Armenian Genocide anniversary commemorated in Istanbul, despite Turkish pressure

ISTANBUL—The café-lined street could have been charming if it weren’t for the dozen armed police officers queued along the worn cobblestones. Leaning on body-sized riot shields and fidgeting with their Kevlar vests, the officers watch the few determined pedestrians pass through the unassuming archway.

Wedged between a tea house and an apartment complex, the headquarters for the Istanbul branch of the Human Rights Association (İnsan Haklari Derneği) hums with quiet yet determined action. Eren Keskin, co-president of the İHD, calls the room to attention. She and her colleagues sit side-by-side on a panel. Below them in Turkish, the banner reads: “The Armenian Genocide; Recognize, Apologize, Compensate.”

Addressing the camera, a panel member reads the prepared statement. She emphasizes the word soykırım: genocide. She repeats it without hesitation. “Denying genocide is not just saying ‘we didn’t do it.’ It is much worse than that. It is to make the grandchildren of the victims of the genocide relive it over and over again through the countless details of their daily lives. It is to make murderers heroes. It is to honor those who committed genocide.”

Liturgy for the martyrs, performed at the historic Surp Vartanants Armenian Church in Feriköy, IstanbulAcross town, in Surp Vartanants Church, the Armenian Patriarch of Istanbul Archbishop Sahak Mashalian II holds a solemn liturgy for all the Armenian lives taken 110 years prior, commemorating the event that would officially begin the Armenian Genocide.

At first, the attendance here is minimal as well, the clergy far outnumbering the patrons. Yet, more people arrive as the service progresses. Most in the congregation are elderly, and a few are younger. Songs of worship echo the Armenian language through the ornate interior of the church. The patriarch speaks, and candles are lit. Heads tenderly bow, and an occasional finger lifts from worship to brush a tear onto the polished stone. A young boy holds his mother’s hand as she gently shows him how to make the sign of the cross. The Istanbul Armenians have come to the one of the few places where they can remember and mourn in safety.

Still, there is a police presence here, as well: two officers smoke beside their flashing squad car. No sign of riot shields or Kevlar vests, the congregation is told that the men are here for their protection.

At the press conference, another member of the panel addresses the camera. Murad Mıhçı, Armenian politician and member of the Peoples’ Equality and Democracy Party, speaks of the need for genocide recognition: “Our region is experiencing a significant historical phase. For genuine democratization to occur, the events of 1915 must be addressed in a manner that is clearer and more comprehensible.” Mıhçı emphasizes the importance of keeping the accounts of the genocide alive, especially when it comes to orphaned children forced to assimilate into Turkish society. “Analyzing and comprehending these perspectives is crucial for the future,” he says.

Board member and Istanbul native Doğan Özkan describes the restrictions imposed on the İHD. He reminisces on years past when they were allowed to stand with their banners in Taksim Square. It has been almost 10 years since they were last allowed to publicly commemorate. “Now…they don’t let us outside,” he says. The police officers in full riot gear were placed as insurance that the İHD would follow these rules. When asked what would happen if anyone were to attempt to continue the panel outside, the answer is simple: “They will arrest us.”

The official charge against speaking about the Armenian Genocide is “Insulting the Turkish Nation” under the Turkish Penal Code 301. From the second-floor window of the İHD headquarters, the scene on the street below is clearly visible: an officer with his machine gun held across his chest stands beside a squad car. The vehicle is easily large enough to fit the entire İHD panel inside.

Istanbul city police in riot gear wait near the entrance to the Human Rights Association headquarters.

With the tightening restrictions and severely limited coverage, it has become harder to gather in remembrance and demand change. “There used to be more,” Özkan says. “Now, there are too few people.”

Still, Özkan remains hopeful. When asked if he is worried whether the Turkish government will try to silence future events regarding the Armenian Genocide, he confirms that he is not: “The time has come to change.” Özkan cites the peace talks between the Turkish government and the Kurdish Workers’ Party, describing how the president of Turkey’s far-right ultranationalist party has called for peace between ethnic groups. “We don’t think suppression will continue,” he says.

Keskin, on the other hand, shares her concerns about the tightening of rules and diminishing attendance. She describes the political party that perpetrated the Armenian Genocide in the Ottoman Empire —the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP)—and the ruling party in the modern Turkish government—the Justice and Development Party (AKP)—that holds to many of those same values. “This [current] party is so strong, they may try to make us [stop] doing these statements in the future,” she says. Despite these obstacles, Keskin continues to fight to bring awareness of the Armenian Genocide to the people of Turkey: “We keep up the struggle to continue our remembrance.”

Candles lit in prayer and remembrance

Özkan describes a piece of ivy, given to him by his girlfriend. She gathered the discarded cuttings, left over by a city removal project, and gave Özkan a small piece to plant. “I take this ivy,” he says, “and now, this ivy is [on] my balcony.” He stretches out his arm, gesturing to the entire length, shoulder to fingertips. “Now, it’s long—just one ivy.”

Özkan sees the İHD’s work like his ivy. It may start out small, but it doesn’t take much to grow into something large and impossible to ignore. “It’s important to continue the fight,” he concludes.

The banner demanding action is folded and cleared from the table. The chairs are emptied, and the door to the conference room is locked. The remaining commemorators disperse slowly, parting ways after tight embraces and gentle words.

When they exit the building, all signs of police presence are gone, leaving only bare stone walls and a few curling vines of ivy.