My father once told me about my ancestors. More specifically the things that they sacrificed in order to give us a better opportunity in life. My great-great-grandfather Socrates was a survivor of the Armenian genocide (Sometimes referred to as the Greek genocide in some regions) , an atrocity that lasted from “,1915 until 1924”. Contrary to popular belief, the genocide wasn’t exclusive to just Armenians. It is also inclusive to the Archaic speaking Greeks of the Black Sea region of northeastern Anatolia, as well as the Assyrians. Having lost his grandfather, father, and mother, young Socrates and his brother Xenephon were promptly deported via ship to an orphanage in Athens, Greece. From there, they separated from each other and moved to different villages made to accommodate the Greek refugees fleeing the Anatolian Peninsula. 

However, I never realized who my ancestors were; I never really knew anything about my bloodline either, until the 7th grade. I always thought of myself as an assimilated Pontic Greek, a people who materialized into modern Greek culture, thus losing their history and identity. At the end of the day we will always be Greek, but historically we had differences which were only unique to us. In the summer of 2021 AD, my father unraveled the secret story of my forefathers, when I was lucky enough to visit my ancestors' graves in my village cemetery. Specifically, my Great-Great-Grandfather Socrates’s tomb. I thought about this as my family walked. The cemetery was located further away from the village, as though not to disrupt the deceased. It’s located on top of a hill somewhat isolated from the neighboring settlement; however, there happens to be a main road that connects it. I consider this road to be holy; it acts like the arteries connecting the heart to the rest of the body. There also happens to be a small church with a donation box encouraging the visitors to pay tribute to the cemetery and to their ancestors. I must also draw attention to the pristine pine, cypress and oak trees that engulfed the surroundings of the cemetery. I felt a sense of privacy and seclusion from society and the rest of the world, as if God wanted me to redirect my attention away from the distractions of modernity, and instead encourage me to draw attention to my ancestors, who fought for my religious freedoms.

 On this exquisitely sunny day, the light blazes its heat on the reflecting earth and soil; my relatives come to the predicament of paying tribute to our deceased kin. All of us, one large unit of generations all stemming from only a few bygone individuals lost in history. We walked in unison. It was a very precious day; only God would have guaranteed us such conditions. As we reached the rather secluded grounds which compose the cemetery, we found ourselves gazing at the Main gate. The entrance gate is made out of old iron, lacking renovations but still showing its history of service as the cementary’s gate.

We pass the gate, each and every one of us, one by one we go, like little prairie dogs coming out of their holes. The air around the tombs, being of historical importance, is suffused  with the fumes and aroma of incense. The marble from which each tombstone was hewn showed the history to which it has succumbed. I should note, however, that in my village all the tombs have an upper part (Katheti Stili), which contains a photograph of that person, there's also a glass sliding door, enabling us to take anything in and out of that confined space. Typically there would be  candles next to that photograph, or on the tomb, lit by the deceased person’s relatives as a sign of remorse and respect. 

When I first visited grandfather Socrates and his tomb, I felt very spiritually connected with that picture. As if I witnessed something never experienced before. I began to shed a tear, despite me never meeting him in real life. Under his photograph there happened to be an engraving onto the marble tomb itself which read as follows...SOCRATES TSENTEKIDIS (1908-1998). 

Standing beside me, my dad   spoke, his voice filled with nostalgia, “That's him son, the one I told you about.” I began looking in the same direction which he happened to be looking at. 

I observed his facial features and physicality. Yes, indeed, there happened to be some genetic similarities shared amongst us; however his jaw shape and nose were rather different. Could’ve been the food people happened to consume back in those days. They say nutrition affects your bones, especially your jaw and skull. Eventually such thoughts flew over my head, I wanted to learn more about him and his family, I wanted to visit my ancestral homeland back in modern day Turkey. Back in the snow-capped mountains of the Pontic Alps, renowned for their pristine crystalized glare, which reflects off of the peaks of the mountains. These mountains also happen to be the source for Turkey's largest river which is the longest river flowing entirely within the country, the Kizilirmak river (Red River), gradually increasing in size as it continues to flow down from the peaks to the foothills, and to the plateaus just south. My ancestors' physical attributes resemble that of his homeland, as if Socrates was adapted to live in that specific region. The environment and place which he lived in most definitely affected his appearance. Since I share common ancestry with Socrates, I myself carry some of his genetics. All in all, I find it interesting that my appearances stem from a person like him. It's crazy to think that I have more similarities with a person who lives on the other side of the world, than with the people who live around me. 

Prior to this development, I had always presumed that anyone in my family born before the 1930’s was buried in Turkey, or so I believed. I had never known Grandfather Socrates was buried here, in Greece. Upon receiving this information, the realization of which felt like a gigantic bullet train of truth speeding at towards  me to its maximum extent, I began to question myself. How could I have been so null and gullible to the extent of which resulted in the negligence of my family's abnormal history? The thoughts in my head overwhelmed me, so I could not respond to my father’s previous statement.  

I just kept looking at my great-grandfather's grave. I wanted to memorize his face and the location of his grave so I could visit him next time I came to Greece. My ancestors fought bravely and belligerently against hordes of marauding Islamic Ottoman divisions, despite them not having many supplies or much equipment to do so. It would be shameful for me to dishonor them, especially by not attempting to become the best version of myself. My ancestors suffered greatly, to guarantee a brighter future for the generations to come. That's what I started to realize, even such distant and historical events feel so real and prevalent today. In other words the wounds may heal but the scars still remain.