BY CATHERINE YESAYAN
Why Paris, again? The very first diasporan Armenian community that I reported on was Issy-Les-Moulineaux, which is a suburb of Paris, located on its southwest edge. That was in 2012. Since then, I’ve written a few more columns on other suburbs of Paris and Armenians in France.
I have special sentiments for Paris because my father spent years of his early life there.
Today, I’m in Paris again, and I’d like to tell you the facts that I’ve left behind. But first, a little story about how my father’s family ended up in the “City of Lights.”
Let me begin my story by going back to July 1997, when the Armenian International Women’s Association held a conference in Paris. After deciding to attend the event, I asked my paternal aunt, who lived in Denmark, to meet me there, as I wanted to learn about their life in Paris. Although she was 86 years old at that time, she accepted my invitation.
We decided to spend a Sunday in Issy-Les-Moulineaux, the suburb, where their family had lived. From Paris, we took the metro to “Issy.” I found it interesting that my aunt knew all the metro stations, because the names were still the same.
She was able to point out the stops she used to take to get around the city. I learned about the classes that she was enrolled in and the work that she had started in Paris when she was 15 or 16 years old.
When we arrived at the Issy station, we walked a short distance to their home, which was on Rue L’Abbé Derry. The gate was open, and we were able to sneak into the backyard, where I saw a row of two story, small homes. Their home was the last one.
She told me a few stories about their lives in Issy. One of their neighbors was a Russian family who had fled the Bolshevik Revolution. Their son, Nicholas, was my father’s age, and had attended the same school as him. They had become best friends for life. During that trip, we had the chance to visit Nicholas, who was then a Paris-based surgeon.
Afterwards, we walked from their home to a “cordonnerie”— a shoe repair shop, which they used to frequent, and which was still there. However, since it was a Sunday, the store was closed.
From there, we walked a very short distance to my father’s school. It was an emotional moment for me. I took a picture of the school’s entrance gate. At that time, my father was still alive, and when I returned home and I showed him the picture I had taken. he appreciated that I had made a special effort to go and see their home and his school, albeit from outside. My aunt had given me an opportunity to learn about their life in Paris.
Now, a short story about how my father’s family moved to Paris. After my grandfather graduated high school in Tehran, he was sent to France to learn a trade. While in Paris, he learned to tailor shirts at the Sulka company, which, at the time, was one of the most prestigious and expensive manufacturers of fine menswear. When he returned to Tehran, he became a tailor at the court of the sitting Shah of Persia—now Iran.
My grandfather’s dream was to return to France to raise his family in Paris. When he married my grandmother, and when, in September of 1913, they had their first child, they decided to make the move with their newborn daughter, my aunt Nelly, to Paris.
However, by the time they applied for their passports and made all the many arrangements to leave, it was the spring of 1914, and the Great War was underway. They begrudgingly cancelled their plans.
About 10 years later, in 1923, after they had three more kids, my grandfather, who still held onto his dream of returning to Paris, decided to head to Europe by himself. He arrived in Paris, found a job, and, after working for a year or so, he wrote to my grandmother to pack up, take the kids, and travel to Beirut.
The plan was that he would meet his family halfway in Beirut, and from there they would continue their journey together to Paris. My grandmother diligently followed her husband’s instructions. She got their passports, sold their belongings, hired a trustworthy driver who had his own car and would drive them up to Baghdad, Iraq. From Baghdad, another local car would take them to Beirut.
I’d like to remind you that traveling in Iran, in those days, carried many obstacles. First, the roads were not paved. Second, there were road thieves and, if the car happened to break down, there were no mechanics.
Before arriving in Baghdad, my grandmother contacted some relatives who lived in cities along the way. She informed them of her family’s upcoming trip and arranged to spend at least one night at their homes.
Their trip from Tehran to Beirut took a week. My grandfather met them in Beirut, where they stayed for a few months before taking a boat to Marseille. From there, they boarded a train to Paris.
My father’s family had a very good life in Paris. My grandfather, a tailor, had his own business and my grandmother helped him by sewing the shirts. My father would help by delivering the shirts to the clients.
According to my aunt Nelly, in 1929 the Great Depression hit Europe and the economy of France collapsed. As a result, in 1930, the family faced very hard times. After two years of struggling, in 1932 my grandfather decided to return to Tehran with his family.
Now, let me begin to tell you about my observations of this year, after arriving in Paris on June 4. Since the city was expecting a big crowd for the Olympic Games, it was in in high gear to welcome the hordes of tourists and guests.
Usually, there is graffiti painted along the sides of the freeway on the way from the airport to the city. However, this year, I didn’t see any. Maybe we were on a different road. I’m not sure.
While waiting for the trams to arrive, I noticed that the metro stations and trams were sparkling clean, with the former displaying freshly painted walls, new tiles, and new chairs to sit on.
The streets had mostly redone pavements and I saw new clean trash bins everywhere. All in all, the city was dressed to welcome the guests.
This year, I had three places to visit on my agenda. My first stop was the 100-year-old Hratchian brothers’ grocery store.
After checking the store’s address, I figured that the best way to get there was to take the metro and get off at the Basilica of Sacré Coeur station. As soon as I got off the metro, I saw the church, which was across the street.
Right by the metro station, there was a vendor who was selling different kinds of nuts with his son. I approached the vendor and asked for directions to Lamartine street, which he kindly provided. But first, I decided to cross the narrow street lined with souvenir shops, which led to the Basilica.
After taking a few snapshots in front of the Sacré Coeur church, I continued my journey by following the directions the vendor had given me. It took me about half an hour to arrive to the grocery store. I should say, on the way, I would stop to check the directions, to make sure I was on the right track. Usually, young people, with the navigation apps on their phones, were very helpful.
When I got closer to the address—N°6 Lamartine street—I noticed very bright red, blue and orange, the colors of our Armenian flag, from afar. The whole store was painted in those colors. I couldn’t have missed the bright colored store.
To tell you the truth, I was a little bit disappointed when I entered the store. It was nothing like a regular grocery store. It was more like a wholesale Middle Eastern spice retailer. I had hopes that I would see the Armenian proprietor there, however, the manager of the store, a woman who was not very talkative, said, “The Armenian owner is not here today.”
She was Greek and had been working there for 50 years. She told me that the first Hratchian to settle in Paris did so after leaving Turkey. He started the business in 1924, exactly 100 years ago. I took a few pictures of the store and left a bit disappointed.
But, in my heart, I was happy to know that, for generations, French Armenians have shopped there. “If only my aunt Nelly was alive. I could have asked her if they had ever shopped in that grocery store,” I thought to myself.
On my last day in Paris, which was a Sunday, I decided to visit the St. John the Baptist Armenian church. The church is tucked away in the “8th arrondissement” of Paris, which is considered to be the most glamorous and elegant district of the city, with high-end fashion stores, five-star hotels and, of course, an exclusive residential area.
After I got off the metro, I walked for about 10 or 15-minutes before reaching the church. I had visited that marvelously designed church a few times in the past, but never had the chance to write about it. So, this time, I made sure to get information and put it in writing.
The design of the church was inspired by the Etchmiadzin cathedral in Armenia, but on a smaller scale. The cost of the construction of the church was financed by Alexandre Mantachiants, who was a wealthy oil magnate in Tbilisi, Georgia in the turn of 19th century. Mantachiants acquired the land for 450,000 francs, and the entire cost of the project was 1.54 million francs. The church was completed in 1904 and officially consecrated on October 2 of that year.
Shortly before the liturgy was over, I exited the church and went to the back building where, from 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m., Sunday school classes are conducted. There, I met Clovis Claudine, the Sunday school teacher, who offered me details about the program. The school has about 12 students, however they’re not all present every Sunday. She said that the kids are eager to learn the Armenian language and a little bit of history.
After getting some information about the school from Claudine, I proceeded to the next room, where the women’s committee of the church prepares snacks for the parishioners each Sunday.
There, I met Albrick Der Boghossian, who is spearheading a church-sponsored Armenian Street Festival in Paris on September 15. On the day of my visit, the flyers for the event were ready, and I picked one up to keep for reference.
After that short encounter, I left the church to get to my next visit, which was to the cemetery of Père LaChaise. Before I go on, let me backtrack to a few months ago.
While I was looking to find a room on Airbnb for my stay in Paris, an availability popped up. It was a private room at an apartment close to Père LaChaise, and in close proximity to the metro station. Additionally, the owner was a Super Host on the app. Without any hesitation, I quickly booked the room. It was an excellent choice.
The Père LaChaise cemetery was one of the places that I was eager to visit. I knew that our beloved General Andranik was buried there. I had also heard that his tomb was outstanding.
So, a few days after I arrived in Paris and had comfortably situated myself in my room, I asked my host to give me directions to the cemetery, which was a block away.
Without much difficulty, I found the grave of the General and it was, indeed, exceptional. It was one of the most eloquent tombs of the cemetery, displaying General Andranik riding on his horse in white marble.
After taking a few pictures, I left very happy that I was able to see that marvelous work of art with my own eyes.
Here I’d like to give you a little history about General Andranik, who was born in the Ottoman Empire in 1865. In his 20s, he joined the Armenian Revolutionary Federation. During the Hamidian massacres, he, alongside his battalion, tried to save as many Armenians as possible.
During WWI, Andranik emerged as an accomplished military leader. He put a lot of effort into helping the victims of the genocide, however he was disappointed with the results.
His endeavors paved the way for the independence of Armenia, which was accomplished on May 28, 1918. History tells us that, in April of 1919, Andranik left Armenia due to some disagreements with his comrades. He first traveled through Europe, and then the United States. In 1922, he settled in Fresno, California, where he started a campaign to raise relief funds for Armenian refugees.
General Andranik died on August 31, 1927, in California. Following his death, there were plans to bury his remains in Armenia. However, when the convoy arrived in France, the Soviet authorities did not allow them to continue to Armenia. That’s how his remains stayed in Paris and are today buried in the Père LaChaise cemetery.General Andranik died on August 31, 1927, in California. Following his death, there were plans to bury his remains in Armenia. However, when the convoy arrived in France, the Soviet authorities did not allow them to continue to Armenia. That’s how his remains stayed in Paris and are today buried in the Père LaChaise cemetery.
You can find directions to the tomb, as well as more photos of it, online.
On that Sunday afternoon, after I visited the church, I decided to go back to Père LaChaise cemetery to look for the memorial dedicated to the souls of Armenian soldiers who died defending France during the First and Second World Wars.
The memorial is placed along the side of an alley, where there are other monuments dedicated to soldiers of different countries of origin who defended France in various wars.
The monument is made in the shape of a bell, similar to the domes of Armenian church. Unveiled on April 15, 1978, it was designed by Edouard Utudjian, H. Koutan, Jean-François Djermagian, and sculpted by Bernard André.
Another place that I wanted to visit this year was the Pantheon, where, in February of this year, the remains of Missak Manouchian and his wife Mélinée were transferred.
When I arrived to Pantheon, the doors were closed. However, on the way back, something serendipitous happened. I met a friend who had just visited the Pantheon, and said that she could give me a picture of Manouchian’s grave that she had taken it.
Now, a blurb about why the remains of Manouchian were transported to Pantheon.
Manouchian came to France as an orphan, after surviving the massacres of Armenians by the Ottoman Empire. During World War II, he became the military commissioner of a group consisting of European immigrants, including many Jews.
Manouchian and his comrades became most active in the French Resistance. They carried out assassinations and bombings on several Nazi targets.
Then, Manouchian and his troopers were arrested on November 1943 and executed by the Nazis on February 21, 1944. He is considered a hero of the French Resistance, which is why he was entombed in the Paris Pantheon.
This concludes my report on Paris. I’d like to finish this column by providing statistics that I gathered from different sources about Armenians in Paris.
There are around 300,000 Armenians living in Paris and its surrounding cities. There are three newspapers, two magazines, and three e-newsletters.
In Paris and the surrounding cities, there are several Armenian churches, which I’ve reported on in my previous columns.
There are numerous cultural and athletic clubs and organizations that preserve Armenian traditions by organzing different events, such as concerts, sporting events and festivals. And, of course, we can’t forget the Armenian General Benevolent Union and the Armenian Relief Society, which is called Blue Cross (Croix Bleue) in France.
Catherine Yesayan is a regular contributor to Asbarez, with her columns appearing under the “Community Links” heading. She can be reached at cyesayan@gmail.com.
