N.D.
My grandma Nouritza was from Western Armenia, Sivas (Sepasdia). She was 8 or 9 years old, when the Armenian Genocide happened, and as she’d used to remember, she was a member of a big family.
Forced to leave their houses and everything they had, my grandma was taken to the church and through there, holding her sick mom’s hand, started walking a long way, without knowing where they were taken.
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On their way, a kurd horse soldier had taken her from her mom, promising to find her after a while and give back the kid. My grandma had lived with the kurd and his family for a while, playing with their kids and even praying as muslims do.
“One day, our neighbor called me to her place and twisting my ear told me, that I’m ARMENIAN and it’s not right to pray like the muslims. By that time I understood that I’m different from the family I’m living with”, used to tell my grandma.
She’d used to remember their neighbor with great thanks, as she’d helped her to move to an orphanage, through where she’d been adopted by a priest and his wife.