Personal details
- Birth Location: Diyarbakir, Turkey
- Professions: Actor, Composer, Music Department
Sami Hazinses, born in 1925 in Diyarbakir, was basically a legend in Turkish cinema, even if you don’t see his name plastered all over the place like some other stars. The guy had this wild, mischievous energy—always managed to sneak a bit of humor into his roles, even in the middle of serious dramas. People mostly remember him for the way he could light up a screen, whether he was cracking a joke or getting tangled up in some absurd situation. He didn’t just act, though. Nope, he had a real thing for music too. Composer credits? Yup, he’s got a few tucked under his belt. Honestly, you can’t watch old Turkish movies from the '70s without bumping into him at least once. There’s Atini Seven Kovboy: Red Kit Daltonlara Karsi from ’74—yeah, that’s the one where he’s hanging around with cowboys in a totally Turkish twist on Westerns. Or Bitirim in ’72, where he’s right in the thick of the action and chaos. And let’s not forget Tövbekar from ’77, which really showed off his more serious side. Hazinses was one of those guys who could take a bit part and turn it into a moment you actually remember. He had a style all his own—never trying too hard, just letting that natural charisma do the heavy lifting. He passed away in Istanbul in 2002, but honestly, his legacy is still all over Turkish film. You watch one of those classic movies, and there he is, probably making you laugh when you least expect it.
All his life, people just assumed he was Kurdish—nobody really bothered to dig deeper. I mean, why would they? But the real twist came only after he died. The funeral was all set to go down at the mosque, everything arranged, folks gathering in the courtyard, the usual somber rituals. Then, out of nowhere, plans changed. Suddenly, the whole ceremony got moved to the Armenian church. That’s when jaws dropped. Turns out, he wasn’t Kurdish at all—he was Armenian the whole time. Wild, right? Friends and neighbors, probably a bit stunned, pieced it together as the news drifted through the crowd. His identity had been this open secret, hidden in plain sight until the last possible moment. It’s almost poetic, honestly—a lifetime spent as one thing, revealed to be something else just as the final curtain falls. People are still talking about it, shaking their heads, wondering how nobody caught on sooner.
Konidela Ram Charan
Diyarbakir, Turkey