept wherever he could at different people's homes that took him in. I asked if he had gone to school. He was able to graduate high school, but only because his old girlfriend's parents had taken him in and allowed him to stay with them. And that was pretty much it. No family, no support systems. Completely on his own.
But I can still see hope in Joseph's eyes, and that is what is needed for him to help himself to get off the street. There are r
esources out there, and connections that need to be made, but he will need to be persistent and patient, to try to make a life for himself. It's very difficult with out family and a support system. And I'll take my own advice now and be just as persistent in trying to find him some help. With that, and continued prayer, I am hopeful that we'll be able to help.
We get so much love and support from our families. This is a huge blessing. This week, we had family visiting us from Argentina, and as I was trying to think about what to share with you, I was thinking about Joseph, my week's events, and it all came together. Family. In Armenian, the word family is "Undaneek". Literally it translates to "under the roof". In other words, people that share a household...or are under one roof. And in a practical sense, that's true. But there is extended family, and then family of the heart as well. Like I said, my cousins are visiting us from Buenos Aires. I never really thought of how we are related at all. Only that we are cousins. When I was a kid, my grandmother would tell us about our our Uncle Nubar, Auntie Zabelle and Uncle Gughmez in South America. She would share letters with us that contained photos of them, and my cousins. My Uncle Gughmez came to America to visit grandma in the late 70's and we had a great time showing him all around our city and getting to know him. Some thirty-five years ago, when I married Ani's dad, my South American cousins made the trip and came to our wedding. And I got to meet them. Making connections. When my sister Sona got married, my cousins again came out. My cousin Sonia was even in her wedding. And through the years my family has kept in touch. It wasn't really until a couple days ago that I tried to figure out HOW we were related. It turns out that my grandmother (who had gone through the genocide), and Uncle Noubar's father were first cousins. That goes wayyyy back, right?But here's what I'm getting at. Two nights ago, my sister in law and brother invited us over to dinner to visit
 |
| Bonding time with cousins: Anush, Madilyn, Philip and Nicole |
On our way home that night, Mamajan and I were talking about what a nice evening we had. We owe this family bond to her, really. Even though the relationship is on my father's side, it was always my mother that kept the connections. It was mom that would write letters and update their family with our news. And it's always been my mom that connected our relatives in Armenia as well, again on my father's side. Interesting. So we talked a little bit about that on our drive home as well.
My mom is the child of genocide survivors. Because of this, other than her mother and father, brother and sister, she had no family to grow up with. Her grandparents, aunts and uncles had been killed by the Turks. Her parents where left orphaned and met in the orphanage in Aleppo. It actually wasn't until my grandmother was in her 30's that she found out that her two brothers - two out of the six children - had made it through the genocide and were living in France. They reunited. My two uncles in Marseilles, had started their families there...and so we have cousins there in Marseilles as well. My mom grew up knowing that she had family, but they were overseas. Mind you, in those days, there was no internet, and calling overseas would have been way too costly. So she wrote letters to the family that she longed for. And they wrote back. When my mom was a teen, her cousin Rouben came to America and spent a year or so living with them. Finally, family.
And then when Mamajan married Babajan, his my father's family became my mother's family. Whether they were in Armenia or Buenos Aires, her longing for family kept it all together. Mom shared with me what my Uncle Gughmez had told her back in the 70's. He told her it was important to keep the ties of family tight, because the world was uncertain. If there was turmoil or problems in one country, you would always have a home with your family abroad. My nephew just returned from a work study in Buenos Aires. He spent 5 months working on his Masters degree there. And he was able to make his own connections to our family there who opened their hearts and home to him during his stay. Deeper connections made.
Our stories are not uncommon though. We're Armenian. Those that made it through the genocide were scattered all over the world, having to fend for themselves and rebuild their lives. Holding on to each other, blood relations or "family of the heart" in order to survive. Our immediate families include our grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, inlaws, and an array of "aunties" and "uncles" that are close enough to be family...and so they are! When I've spoken of our family get togethers to my non-Armenian friends, they've been blown away by my refering to cooking for a small group of 20 or so "because the whole family won't be able to make it." We've been brought up to view the family as sacred. And to cherish the family ties that bind us together whether connected through bloodlines or not.
In a sense, I think the internet has kept those connections together for the new generation. I know that my niece will now add her South American cousins to her Facebook friends, and they will be able to share their lives together as well. But I'm also seeing the downside to it too.. My mother is a letter writer, and I think that's a lost art. As much as I love to write, my letters to family are through email. Here today, and in your computer's trash bin the next. They are not lasting...unless you file them in a folder, but even that is fleeting. How many things moved things to a folder to save only to lose track of where I've saved them on my laptop. As Mamajan gets older, I'm understanding that perhaps I will need to take over that gift. The gift of tieing us all together through something more permanent...the handwritten letter. Before the internet, I too used to write to my cousins in France. I had met them when my mom and I took a trip when I was a teen. We wrote the first year or two, but through the years, I stopped writing. I couldn't write in French and I'm not confident in writing Armenian. My cousins can't read Armenian, and didn't read English...so we stopped. But now I'm thinking that it doesn't really matter what language I write in as long as I write. The letter will always get translated one way or the other, and the true language of the letter will be love. Love is understood by all.
We are so very blessed to have this beautiful family that spread out worldwide. Family in Armenia...family here in the states, family in Buenos Aires and Marseilles. And then I think of my family of the heart...in London, in Australia, in Japan...all over. Beautiful connections of love and support to share the ups and downs of life with. God bless all our families and keep us tied together with love always. And to my cousins Martha, Tato, Philip and Anush, have a safe trip back....and we miss you already!
25 April 2013
Facing Genocide Awareness and Thinking Beyond Armenian-ness
Today is April 25. It's the day after April 24 - our Armenian Genocide Day of Remembrance. The flags on the cars are off now. The Armenian political parties have all settled down. The April 24 programs are over and done with in our schools, and we're back to life as we know it. It feels like once a year, everyone comes out of the woodwork to show their Armenian-ness. The Facebook profile pictures change for April 24. Red, Blue and Orange; eternal flames, and messages of "Never Again" started popping up a few days before the 24th. Don't get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with remembering our past. The atrocities committed by the Turks against our people were horrific, barbaric, inhuman, and there is no justification for it. We should never forget, but, we should also not wallow in our past.
Both of my grandmothers were genocide survivors. They both lost their families in front of their eyes. Both came to the U.S. with nothing and made something of their lives. I remember growing up in their shadow. They - who had experienced the unimaginable - didn't dwell on their past. Instead, they brought us up to love God, get an education, remember to vote, love this country and be kind to others because truly, others had shown kindness to them. In other words, they focused on their lives in the present. The past was there, and yes, when we asked, they would share with us with tears. But they embraced this new country - the U.S. - and taught us that you can bloom where you're planted.
On my way into work yesterday, I read a text from my sister Susan in response to the day. It said, "Remembering and resurrecting are not annual occurrences, but embraced tragedy transformed to living love." We are a strong people with a proud heritage. It does us no good to say, "Armenians were the first nation to accept Christianity if we don't accept the Christian response - to love one and care for one another.
We can't honestly say, "Never Again" when there is a genocide going on today - TODAY - in Darfur and we turn our backs on it because the victims are not "our people". We can't look at the photos of our starving people and then turn our backs on those that are hungry and homeless in our community and globally.
The time is here for resurrection! The best way for our people to acknowledge the genocide is to show that we are victorious over the systematic annihilation of our people that was the dream of the Ottoman Turks. I am proud to be involved in our outreach organization, In His Shoes. This organization was started as a direct response to our Armenian genocide. We as Armenians have "been there and done that!" We have been hungry, hurt, homeless, poor, lonely, starving, and yet we are still here! Now it's time to give it back. Thank God for our resurrection by walking In the Shoes of others who are suffering.
So this April 22, we partnered with Ascencia, Glendale's homeless shelter and our crew prepared dinner for the residents there in memory of our past. This is in addition to our monthly homeless outreaches to downtown's Skid Row where we have fed and clothed the people there for close to 5 years now.
We are fasting weekly for Darfur in Stop Genocide Now's 100-Day-Fast and donating our food money to the Little Ripples program - which will give young displaced Darfuri children a chance at education. And just yesterday, a small group walked - not with flags and banners, but with their hearts full of love and compassion - 17.5 kilometers from Pasadena to the Armenian Genocide Monument -- remembering one genocide, by working toward stopping another one. We have the power.
There is a beautiful remembrance banner I saw on Facebook yesterday. It says, "Cut my branches, burn my leaves, but you'll never touch my roots". Let's remember where our roots lie - with Faith in God, Hope for a brighter future, and Love for one another. Armenian or not.
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You can hear the audio version of this blog post on this week's episode of "The Next Step with Fr. Vazken" on epostle.net or available for download at your itunes store.
To get involved or donate to In His Shoes, please visit www.inhisshoes.org
02 June 2011
Memories of Grandma - or - Who's in the Mirror?
My grandmother lived in a duplex on the corner of our block. She was a survivor of the Armenian genocide, a strong woman of faith, a proud American citizen, and an avid reader. Se loved to knit, crochet and do needlework. She also loved to garden. I think because of the horrors she witnessed during the genocide, the beauty of her garden, the colors, the "life" it held were important and therapeutic to her. She had a small vegetable garden in the courtyard of her duplex where she grew swiss chard, tomatoes and parsley. While she tended to the garden, I would play waitress with her, pretending to take her order on an ivy leaf that was my pretend pad.
She lived on the top floor of the duplex. When you walked into her home, you would stare right at the stairs that led up to her living space. Her house smelled like a mixture of palmolive soap and onions, and it was always cool in temperature in the grandma's house sort of way. As a little girl, one thing that I remember are the large gardening shears that were always on the second stair of the staircase. I remember how huge and sharp they looked, like old rusty giant's scissors. My grandma would use these scissors to edge the grass of her front yard. Not the garden itself, but the grass that grows in the sidewalk sections.
She took a lot of pride in her garden. Her knees were bad, and she'd sit on the sidewalk, one knee extended, one knee bent, and she would snip the grass where it hit the edge of the walkway, scooting herself down the plot as she worked. Her flower garden was beautiful. She grew fuschia flowers, the pods of which my brother and I would love to "pop" as they hung down in clusters. She loved showy dahlias and roses, and most especially she loved to grow oriental poppies. She would harvest the seed pods of the poppies and collect the seeds to put on her boregs and fresh baked bread. Once she shared with me that when she and her friends were children in Armenia, she would work in the poppy fields, harvesting the pods for opium. The beautiful red, ruffled blooms brought back happy memories of her childhood.
I've been thinking about my grandmother a lot lately. When my life feels like it starts to get overwhelming, I think of her and her quiet strength, her faith, and her inner peace. She had a soft face, a broad nose, her hair was long and always coiled into a bun that was pinned up at the nap of her neck. Her stockings were knotted at the knees. Plain. No make up. Basic. Despite my health issues, compared to her life and what she had to endure as a survivor, raising a child as a single widowed mother, my life is a piece of cake.
Lately, when I look in the mirror, I've been seeing my grandmother. When I was young, I looked like my father; as I grow older, I look like my mother; but there are certain times, when my hair is pulled back, when I have no make up on, when I'm just plain ol' me when I look like my grandmother. And last month, when my brother and sister came to visit me in the hospital after the mastectomy, I heard them whisper it to each other, "She looks like grandma!" My ears heard it...and I was glad, because I thought I had been imagining it.
And the similarities don't end with looks. I too like to knit and crochet, I love to read, and I find a great peace in spending time in my garden. Although I haven't had luck growing poppies, I do love to grow my vegetables and flowers. Like her, I have bad knees and can't squat, so I do sit...and bend just like she used to.
Yesterday, my sister Susan came over to help me weed the garden since I'm not able to pull and use my arm too well yet. Two sisters-in-law, but truly more like sisters, we worked together - Susan turning over and loosening the dirt so that I'd easily be able to pick out the grass/weeds. We cleaned up the garden together, talking, sharing while we worked. And then just like my grandma, I picked up my gardening shears and trimmed the edge of the grass against the concrete. We finished, and came into my cool house -- was it me? or did it smell like palmolive soap and onions? I went into the bathroom to wash up, and there she was in the mirror. I look like my grandma. It's a nice reminder of someone that I miss and hold so dear.
She lived on the top floor of the duplex. When you walked into her home, you would stare right at the stairs that led up to her living space. Her house smelled like a mixture of palmolive soap and onions, and it was always cool in temperature in the grandma's house sort of way. As a little girl, one thing that I remember are the large gardening shears that were always on the second stair of the staircase. I remember how huge and sharp they looked, like old rusty giant's scissors. My grandma would use these scissors to edge the grass of her front yard. Not the garden itself, but the grass that grows in the sidewalk sections.
She took a lot of pride in her garden. Her knees were bad, and she'd sit on the sidewalk, one knee extended, one knee bent, and she would snip the grass where it hit the edge of the walkway, scooting herself down the plot as she worked. Her flower garden was beautiful. She grew fuschia flowers, the pods of which my brother and I would love to "pop" as they hung down in clusters. She loved showy dahlias and roses, and most especially she loved to grow oriental poppies. She would harvest the seed pods of the poppies and collect the seeds to put on her boregs and fresh baked bread. Once she shared with me that when she and her friends were children in Armenia, she would work in the poppy fields, harvesting the pods for opium. The beautiful red, ruffled blooms brought back happy memories of her childhood.
I've been thinking about my grandmother a lot lately. When my life feels like it starts to get overwhelming, I think of her and her quiet strength, her faith, and her inner peace. She had a soft face, a broad nose, her hair was long and always coiled into a bun that was pinned up at the nap of her neck. Her stockings were knotted at the knees. Plain. No make up. Basic. Despite my health issues, compared to her life and what she had to endure as a survivor, raising a child as a single widowed mother, my life is a piece of cake.
Lately, when I look in the mirror, I've been seeing my grandmother. When I was young, I looked like my father; as I grow older, I look like my mother; but there are certain times, when my hair is pulled back, when I have no make up on, when I'm just plain ol' me when I look like my grandmother. And last month, when my brother and sister came to visit me in the hospital after the mastectomy, I heard them whisper it to each other, "She looks like grandma!" My ears heard it...and I was glad, because I thought I had been imagining it.
And the similarities don't end with looks. I too like to knit and crochet, I love to read, and I find a great peace in spending time in my garden. Although I haven't had luck growing poppies, I do love to grow my vegetables and flowers. Like her, I have bad knees and can't squat, so I do sit...and bend just like she used to.
Yesterday, my sister Susan came over to help me weed the garden since I'm not able to pull and use my arm too well yet. Two sisters-in-law, but truly more like sisters, we worked together - Susan turning over and loosening the dirt so that I'd easily be able to pick out the grass/weeds. We cleaned up the garden together, talking, sharing while we worked. And then just like my grandma, I picked up my gardening shears and trimmed the edge of the grass against the concrete. We finished, and came into my cool house -- was it me? or did it smell like palmolive soap and onions? I went into the bathroom to wash up, and there she was in the mirror. I look like my grandma. It's a nice reminder of someone that I miss and hold so dear.
28 March 2011
Fast for Darfur
Many of you know of my involvement with In His Shoes, the outreach organization of our church. Our goal is to put ourselves in the shoes of others who are suffering in the world, to reach out to those less fortunate, and to combat evil with acts of kindness & love.
Each year on April 24, Armenians around the world commemorate the genocide that took place in 1915. My grandparents were survivors of this genocide, coming to America in the 1930's. The Ottoman Turks killed 1.5 million Armenians back then, and sadly genocide continues today throughout the world. This year, April 24 and Easter Sunday coincide, and we at In His Shoes have decided to commemorate our genocide by working to STOP A GENOCIDE. One that is happening today in Darfur. Currently 450,000 Darfuri have been killed and over 2,000,000 are displaced, living in IDP camps in Chad.
This year, on April 22 and 23, we will be fasting for Darfur. And this is where you come in. We will be raising money and awareness for Darfur. Our friends at Stop Genocide Now visit the camps in Chad where the refugees are living. They are working toward setting up schools and education programs for the children there. The funds that we raise will be going -- 100% -- toward the children of Darfur and providing them an education.
Will you help? Any amount you give is appreciated. Cash is fine. Checks can be made payable to St. Peter Armenian Church. If you need further information, please email me, or just ask.
Finally, I wanted to share a video with you. It's a message of hope from our community to the Darfuri community, and this week, it was taken to the camps and shown to the refugees. If you'd like more information about our organization, please visit our website at http://www.inhisshoes.org/, and please help!
Each year on April 24, Armenians around the world commemorate the genocide that took place in 1915. My grandparents were survivors of this genocide, coming to America in the 1930's. The Ottoman Turks killed 1.5 million Armenians back then, and sadly genocide continues today throughout the world. This year, April 24 and Easter Sunday coincide, and we at In His Shoes have decided to commemorate our genocide by working to STOP A GENOCIDE. One that is happening today in Darfur. Currently 450,000 Darfuri have been killed and over 2,000,000 are displaced, living in IDP camps in Chad.
This year, on April 22 and 23, we will be fasting for Darfur. And this is where you come in. We will be raising money and awareness for Darfur. Our friends at Stop Genocide Now visit the camps in Chad where the refugees are living. They are working toward setting up schools and education programs for the children there. The funds that we raise will be going -- 100% -- toward the children of Darfur and providing them an education.
Will you help? Any amount you give is appreciated. Cash is fine. Checks can be made payable to St. Peter Armenian Church. If you need further information, please email me, or just ask.
Finally, I wanted to share a video with you. It's a message of hope from our community to the Darfuri community, and this week, it was taken to the camps and shown to the refugees. If you'd like more information about our organization, please visit our website at http://www.inhisshoes.org/, and please help!
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