My Armenian Story of Survival

My father was born in Agin Turkey in 1906. He was the youngest of eight children, and his oldest sister was 20 years older than himself. When he was a baby, his father died. When he was five years old, his mother died. Before she died, she prayed that the Lord would watch over her little boy and keep him safe. After she died, my father went to live with his two older sisters. Apparently they were not able to take proper care of him. The brother that was immediately older than him, saw this situation, and offered to bring my father to the orphanage where this brother lived. When my father left his sisters' home he said "When I miss you, I'll come back."Unfortunately, the orphanage would not accept my father, because they did not take two children from the same family. My uncle, being very resourceful, took my father to the marketplace and cried out. "I have a cute little brother here. Does anybody want to adopt him?" And someone did happily adopt him and changed his name. Unfortunately, the father of this family was killed by the Turks, and my father was passed on to another family. This scenario took place a few times and his name was changed twice. The last time that he lost a stepfather, he and his stepmother remained together and were very attached to each other emotionally. Soon after this time, they were forced into the deportation march, which was really a death march. The memories of this time I will not repeat, as they were beyond terrible and evil. Only God can avenge the sufferings of the Armenians of this time. During the death march, there were several opportunities for my father to escape. One time he learned that those who had left the march had been thrown into a lake and died. However, he did subsequently leave the march when he was given the opportunity of a better life somewhere. The people who led him out, apparently played a joke on him, and left him abandoned in the wilderness. He was still a young boy, and didn't know which way to turn. Along came some Arab nomads and offered for him to come with them, and work for them. This saved his life. However, his new owners treated him very badly. They provided him very little food, clothing or rest, and expected him to perform the work of a grown man. When he was unable to do so, they would beat him. I don't know how long he was there, but it could have been for several years. My father began to pray. He had seen a picture of Jesus somewhere in a home. He knew very little about him, but this is how he prayed. "Jesus, I am a shepherd of sheep and goats. I hear that you are the Great Shepherd. Would you take care of me like I take care of my flocks?" Sometime after that prayer, he made plans to escape this oppressive situation. The first time he tried, his owners came after him, and promised him a better life. Of course, it was not better, but much worse. His plans and prayers continued. This time, as he was fleeing, he prayed to Jesus the whole way, for him to prosper his escape. Miraculously, he was able to convince his beloved dog to return home. When he reached the city, he found out that his owner had already come and returned back home empty-handed. Apparently this was a safe city, and that the owners could not come and force him back.. He ended up in some kind of a refugee situation, and then was sent to a series of orphanages in Syria and Lebanon. At one of these orphanages, the people were sitting around a campfire, sharing their stories. My father began to share his story and said that his name was Hamasousp Haratounian. A woman, who had briefly seen him during the death march, and was now sitting around this campfire, spoke up."That is not that your real name, but your name is Sarkis Alexanian, and you have family in Egypt. At that time, they would post the names of the survivors of the genocide in the yards of the Armenian churches in the Middle East, and the relatives would go to those yards to see if any of their family had survived. So they posted my father's name in the yard of the Armenian church in Egypt. Lo and behold, his oldest brother came to the church yard, and saw the name of his baby brother. You can imagine the overflowing joy that this brother felt. He quickly arranged for my father to come to Egypt, where he and his three sisters lived. When my father approached his family, the sisters cried out "Sarkis, did you miss us and come back?" What a joyous reunion! The brother who had tried to take him to the orphanage, had also survived the Genocide, and had subsequently immigrated to Canada. Of course he too was overjoyed that his baby brother had survived, and quickly made arrangements for my father to come to Canada. In Canada, my father met some Christian evangelists on the streets of Hamilton Ontario. He then learned more about Jesus and he gave his heart to Him, the same Jesus to whom his mother had prayed for protection for her little boy, and the same Jesus to whom he had prayed for deliverance from the oppression of his Arab masters. He then went to Bible school in Winnipeg, Canada, and became eventually became a lay preacher in a remote part of Canada for a period of time. When he became sick, he returned to Ontario (a province in Canada) and opened up a rug cleaning and selling business in St. Catharines. He lived there until he died at the age of 89, always loving and serving His Lord and Saviour, Jesus, and always honouring his great Armenian heritage.

Sarkis Alexanian	Sarkis Alexanian