Excerpt from armenianweekly.com
Growing up Armenian in Turkey, my existence has never been passive. Rather, it has been an act of resistance.
For as long as I can remember, each summer has meant packing my bags, boarding a ferry and crossing the Bosphorus to Kınalıada Island. The simple act of preparing for this journey—stuffing my suitcase and using my ferry card—serves as a quiet ritual of remembrance. It is a way of acknowledging Armenians’ past trauma while choosing to move forward, to heal in a place where beauty grows, to celebrate life. Kınalıada is that place.
Upon arriving, the chatter at the dock shifts softly into Armenian and my soul exhales. As the tide crashes against the shoreline, I feel a calm wrap around me like a beach towel, one that only Kınalıada can provide—the freedom to be unapologetically true to who I am.
Immediately, I am greeted with the word բարեւ (parev) by Armenians who live in other parts of Istanbul, throughout Turkey or some far-off place in the world. Suddenly, I am reminded that no matter how scattered we are, we all find a sense of belonging during our summer stays in Kınalıada.