The unknown story of Bergen's Armenian people -- a group that comprises one-half of one percent of the county's population, according to 2007 U.S. census data -- begins much like that of many immigrant groups: Forced from their homes by enemy oppressors, they cross an ocean to find a better life in the giant American melting pot. They set up roots in a few clusters across the U.S. -- proximity to New York and silk mills in Paterson making Bergen an obvious choice -- and build a community with the church at its center.

Then their story veers. They achieve great success by emphasizing education and community, allowing them to move from Paterson to Fort Lee and Englewood Cliffs, and eventually, to communities even more affluent. As soon as they can, they start giving back; this group's influence is now all over Bergen: In a medical center pavilion named for philanthropists Sarkis and Siran Gabrellian. In the county's four Armenian churches and the Hovnanian School in New Milford. In the library donated by Hekemian family members to honor their father, Samuel Hekemian, a successful real estate developer.

The Armenians who populate this corner of northern New Jersey are extremely proud of their accomplishments. "Armenians go back 3,000 years or more," says Dennis Papazian, former dean and director of Armenian research at the University of Michigan-Dearborn, who now lives in Woodcliff Lake. "You don't last that long as a people unless you've got something going for you."

Karen Topjian, born and raised in Bergen, who founded MCM Designs, explains what that something might be: "We are close knit, family-oriented, education-oriented, community-service oriented," she says. "Those core values have guided usÉChristian faith has also guided us."

COMING TO AMERICA

Though Armenians have thrived in America and in Bergen, most did not come to this country by choice. Rather, in 1915 and 1916, they fled present-day Armenia to escape persecution and killings by the Ottoman Turks, according to Peter Balakian's historical memoir, Black Dog of Fate: An American Son Uncovers His Armenian Past.

Though the Armenian death toll from the period is murky, historians put the number anywhere from 1.5 to two million. The Turkish government estimates it was closer to 500,000 people. But the actual number doesn't matter to Gregory Amerkanian, who works for Merrill Lynch. "It was 50 percent of our population," he says. "It was an attempt to exterminate our population."

All but one of 15 people interviewed for this article recounted personal stories of family members who fled from or died during this persecution. Yet all these years later, the subject remains touchy. Turkey has yet to officially recognize what much of the world calls genocide, instead attributing the deaths to World War I. The border between the two countries has been closed since 1993 (though in August, they took the first steps toward establishing diplomatic ties and reopening the border). Regardless of how the world recognizes the massacre, it's a significant part of most Armenian families' history -- whether openly or simmering somewhere below the surface.

When Balakian was a child, for example, his family didn't discuss the genocide, particularly around his grandmother, who survived a death march. But today, he speaks about it openly, within his family and as an author and professor. "I don't think you can separate one of the greatest human rights catastrophes from the identity of the [Armenian] people," he says. "We're all connected to that event. Whether we want to emphasize this connection or not is a personal matter."

His 25-year-old daughter Sophia Balakian also turned these lessons into a career, working for a non-profit that teaches teachers how to discuss human rights abuses, including the Holocaust, the U.S. Civil Rights movement and the Armenian genocide. "I grew up with it as a major narrative in my life," she says about the genocide. "I, as a descendant of a survivor, have an ethical obligation to deal with these issues." Many Armenians share her sentiment, particularly in light of the Turkish government's inaction.

Acknowledgement by Turkey would go a long way toward healing old wounds, says Rose Zenian Cravotta, from Englewood Cliffs. But, she adds, Armenians don't need recognition or an apology to honor those who died. Each April, they hold two memorial services, one at the Bergen County Courthouse in Hackensack, the other in New York City's Times Square. The idea, says Arthur Halvagian, a real estate developer living in Paramus, is to remember what happened, educate others and prevent its recurrence. "We were taught to understand that the genocide took place, but we weren't taught to be vindictive or hateful about it," he says. "You forgive, but you don't forget."

THE FIRST CHRISTIANS

Forgiving but not forgetting allows Bergen Armenians -- and Armenians everywhere -- to move forward, to focus on other aspects of their beloved culture. "It's not the only thing that defines being Armenian," author Balakian says, about the genocide. In fact, "Armenians are very proud of the fact that they are the first Christian culture."

Very proud is almost an understatement. Most Armenians know and will share that nugget if given the opportunity, wearing it like a badge of honor, a testament to their place in religious history. Since 301 AD, when Armenia was decreed the first Christian nation, religion has been at the core of Armenian communities worldwide, no matter how small or large the local population. "Just get a few of us together and we build a church," Cravotta says. Armenians in Bergen have followed suit.

In the early 1900s, present-day Armenia produced silk. When groups of Armenians emmigrated to America and landed in New York harbor, they logically sought a place to put to use the skills they already possessed. During that period, Paterson was home to many silk mills, making it an ideal starting home, says Ridgewood resident Dawn Hourdajian. "Paterson was where they could find work," she adds.

One of the area's first Armenian churches, St. Leon, went up in Paterson shortly thereafter. In 1965, almost 30 years after its founding, the church moved to Fair Lawn, where it still stands and where its membership has grown to almost 450 families (slightly less than 10 percent of Bergen's Armenian population), says Father Diran Bohajian, St. Leon's priest for the past decade.

Three other churches in Bergen -- in Tenafly, Ridgefield and Paramus -- serve the rest of the Armenian population. But these religious institutions don't exist in silos, Bohajian says; once every month or two, the clergy get together, usually for breakfast. "We're all Armenian. We serve in different denominations," he says. "But the common denominator is that we have that Armenian identity which binds us together."

Not just a religious identity, but an Armenian identity. This minute -- but crucial -- distinction helps explain just what a central role the church plays for Armenians today. It's not merely a religious center, but a moral and social one, too. "When immigrants came over, this is what they knew," Hourdajian says. "Probably more so than many other ethnic groups, that has remained so today."

GIVE THANKS, GIVE BACK

This makes Armenians across Bergen a close-knit community, despite being a small population percentage. They place a premium on education -- for example, the Armenian college-completion rate is 88 percent higher than the national average, according to the book America in Black and White -- and this push toward schooling has produced scores of professionals. "Armenians are becoming doctors and lawyers left and right," says Englewood Cliffs resident Artemis Nazarian.

She might add philanthropists to that list; Nazarian and her husband Nazar have donated numerous buildings, scholarships and money in and around Bergen and Armenia. The Nazarians aren't the only ones. Hackensack University Medical Center (HUMC) and St. Joseph's Regional Medical Center have received much Armenian goodwill.

At St. Joseph's, Harout Mekhjian, a retired cardiac surgeon, started the first cardiac surgery program in the area. For many years, he would make an annual pilgrimage to Armenia, where he would perform, pro bono, much-needed cardiac surgery. Joseph Basralian was chief of urology at Hackensack, where his son, Kevin Basralian, is currently a urologist. (Karen Topjian, quoted above, and Joseph Basralian Jr., a prominent Bergen lawyer, are also Joseph's children.) The Gabrellian and Sanzari families have both contributed financially to HUMC.

Mekhjian says it's because Armenians feel fortunate for their opportunities and achievements. "Armenians are always grateful, and they have been very successful, many of them, in this beautiful country," he says. "They like to return what they have gained. They are also attached to their motherland." Cliffside Park resident Alice Movsesian, former chief financial officer for suit maker Beaderman Industries, puts it another way. "Armenians are funny," she says. "If they had $5, $2 went to the people." The earthquake that struck Armenia in the late 1980s (when the country was still part of the Soviet Union) is a prime example.

When real estate developer Arthur Halvagian heard about the devastation, he took the first flight to Armenia. He soon received a fax from an Armenian mother asking him to adopt her son. 'Only you can save his life,' it read. "When you get something like that, it wakes you up," Halvagian says. "Nobody gives away their kid." A little research revealed that the child had a severe heart condition. Thirteen days later, the boy was in the United States having the heart surgery that saved his life.

From there, Medical Outreach for Armenians was born, chaired by Halvagian and assisted by Movsesian. Since inception, the organization has brought 350 Armenian children to America for medical care and helped start a pediatric heart hospital in Armenia. Since 1989, the hospital has performed 15,000 operations.

In the Bergen medical world -- and the larger community -- the list of Armenian philanthropy goes on. Dr. John Apovian, director of the Ambulatory Care Clinic at HUMC, who served as a physician there for more than 50 years, explains. "We help each other as much as we can," he says. "Once you get to know good people who understand and who want to help communities and help people, they uniteÉBefore you know it, something builds up."

The goodwill touches all corners of the county, not just through organizations like the Armenian General Benevolent Union or the Armenian Missionary Association of America, which both support Armenians here and abroad, but with the help of individuals. "The Armenians throughout Bergen have been supportive of their churches, Armenian causes, Armenian charities as well as non-Armenian charities," says Joseph Basralian, Jr., partner at Winne Banta Hetherington Basralian & Kahn P.C.

"They don't talk about it. They just do it," he says. "There's an old saying: 'Imagine how much good you can do if you don't care who takes the credit.'"

WHAT'S IN A LAST NAME?

Armenian surnames are often tricky to pronounce, twisting the tongue of even the most well-intentioned trying to state one out loud. "Armenian names always sound so intimidating," says Dawn Hourdajian, a Ridgewood resident and guidance counselor at Tenafly High School.

There's a simple reason, she explains. The Armenian language has its own alphabet, with letters and sounds that the American alphabet frequently can't duplicate. So when Armenians emmigrated through Ellis Island, names changed based on what specific immigration officers heard and translated. If members of the same family arrived in the U.S. at different times, they may have differently spelled and pronounced last names today.

In truth, most Armenian names are quite logical; -ian, the typical ending means "son of." Hourdajian's maiden name, Dabbakian, breaks down as follows: dabbak means "tanner" or "someone who tanned hides", -ian means "son of". So she was the son of a tanner. "The long names actually translate to Johnson, Peterson, whatever your family's trade was," she says.

Next time you come across a name ending in -ian, ask about that person's heritage.