Identity is something we get when we are born. We do not understand it then. We might not even understand it later in life. But it will come one day to hit you and awaken you.

Some of us continue living life without thinking about our identity. We often overlook the roots given by birth. In such cases, those fellow human beings often try to become something they are not. They think that the decision they made will smooth their life. They believe it will make them more “acceptable” in the society in which they live.

I wrote this short post to pay tribute. It is dedicated to a friend and his father, who both passed away. Father died of a heart attack while driving his motorbike to visit some of his customers. He was nearly eighty years old, in great shape, a non-smoker and drinker. But his heart couldn’t stand the pain of learning that his son was diagnosed with cancer.

After some two decades, his son passed away just after organizing the marriage of his daughter.

Both of them were my genuine friends.

I learned from a father that he was three times refuge. His family escaped from Turkey in the 1920s and came to Cyprus. In 1963, they left the village of Lefka. There were intercommunal problems between the Greeks and Turks. As a result, they went to Nicosia. They lost their house in the Armenian quarter of Nicosia, the capital city of Cyprus, during the 1974 coup followed by Turkish invasion.

Father Thomas had a textile shop in the old part of Nicosia. He was well known for his honesty, strategic, and professional business practices. These were combined with a beautiful human touch. As in those days, I was selling textiles as a representative of foreign companies, I met both father and son. Father passed to me much of his wisdom and made me calmer in my expressions. He reads Cyprus Mail every day. We commented on many of the events in Cyprus and in the world. I started going out with the son for meals. Sometimes it was lunch and other times dinner. During these meals, we discussed politics, relationships, the economy, art, and history. Basically, we talked about anything and everything!

I heard this story from him, my dear friend Shnork. Now, after nearly twenty years, I have decided to write about it.

Namely, Mr. Thomas knew Turkish language, and to speak and to write and taught his son the same. After the problems became calmer and bearable, Shnork decided to visit Turkey and look for his roots! His identity! He wanted confirmation of all those stories he heard from his late father. He was going back to research his identity! Together with his brother-in-law, they visited places where his family comes from. They found nothing left from the stories his father shared with him. As he later told me, he was disappointed. They were walking around one of the villages they visited. Then, something amazing happened.

An unknown man who heard them talking in Armenian started to walk behind them. He was following them, and they both, as Shnork told me, felt uneasy. That man was waiting for them to go away from the coffee shop they visited, and then approached them.

He introduced himself in Turkish and wished them welcome in that village. When they replied and thanked him in Turkish, the man started to talk in pure Armenian. Both of us were shocked, my friend told me. We replied in Armenian and asked him how he knew the language.

We got an astonishing answer!

The man said, ” But I am Armenian! I have a family here. My wife is Turkish, my children are Turkish, and they do not know that I was born Armenian! I did not want to let them know. At first, I was afraid. Later, I thought about letting them know their father’s roots. I feared it would be a burden they could not cope with, so I decided not to do it. 

So I decided to live my life as a Turk. A good, patriarchal Turk and Muslim. I love my family, my wife, and my children. Until today, I have not often thought about my Armenian roots. Hearing you speak in Armenian stirred something inside of me. I felt the need to share my secret with you! And I do not know you, but I feel I can trust you! Thank you, brothers, for passing by here. I thank God that I found the strength to convey my secret to you.

The message is clear. Whatever we do, and wherever we go, we are not escaping our roots. Our real identity is given to us by birth, and it stays with us. 

This story was followed by the story of another friend. His ancestors escaped slaughter in another part of the world. They fled elsewhere, changed their name and surname, and became something else. After many decades, they also decided to go back and look for their roots, recognizing their real identity. About that story next time.

February 25, 2026

Darko Richard Lancelot

Philosophyofgoodnews

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