I never met my paternal grandfather, Athanasios Kougkias. He died years before I was born, and by the time I was old enough to ask questions, my father and all of his siblings had passed away too. I am the youngest grandchild, and for most of my life, my grandfather was just a name—one that sounded foreign, distant, and almost mythical. But something inside me refused to let his story fade into silence. I wanted to know who he was, where he came from, and what he endured to give his family a new life in America.
So I began to dig.
Growing up, I only knew him as Thomas Kougias. His headstone reads “Thos. Kougias,” and I always wondered what that meant, what his real name had been. I had never seen Thomas abbreviated as Thos. so I knew there was more to the story. It felt like a mystery – one small clue that there was more to his story than what had been passed down. Through genealogical research and help from a genealogist in Greece, I finally discovered that his birth name was Athanasios Kougkias. That moment was powerful. It felt like I had restored something sacred, something lost. I had given him back his name.
Athanasios was born in Greece—possibly in 1892, 1893, or 1895, depending on which document you believe. His hometown was Ahmetago-Deman on Evia Island, a village that was renamed Prokopi in 1927. Through DNA matches on MyHeritage and conversations with locals in Prokopi, I learned that his family may have been victims of the Greek Genocide, a brutal campaign waged against Christian Greeks by the Ottoman Turks during and after World War I. That realization hit me hard. It reframed his immigration not as a hopeful journey, but as an escape from terror.
He left Greece on June 7, 1915, aboard the Patris, departing from Piraeus and arriving at Ellis Island. This migration was part of a broader wave of Greek immigration to the U.S. between 1890 and 1921, driven largely by the desire to escape from the atrocities ravaging Greece at the time. My father used to say that Grandpa fought in the Greek army during WWI, and I believe that’s true. After arriving in the U.S., he lived in New York City, then followed the railroad westward to Moline, Illinois, and eventually settled in Missouri Valley, Iowa.
He married Cecil Conley in 1922 and became a U.S. citizen in 1928. He worked for Union Pacific Railroad as an engineer until his death in 1963. He was also the man behind the little steam engine in the park that children of all ages loved to ride, where my grandmother and their children sold tickets. He was a gardener, a winemaker, and a quiet pillar of his community. He sent money back to Greece for years, until contact with his mother was lost during WWII. I’ve heard he had two brothers and two sisters, but I haven’t been able to trace them – yet.
What moves me most is how much he gave up. He left behind his homeland, his family, and his language. He endured war, displacement, and the loneliness of starting over in a foreign land. And yet, he built a life. He raised seven children. He worked hard. He survived.
I’ve made it my mission to keep his memory alive. I’m applying for Greek citizenship as his granddaughter – a way to reclaim the heritage he was forced to leave behind. I’m also writing my dissertation on the Greek Genocide, the very tragedy that likely drove him to flee his homeland. The genocide targeted Christian Greeks in the Ottoman Empire between 1913 and 1923. This work is personal. It’s my way of honoring Athanasios and ensuring that his story, and the stories of so many others like him, are not forgotten.
In researching his life, I’ve come to understand that family history is more than names and dates. It’s about resilience. It’s about love and sacrifice. It’s about the quiet strength of those who came before us, whose choices shape our lives in ways we may never fully grasp.
I never got to sit beside my grandfather or hear his voice. But through this journey, I’ve come to know him. And I carry him with me – in my work, in my heart, and in the legacy I hope to pass on.
Athanasios Kougkias may have been forgotten by history, but he will not be forgotten by me.
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