EL woman, 103, survives two Armenian massacres

EAST LANSING — Asya Titova's family was scrambling to leave Artvin, a hillside town in northeastern Turkey and the only home she had ever known.

It was 1920. She was 7.

It would be years before Titova, now 103 and living in East Lansing, understood she had survived the slaughter of nearly 2 million fellow Armenians in Turkey as the Ottoman empire met its demise.

The small details of her first home have stayed with her, down to the backyard, balcony and plentiful trees. Centuries-old religious and political battles were harder for a child to understand.

Distant relatives and friends had been slaughtered during what many recognize as the first genocide of the 20th century, spanning from 1915 to 1918.

"They were not killed in front of us. They were taking them and killing and raping somewhere," Titova says in a raspy voice. She speaks in Russian. Tatyana Titova, her daughter-in-law, translates.

Titova's family felt safe, at least in the short term. Her father was a prominent local architect.

"Local people, they were kind of friendly," Asya recalls. "That's why my father didn't want to leave."

Tatyana, who knows Asya's story as if it's her own, interjects: "It was not safe. The Turkish were raping young girls, killing people. It was very, very dangerous."

Fearing more violence, Asya's father decided in 1920 to move the family north across the border to Batumi, Georgia. He died before the move.

Asya is one of two living Armenian genocide survivors in Michigan, as tracked by Michigan's Armenian Apostolic community.

Last month marked the 100th anniversary of the genocide. The Turkish government has lamented the killings, but denies that they were part of a systemic effort, contending the atrocities were a byproduct of civil war in Turkey, the onset of World War I or both.

It would not be the last campaign of violence against Armenians that Asya Titova would survive.

My home, your home

Asya married into a wealthy family and had one child in 1944. Around 1933, her young family moved to Moscow not far from Joseph Stalin's cottage retreat.

Her husband, along with many of his family members, was jailed by the Soviet government, which targeted the family for their land, Tatyana said. He was imprisoned until 1952, leaving Asya as a single mother for nearly a decade.

Toward the tail end of World War II, she hid two Jewish families in her basement while housing Nazi soldiers upstairs. Refusing the Nazis would have endangered her young family, Tatyana said.

"She saved lives of Jewish people. But Germans loved her because she's a very clean lady," Tatyana said. "They were surprised how clean their shirts were, all starched, all pressed. She was a good cook, so she baked. She cooked for them."

While a nerve-racking arrangement, the soldiers never suspected there were Jews living beneath them. Tatyana said the Nazi soldiers appreciated her housekeeping.

"They loved her. She's so skinny and small they said, 'It's our lovely, little lady. Little Asya,'" Tatyana said. "She was sure a brave lady. It was very scary, but she was not scared."

Asya, her son and Tatyana, who all lived together, made a fateful decision in 1974 to move to Baku, Azerbaijan. Asya's son, an epidemiologist, had an opportunity to do research work in Baku. The family developed an affinity for the town, but it would be short lived.

Baku pogrom

Azerbaijan led a pogrom, or organized killings, of Armenians in January of 1990, arguably with support from the Soviet government. At least 46 Armenians were killed in the pogrom, according to U.S. Senate records.

The Baku killings coincided with mass demonstrations by Armenians who demanded that Nagorno-Karabakh, a territory between Armenia and Azerbaijan, become part of Armenia., according to "Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia." Muslim Azerbaijanis, who far outnumbered the Christian Armenians, insisted the territory was theirs, according to the book.

"They were killing people. They were even killing pregnant women," Tatyana said. "They were throwing people from the windows. It was something terrible there."

Asya, her son, two grandchildren, Tatyana and Tatyana's mother, escaped Baku unharmed. They, along with their dog, packed into a single compartment on a dark train leaving Azerbaijan.

Through the help of the American government, they obtained refugee status in December 1990 and started making their way to Michigan.

The family wouldn't be spared tragedy, however.

Asya's husband, who stayed in Russia, died after the rest of the family arrived on American soil.

Survivor

Asya's never had an idle mind.

"I was working, working, working," she said. "There was no time to think about anything."

In a jumpsuit and blue and pink polka dot footie socks, Asya sits patiently as Tatyana relays her life story in English, a language Asya never learned.

She rubs her right leg with a slight wince on her face. It's time for a stroll to exercise her leg.

"She wants to walk around. Is it OK?" Tatyana asks. "When she walks she feels better."

Asya wobbles to her feet, clearly in need of a helping hand.

Tatyana motions to join her.

Asya stops in her tracks, shooing Tatyana away.

"Don't come with me. Stay with him. Help him," Asya says.

And she resumed her walk, a woman accustomed to finding her own way.

Lansing's Baku Armenians

Asya Titova and her family were among about 220 Armenians who relocated to the Lansing area from Baku, Azerbaijan, in the early 1990s through a U.S. initiative.

The Lansing Catholic Social Services Refugee Services program resettled the Armenians in Greater Lansing. Baku refugees also resettled in and around Grand Rapids and Detroit.

The refugees were generally well educated with professional backgrounds, said Helen Cirrito, who helped assimilate the refugees to the Lansing area.

"They were the elite of their society," Cirrito said. "Everyone was well educated in their country. But over here, you start at zero."

Cirrito, whose grandmothers survived the 1915 Armenian genocide, was one of several local residents who temporarily housed refugees. She also translated for refugees at medical appointments, school enrollments and, in some cases, the city lockup. Refugees, accustomed to lax rules on drinking and driving, racked-up drunken driving arrests, Cirrito said.

There was a small, existing Armenian community in Lansing before the refugees arrived, but few of them knew each other, Cirrito said. As the local Baku Armenian community grew, groups of settled Armenians welcomed newly relocated countrymen at the airport.

"It was kind of a snowball effect. Pretty soon, you have a whole community," Cirrito said.

The Armenian community here is centered around the Armenian Apostolic Church. A satellite parish of St. Johns Armenian Apostolic Church in Southfield was established at St. David's Episcopal Church in Delta Township. Those who worship regularly travel to Southfield or Dearborn for services, however.

Some of the original refugees have died, putting into question whether the already small local population will continue as a distinct community, Cirrito said.

"It's an uphill battle. Right now we don't have any young people involved," she said. "It's not going to get any stronger."