Our Family Exile Experience during the Assyrian/Armenian Genocide

My grandmother, Susan (or Shooshan), was Assyrian. My grandfather, Vartan, was born to an Armenian father and an Assyrian mother. Susan’s father died young, leaving behind his wife, Daya, and five daughters. To protect the family, Vartan and Susan’s mothers made a difficult decision: Vartan would marry Susan. Vartan was just 16. Susan was only 12. In that region and era, such early marriages were tragically common, driven not by tradition alone but by fear. Communities lived under the constant threat of their daughters being kidnapped and forcibly married into Muslim families. What we now recognize as child exploitation today, at the time, was a desperate strategy for survival.

After marrying Susan Yousep, Vartan Danavi settled in Urmiya, Iran, where they lived in the very household where Susan had grown up. Their life together began in the shadow of growing unrest. In 1914, the Armenian and Assyrian communities in Iran’s Azerbaijan region faced brutal persecution. Families were forced from their homes under threat of violence, triggering a wave of displacement that would become one of the darkest chapters in modern history. This wave of terror continued into 1915.

Christian families across the region were being forced from their homes, driven out by Turkish forces, often aided by Kurdish militias. Entire communities were uprooted and sent on treacherous marches into exile, stripped of food, water, and basic sanitation. My grandparents, along with thousands of others, embarked on a harrowing journey north in search of safety. They found temporary refuge in Nakhchevan, a region heavily populated by Armenians and under Russian control at the time. It’s believed they remained there for about a year. Eventually, they returned to Urmiya, Iran, hoping to reclaim their home and farmland.

Susan and Vartan began to rebuild their lives and raise their 4 children. During their return journey from Nakhchevan, Vartan’s brother was separated and later found dead, leaving behind his wife and son.

In 1918, during the final years of World War I, my grandparents faced yet another forced exile. The wave of persecution against Christian communities surged once more, driving families from their homes under threat of violence and death.

Vartan’s sister-in-law, nephew, and mother, in desperation, chose to stay behind and hide in the furnace of their home, hoping to escape detection. But the Turkish and Kurdish soldiers discovered them and in a chilling display of cruelty, the soldiers forced them to lie one atop the other and executed all three with a single shot.

Vartan joined the Assyrian militia under the command of General Agha Petros, fighting valiantly against Turkish and Kurdish forces during a time of relentless upheaval. As violence escalated, families were ordered to evacuate and seek refuge in Bakuba, Iraq. In the chaos of displacement, Susan was separated from her sisters but managed to remain with her mother and sons. Now, pregnant once again and without her husband by her side, she faced the daunting journey into exile alone. With her mother and three young sons (she lost one daughter before the exile), Susan began the bitter march toward Bakuba. The road ahead was uncertain, marked by grief, fear, and the quiet strength of a mother determined to protect what remained of her family.

Food was scarce, and the cold unforgiving. Before reaching the refugee camps in Bakuba, Susan lost her son Raman to scarlet fever in Kermanshah, Iran. Her toddler son, strapped to her back during a grueling horse ride, suffered and perished. After losing two sons, Susan went into labor mid-journey. A Kurdish woman, moved by compassion, offered shelter and assisted her through the delivery. Amid suffering, Susan gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. The next morning, Susan, with the baby wrapped as warmly as possible, continued her merciless journey. The lack of food, exposure to the elements, and unsanitary conditions proved too much. Susan’s newborn son did not survive.

When Susan and her family reached the refugee camp, they were met with a medical tent designated for the elderly and those too frail to continue. The road ahead was treacherous, and for many, it marked the end of their journey. Daya, Susan’s mother made a heartbreaking decision by staying behind, not wishing to add to her daughter’s burden.

With a heavy heart, Susan left her mother in the camp, promising to return and find her, but despite her best efforts, she never saw her mother again. The pain of that separation haunted her for the rest of her life.

She reached her destination with only her son Ivan, having survived a journey that few could endure. Her time was not yet over. God had other plans for her. Meanwhile, General Agha Petros, commander of the Assyrian army, led his troops into battle against Turkish and Kurdish forces under the direction of the British. They had been promised reinforcement support that never came. Instead, they were abandoned, left vastly outnumbered, and suffered devastating losses. Among those soldiers was my grandfather, Vartan. When the situation became untenable, the Assyrian forces were forced to retreat.

The betrayal was not accidental, it was a calculated move by the British, who had never intended to uphold their promise.

In the aftermath, many of the surviving men, including my grandfather, set out to find their families. Against all odds, my grandparents were miraculously reunited in Bakuba. But their reunion was shadowed by tragedy. Susan and Vartan lost their only remaining son, Ivan, in a devastating truck accident.

By then, Susan had lost nearly everyone except for her husband who became her anchor. Susan carried her grief quietly. She would walk to the banks of the Tigris River and cry herself to sleep, releasing sorrow into the silence of the night. The young couple remained in the refugee camp for nearly two years. During their time there, Susan became pregnant and gave birth to a healthy baby boy with striking blue eyes, my father, Samson.

By 1921, Reza Shah had begun stabilizing Iran, working to eliminate foreign threats and restore national order. In 1922, Susan and Vartan made the decision to return, but the memories of Urmiya were too painful for Vartan to bear. They chose to settle in Hamadan, a city that offered a fresh start and distance from the ghosts of the past.

After enduring two harrowing exiles and countless losses, Susan and Vartan finally found a measure of peace in Hamadan. In time, they welcomed another son, Siroon, and a daughter, Hasmik. There, they began to rebuild their lives after the second exile, slowly piecing together a future in a place that didn’t constantly remind them of what had been lost. Years later, in 1947, they moved to Tehran, which became their resting place.

Susan rarely appeared joyful, yet she never let others feel her pain. She was the kindest grandmother anyone could have known. I was too young to fully grasp the depth of her wisdom and patience, but that is how I remember her now, a woman shaped by sorrow and yet never hardened by it. Life’s harsh trials didn’t turn Susan bitter or resentful. Instead, they quietly stole her inner peace, leaving her with haunting memories she carried in silence.

I often wonder: had they not possessed such strength of character, would I be here today, writing these pages? Their endurance became the foundation upon which my life was built. I am profoundly proud of my ancestors, and I can only hope that I live in a way that makes them just as proud of me.