By Henry H. Riggs

Diarbekir

Whatever the explanation, the fact was that after allowing massacre to go on unchecked for several days, the Vali at last interfered, and while the soldiers had not proved much more kind to the remnants of those Armenian villagers than the wild Kurds, the actual organized murder had ceased.

Naturally, the Christian population of the city were in terror. Apparently they had been saved from the danger of immediate massacre, but the bloodlust had been awakened, and there was danger of its breaking forth anew at any moment. But more imminent danger was evident in their midst. The process of arrest and torture that had terrorized Harpoot had been carried on in Diarbekir with far greater vigor. The prisoners there had been tortured even more fiendishly than in Harpoot, so that those who had died under torture were very numerous. But worst than all, the remaining prisoners, two thousand in all, had two days before I arrived been sent down the Tigris river, and no one doubted that they had gone to their death.

The melancholy procession, followed by their weeping relatives, had marched out of the city gate and down to the river bank. There, with almost no preparation for a journey, they were crowded on to rafts made of inflated goatskins, and started down the river, ostensibly to exile in Mosoul. No one hoped that they would reach that destination alive, and later it proved that the fears of that day were all too well founded. The rafts upset, it was all too easy to dispose of the struggling mass, even if any could swim and tried to make their escape. I have never heard of one of those men who escaped alive.

Those two thousand included the leading Armenians of Diarbekir. One of them, whom I knew well, was a member of the Ottoman Parliament, who, in spite of being a Christian, had been elected by popular ballot in that province. His wife told me how his Turkish associates, in spite of all that he had done for them, had betrayed him to the police, and how he and his son, accustomed as they were to every comfort, had had to start out on that journey with nothing more than what they could carry in their hands. She was somewhat comforted by the promises of the guards that her husband and son would be escorted in safety to their destination. I wish I might share her hope.

On the day that these two thousand were sent into exile the Armenian bishop of Diarbekir went with them as far as the city gate, but then, I was told, the Vali ordered him back to the prison, saying, "I am going to burn your beard!" After a few days the bishop was reported to have died of typhus fever! No one believed this report, and when, the next day, I saw the sexton of that Armenian church, he told me, when we were alone together, how he had been called to the prison and given the bishop's body to take away and bury.

The body was hardly recognizable. The teeth had been extracted, the cheeks had been pierced in many places, and the beard had been burned away. Rumor had it that after the bishop had been tortured to the point of death, he had been taken out into the prison yard, saturated with oil, and, in the presence of guards and officers, burned to death. He was a man of unusual courage and aggressiveness, who, at the beginning of these troubled times, had taken active steps to appeal to Constantinople for pity on his people, and who, even in prison, had continued to make efforts in their behalf. This probably was the reason for the peculiar savagery of the treatment accorded to him.

The murder of the bishop added the last touch to the terror of the people. There had been no cessation of the arrests of men who might be found, and the result was that shops were closed and all the men [were] in hiding. Of my own personal friends there, many had already gone to their death in the river, and others dared not leave the shelter of their homes lest they, too, should fall victims to the vigilance of the police. But in the midst of all of that terror, one man seemed especially inspired of God to lead the thoughts of those hopeless people to the only source of hope and peace. The pastor of the Protestant church seemed to be the only man who was not afraid. He was an old man, long since retired from the ministry, who had consented to take charge of his own church for a few months, and who was, during those days, the pastor for the whole city.

I asked him one day if he was not afraid to go about. He smiled and said, "I suppose that it is dangerous, but I would rather go in this way than to stay at home at such a time as this." So, from home to home he went, bringing consolation and help, and every evening, in the great Protestant church, he held a service of prayer. Diarbekir is a city of many sects and of bitter feuds among them, and I never hoped to see a union service of prayer where all should meet together. But there they were, Protestants and Gregorians, Catholics, Jacobites, Chaldeans and all, drawn together by their common anguish and by the inspiring faith of that one man who led their thoughts and prayers at those evening meetings. It was an impressive and pathetic sight to see the throng bowing there in earnest prayer, each one going through the forms to which he was accustomed in his own church, but all united in the spirit of agonizing prayer to God. At the close of each service the pastor led and all joined in that chant of the ancient Armenian church, "Der Voghormia," a chant that all through the ages has voiced the despairing faith of that martyr race, "Oh Lord have mercy!"

The Martyr Host

The energy of the police in seeking out the able-bodied men among the Harpoot Armenians was rewarded by a large number of men herded into the prisons in Harpoot and Mezireh. No explanation was given of this action, which was absolutely contrary to the solemn assurances of the Vali. He had definitely promised that not one man should be sent away without his family, but that all should be released so that they might help their families on the journey. The police, on the contrary, set themselves to the task of seeing to it that not one man should be allowed to travel with his family.

As soon as the Mezireh prison was full to capacity of these men-none of whom, it should be remembered, had had any form of trial, nor even an accusation of any sort-it was necessary to empty it. Suddenly, without warning and without giving the men any opportunity to prepare for the journey, the men were started out "into exile." There were eight hundred men in prison at that time, and they included the choicest of the Armenians of Harpoot and vicinity. Bound, with their hands tied behind them, and many of them roped together in bunches of three or four, they were hurried out of the prison early one morning and marched along the road toward Malatia.

They followed the highway for about ten miles, and then were turned off toward the right, and marched up into the mountains. Soon after passing the crest of the ridge, they were marched down into a deep ravine, where they were ordered to sit on the ground. When they were all seated, bound as they were, their guards, with their rifles and bayonets, fell upon them and commenced a butchery that the imagination refuses to picture.

So huge was the task of slaughter, that three or four men succeeded in escaping from the ravine while the gendarmes were busy with the horrid labor. These fugitives scattered and hid, but were pursued and hunted out by the relentless guards, who found and butchered them in their hiding places only one escaping, so far as known. This young man, whose name I dare not reveal as he is still living in Turkey, succeeded in evading his pursuers and hiding till nightfall. Then he started out to try to return to some place of safety but lost his way in the dark and wandered all night long, not knowing which way he was going. At last, as dawn began to break, he found his bearings again, and in the gray light, stole in to the American hospital and to safety.

He it was, who brought the first authentic report of the fate of "the eight hundred." He could not explain how he had escaped from that charnelhouse. He suddenly found himself free and ran for his life. He thought that a bullet must have cut the rope with which he was tied, though it is of course conceivable that the sudden terror gave him the supernatural strength to snap the ropes in two. The horror of the experience had almost unhinged his mind. The sudden onslaught of the gendarmes, the shots and blows, the sight of his companions dropping in death agony, and their screams and struggles, all made a picture that he could not recall without breaking down. He was barefoot and footsore when he arrived and thought he must have been obliged to take off his shoes before the massacre began-a bit of fiendish forethought on the part of the butchers!

Though his story was so confused, there is no reason to doubt its incredible details, for not only was he himself a young man of unimpeachable integrity, but the details of the horrid story were fully verified by the testimony of Kurds who had seen some of the other fugitives before they were overtaken and butchered by the pursuing gendarmes. Not one of those seven hundred and ninety-nine was ever heard of again.

A few days after this party of eight hundred had met their fate, renewed activity on the part of the police filled the prisons again. This time old men and young boys were not spared as they had been at first. It was a day of horror when these survivors, infirm old men, cripples, and bedridden young boys in their early teens, gathered in by the vigor of the police, were marched off down the hill to the prison in Mezireh, whence the others had been sent out to death.

I watched from my window as the party marched by, two or three hundred men and boys, tied as were the others, and guarded by fifty gendarmes, each with his rifle and fixed bayonet. The men marched along as briskly as they could under the circumstances, though many among them were so infirm that they could hardly keep up the pace that the gendarmes demanded. Near the head of the column, at the right hand side, staggered an old man, evidently too weak to walk. He was one of my dearest friends, a man of rare character, one of the noblest and sweetest Christian gentlemen whom it has been my privilege to know. A man universally respected and loved, who during his long life had made many most devoted friends among Moslems as well as Christians.

He had been sick in bed for some time, quite unfit to be on his feet, but when the police visited his [house] to arrest him, they showed absolutely no mercy, and he was dragged from his bed and forced to walk to the prison. And that day, as he staggered along, I saw the gendarme prodding him with his bayonet to make his walk more briskly, till, in his feebleness, the old gentleman tottered out of line and nearly fell. I saw his brutal driver strike him with butt of his rifle, to strike him back into line. So beaten and terrorized, these men and boys, many of them refined and educated gentlemen, all of them altogether innocent of any suspicion of crime, not even a pretense of an accusation having been brought against any one of them, were driven along like sheep to the slaughter.

Their friends hurried down to the prison in Mezireh to try to give them some little provision for the journey if they were to travel. A few succeeded in seeing their relatives that evening, but others, who arrived a little later, were turned away with instructions to come in the morning. When they went to the prison early the next morning, the wives and daughters found that the men had already been sent out. Not one of them was ever heard of again.

During the early part of July, in addition to putting out of the way the male population of the entire province, the government officials began on the task of exiling the women and children also, beginning with the people of Huseinik, a mile from Harpoot, and of Mezireh. In these places the extinction of the men was not so complete as in Harpoot, a small proportion of the men being sent out with their families. A few of the men reached Malatia, sixty miles from Harpoot, but so far as I know, none of them lived to travel any farther than that.

It was after the middle of July when the people from the eastern half of the city of Harpoot were sent into exile. It happened that I was returning from Mezireh at that time and met the dismal procession. From a distance I could see the throng starting out from the city and winding down the road. Just before I reached the foot of the hill, I met the first of the exiles-the brisker and more energetic leading on. There were a number of young boys marching on ahead, laughing and playing as they went. They knew nothing of the meaning of the journey, and for them it was like starting off for a picnic trip. But those who followed on were in no picnic mood. Even the more fortunate ones who were strong and healthy and had no reason to dread the journey so far as the weariness of the march was concerned, and who started out with as good courage as might be expected, walked along briskly, some driving their donkeys loaded with rolls of bedding and sacks of bread.

Then came the main body of the caravan for whom the journey in itself was a terrible ordeal, even aside from the horrors which made weariness and thirst and starvation seem a matter of indifference. A good many of the families had some sort of animals on which they had loaded their little outfit for the long, long journey; and on top of each of these loads were perched two or three little ones, many of them frightened and crying in their unaccustomed seats. It was noticeable that the people, many of whom were people of wealth and culture, were all dressed in the most crude and unattractive style, evidently having tried to make themselves appear poor and unattractive. Many of the girls had cut off their hair and were dressed as boys, while I learned afterwards, though I did not note it at the time, that some of the older boys, who might be in danger because they could be considered young men, had carefully disguised themselves as women.

Not a few of that throng were personal friends, and they said their last and sad good-byes, sending last messages through me to the other missionaries. Several of the women came to me and begged in tears that I could save them from that fate, though they knew as well as I did that there was nothing that could be done. But in the face of that horrible fate they cried out for help and sympathy, and though I could give the latter, it was one of the mosf heartrending experiences of my life to hear the piteous appeals and reproaches of those crazed women, and be obliged to stand aside and see them driven along to a fate which both they and I had learned in the last few days to foresee with some degree of vividness.

They knew that the first danger would be for the few men and older boys who had survived but who could not hope to live much longer, unless they could escape the watchfulness of their guards. And then, there was the background of the more unthinkable horror that awaited any of the women and girls who might appear attractive to their lustful guards-the fear that had led so many of them to face the lesser danger of death by masquerading as boys, and made many others smear their faces so that those beautiful and refined ladies looked like repulsive hags.

The long caravan dragged itself by, and after them came the stragglers, some already far in the rear. There was a little group stopping while two of their number readjusted their footwear that was already beginning to gall 'their uriaccustomed feet. There was a poor lady so heavy and unaccustomed to walking that she had to stop repeatedly to get her breath, and was plodding along far in the rear, drenched with perspiration, followed by an impatient gendarme who was urging her to hurry. Several were delayed by trouble with their pack-animals, whose loads they did not know how to adjust, with the result that they were constantly turning and slipping off.

The last group of stragglers, far behind the caravan, was particularly pathetic. It was a young mother with her four children. She had rigged up a pair of boxes, slung over the back of her donkey, as is quite common in Turkey, and two children were riding in each box. Unfortunately, the outfit had been made up by the poor woman herself apparently, and she knew nothing of mechanical construction, so that before they had gone many yards, the affair had broken down, and she had had to stop by the roadside after the children had been tipped out on the ground. And while they lay screaming with fright and nursing their bruises, she had tied the boxes up again as best she could, and loaded up once more, and now she was walking along beside the unsteady load, holding on to prevent another upset. A gendarme was driving the donkey along and giving vent to his impatience by obscene profanity.

It was not hard to foresee what could be the result of a few more such mishaps, though the mind refuses to picture the scene that must have occurred before they had traveled much further, when, far behind the other travelers and out of sight of all human habitation, the gendarme, his patience exhausted, and his lust aroused, made an end of it all, the only witness to which, after the days had gone by and the vultures and scavenger dogs had finished their task, was the scattered heap of rags and bones that is the commonest sight by all the roadsides of Turkey.

I have spoken repeatedly of the gendarmes in connection with this deportation. The antecedents of these gendarmes are such that it was not to be expected, even under the most favorable circumstances, that they should show any mercy or pity to their suffering victims. The business of the Turkish gendarme is oppression and violence. Decent men will not ordinarily enter this service, which is ordinarily recruited from the lowest classes of the population. Even in times of peace the gendarme has an evil reputation for extortion, rapine and violence. They are the bludgeon of the government in all of its legal or illegal acts of coercion, and the deportation of the Armenians naturally fell to them as a natural part of their duties.

Unfortunately, however, before this work was begun, the majority of the gendarmes had been mustered into the army. The Turks were desperately short of men, and the gendarmes, with some sort of training and experience with arms, were the first and most valuable reserve. So the trained gendarmes, bad as they were, had gone to meet the first onslaught of the Russian armies and were replaced by sevenfold more the children of hell than themselves. An order came from Constantinople to replace these men by recruits whom no decent government would think of accepting. The order, which was published in the cities as well as in the prisons, was to the effect that any convict who could accept service as a gendarme should be given his liberty.

Needless to say, they all volunteered, the prisons were soon emptied, and the force of gendarmes was speedily brought up to full strength by the enlistment of the worst criminals in the country-hardened wretches whom even the Turkish government had found it necessary to restrain from their careers of murder, plunder and worse. These human brutes, each equipped with a rifle and bayonet, though many did not show the formality of a uniform, were turned loose on the community, charged with the business of executing the will of the Turkish government, which soon narrowed itself down to the business of exterminating the Armenians.

It had been announced that each party was to be sent out under the care and guardianship of some responsible officer. In the case of the village of Huseinik, the officers appointed to this service apparently took their duties more or less seriously, went with their wards, and apparently succeeded in preventing some of the most horrid and devastating cruelties that other parties suffered. The result of this was that later on, when news began to come of survivors in Mesopotamia, a very large proportion of those who still lived at the end of that long journey were from that single village of Huseinik. That case was, however, exceptional, for there were few men to be found who would assume such a responsibility unless they intended to profit by it in a way that was not nominally a part of their duty. One of these men returned to Harpoot with a beautiful young girl as his captive and it was reported that he had bragged that he himself had killed her father before he got possession of her.

In many cases the men so appointed never even started out with their charges, letting affairs take their own course. One man in Harpoot, whose appointment to this duty was hailed with joy by the Armenians of whom he was to be in charge, after he had learned the real nature of his duties, absolutely refused to undertake the task. He would not start out with them, and no one else was appointed, so that convoy instead of being protected on the journey with special efficiency and kindness, as they had hoped, were left to the mercy of the common gendarmes and suffered as probably no other convoy did in all of Turkey. Probably, if he had gone with them, he could have saved most of them from violence and dishonor; but he could not have saved them from starvation and disease, and being a man with some sense of honor he refused to become party to such a crime as deportation inevitably would be even under the best of supervision.

On Sunday, July 31 st, the Armenians from the western half of the city of Harpoot were driven out into exile. The day for starting had repeatedly been announced and as often postponed; and although it had been announced that that Sunday was the day of doom, we were not at all sure that the people would actually go that day till I looked out into the street in front of our houses and saw the police busy going from house to house, driving the people out from their once happy homes for that last dreaded journey. As soon as it was evident that the day had really come, I sent word to the garden where the rest of our missionaries were, and in a short time Mrs. Riggs and the others came to the city for the last tragic farewell.

In preparation for that day, the police had written in chalk over each door what was to be the fate of the inhabitants of that house. Where for some reason or other exemption had been granted, the word "Postponement" was written over the door, but for all others, the word was "Deportation." So, on that Sunday morning, the police were going from door to door, and except where the hopeful-though not very assuring-word "Postponement" offered its protection, the inhabitants of the house were roughly hurried out into the street.

Each family was preparing, as best it could, for the journey, gathering together its little load of clothes, bedding and bread. The Vali had promised repeatedly, that adequate transportation should be provided, and the police had apparently made arrangements for it, making a list of the families, and telling each family what wagons or animals would be allowed. But on that morning not a wagon appeared. There were a few animals which had been bought or hired by the people, but the government promise to provide transportation had broken down completely. Forseeing this, we had bought a number of donkeys for the most needy and helped others to do the same, so thet the people might not all be forced, as many were, to carry their outfits on their backs and their children in their arms, as they started on that endless journey.

As the people were driven out into the street, the scene of confusion was one never to be forgotten. All were trying to make their last preprations to load up their animals, or to adjust their packs on their backs. Add to this the fright and crying of the children, the wailing and the groaning of hysterical women, all accentuated by the brutal heartlessness of police and gendarmes, and the scene was indiscribable. As fast as they had gathered up their belongings, the people were hurried along the place just under the walls of our compound, where they waited for the loggards to come along. Our little band of American missionaries went along with them, and while they waited, we had opportunity to give them what little help it was in our power to give. Some had not enough to provide them food on the journey, and to some of these we started to give a little money help.

But the covetous eyes of their guards were ever watching what we did, and it was soon evident that the money would do the people more harm than good. The people themselves were unwilling to take the money, so we desisted. Moral and spiritual help could not be stolen from them however, so as long as we were permitted to do so, we went in and out among that throng, speaking as best we could, the word of faith and trust in God, that was the only possible comfort as they started out on that journey of death. For a time the police allowed us to do this unmolested, but after a while they seemed to tire of seeing us among the people, so they came and drove us out, so that we had to stand at a distance during the seemingly interminable time while the last preparations were being made.

It was a heartbreaking hour.

Excerpted from an account by Dirouhi Highgas in an interview conducted by William S. Parsons and Intersection Associates for a videotape production, "Everyone's Not Here: Families of the Armenian Genocide". Cambridge: Intersection Associates, 1989.

People in the villages watched us go by... they were watching us. I'll never forget how they were watching us. I felt so ashamed that one day I cried and I told my mother, "Everybody's watching us and we're just poor refugee people. We're not like we were when we lived in Konia. We're different now, aren't we?" She [mother] said, "No we're not different. You know what a diamond is, Dirouhi? Sometimes you put the diamond in the mud. But when you take it out, it's a diamond. Nothing will happen to it. So that's what it's going to be like for you and all the rest of the Armenians. They think we're just mud, but we're not!"

It was wonderful [having my mother say this]. She wasjust trying to make me feel better because I was so full of shame. We looked shabby, you know; I was beginning to look terrible. . . . We weren't sleeping; we weren't eating anything! So we travelled for another two days this way.

Then one day when we started early in the morning, there was no water in sight - and everyone was just dying for water . . . Then we heard someone hollering in the front of the caravan, "Water! Water!" And I remember [I looked up] and I could see a lake. The gendarmes told us to stop the caravan so we could all go ahead to the water. But oxen have a very bad habit. When they see water you can't stop them and when the oxen saw the water they just ran straight into it taking the cart and all of us with them. And then they jusi layed down and drank. The oxen destroyed a lot of the wagons.

We stayed there that night on the outskirts of a town, but in the morning it was just terrible. Everybody was sick. Nobody could stand up. It was the water we drank. I remember my mother was so sick, my grandmother, my grandfather... , Everyone had pains and dysentery... I remember thinking about all the shame and how everything was erased from our world... What happened...

I'll never forget that day. There were so many sick people and my grandfather thought we should get a few people and talk the gendarmes into letting us stay here a few days, at leastjust to see who's going to die and who's going to live. There was no way anyone could get up on their wagons. Everybody was very sick. The gendarmes said, "We'll stay tonight, but we're going to leave very early in the morning."

The next thing we saw the gendarmes taking my uncle to throw him in where all the dead people were. There were hundreds of people who died that day from dysentery. So my mother said, "Oh they're taking Stepan! There taking Stepan! They think he's dead; he's very sick!" My mother begged the gendarmes to please leave him here. "Just give him two hours" [she said] "and then you can take him any place you want." So we sat there and he got better little by little. . . . Everybody was getting a little better from the sicknesss. We [began to realize] that we're not going to die-whatever left of us there was. . . . There was no medicine. The gendarmes didn't care whether you lived or died. They didn't care.

It was a terrible thing to go through... Everybody was sick and so many died. We left so many behind. I remember when the next day the caravan started to go, and I looked back and saw so many people lying there dead.

My name is Asdadur Giragosian. My home was on the sunny side of a high mountain, in the central village of the beautiful valley of Geligozan. This valley presents a charming scene when viewed from the top of one of the surrounding mountains, with many villages scattered here and there, and clumps of huge walnut trees between, giving the valley its name, 'Valley of Walnuts.'

"Up to I894 my family was a prosperous one, as were surrounding mountains, with many villages scattered here and us were, on the whole, friendly, though they frequently practiced their habitual business of stealing cattle and sheep, but we were generally able to re-take our own, or others in their place. Our family consisted of twelve members, and we had many cattle and sheep. In the whole village were two hundred families, who possessed in the aggregate more than 15,000 sheep. Of course each of the sixty Armenian villages in the Sassun district (of which 4z are now ruined) had many cattle and sheep.

"In the spring of 1894. the Kurds began to drive away our sheep more boldly than usual. At the same time the government, suspecting that there were many armed revolutionists in Sassun, sent to search for them, but failed to find them. They then wished to arrest some of our notables and take them to Mush as revolutionists, saying, `You have revolutionary societies here.' We resisted and prevented their taking our men. As I said, the Kurds made several attacks that spring, carrying off our animals, and we pursued them and rescued the animals, killing one or two men, whom we buried so they could not find them. Twice they attacked with this result but the third time we were not able to bury the two Kurds we killed, and they carried them to Mush and showed them to the government. A great tumult resulted, and it was reported, ` The Armenians of Sassun have rebelled and massacred the Moslem inhabitants.' Also, 'They are armed with rifles and cannon.' The Turkish Government availed itself of the excuse, and instigated the Kurds to attack the Armenian villagers and massacre them. This they attempted to do, a large number attacking us, aided by many soldiers in disguise. But though the Kurds had been well armed by the government, we were able, owing to our superior position to withstand them successfully for fifteen days. The Kurds were constantly repulsed, leaving many dead and wounded. During this time the Turkish soldiers were being rapidly collected in Merge-mozan. About twenty-five battalions of soldiers were gathered there. In these fights with the Kurds we lost only seven persons, but three Armenian villages were burned.

"The assembled soldiers now began to attack. One day we heard the sound of their bugles, and for a whole day they continued to advance with great tumult and besieged Geligozan on the sides. The road to a very high mountain named Andok was left open, and we were able to carry our families and animals there, but this in a hasty manner, while fighting with Turkish soldiers. Then the army divided, one part going toward Andok, the other coming toward us. We had already left the village and taken refuge among the rocks above it. Our position enabled us to withstand them all day, but we could see that they had burned the village of Husentsik, near our own. Toward evening they made a fiercer - attack and got nearer us. Our ammunition was nearly exhausted, and we began to retreat. They now set fire to our village too, and from a distance, in the dark, we could see it burning. We fled to Andole, where our families and animals had been carried, but seeing that it was not a safe place to stay, we left it, and after a day's journey over rocks and mountains, towards evening reached a ruined church. Here we passed the night, but in the morning soldiers appeared and we hastened our flight. All our goods and most of our animals we left there. Near evening we reached a mountain named Gaia-rash (Black Castle). We were very tired and hungry, but had nothing to eat, so we hilled a sheep and ate it. But few of the villagers were to be found, the greater part having fled to other places. From this place we fled in the dark to the neighboring Kurdish village, where our Aghas (chiefs) lived. Before morning we learned that Aghpig was also burned. Our Kurdish Aghas came out from the village to defend us against the soldiers, but did not succeed, and returned to the village, and we were obliged to continue our journey, though tired and thirsty.

"When it was possible to stop, our first care was to find water and kill a sheep for food. The following day we learned that Hedink also was burned. Hearing this we fled to Heghgat, and then to a near mountain. The next morning we heard that Heghgat was burned. We descended from the mountain into a valley up which we slowly retreated, changing our position every day. But on the third day our pursuers appeared, and we left all our sheep and fled with our cattle. Soon we left the cattle too. One of my brothers, Atam, fled with the family, while my other brother, his fifteen year-old daughter, and I, lagged behind and entered a forest, but when they saw my brother, two soldiers fired and he fell dead. Hearing the noise, the girl cried out and they saw her and shot her dead also. Me they did not find, and towards evening I came out of the forest, and hurrying forward; he family and told them of my brother's and his daughter's death. We wept aloud and spent the night disheartened, tired and hungry. In the morning, thinking the soldiers had turned back, we returned to a village to obtain food. I found my brother's body and buried it, but before I had time to bury the girl, the soldiers appeared. My remaining brother fled with the family, but I entered the forest. In the morning I found another refugee in the forest, who was seeking his family. He told me he had killed an ox, but had been obliged to leave it because the soldiers appeared. We were so hungry and faint; that we could hardly walk, but we sought the ox and were about cooking some meat when soldiers again appeared.

"So we left the fire, climbed up the mountain, and hid behind some rocks. The soldiers saw us and two of them came to find us. We waited there for a few moments all trembling with terror. Suddenly a soldier appeared, aimed his gun at me and fired, the bullet pierced in my leg. The other soldier also fired and pierced my thigh. Then they came up and severely wounded me with their short swords, in the shoulder and thigh. I shut my eyes and they thought me dead, and were about to depart when they saw my companion behind a rock; they fired at him with true aim, and I heard his horrible cry as he fell. Before leaving us, one of the soldiers suspecting I was still living, proposed to cut my body to pieces, but his companion rejected the proposition, objecting that there was no water to wash the swords. So they merely threw some large stones at me, which fortunately did no special harm. When the soldiers were far enough away I spoke to my companion to see if he was living, and he answered very feebly saying he could neither walk nor move, and I was in the same condition. Oh! our distress then! Tired, hungry, thirsty, severely wounded, we should die in torture, or be the prey of wild beasts. I cried to the soldiers, `We are still alive, come and put an end to our misery.' I cried but they did not hear me.

"After a while two Armenian fugitives passed by and saw us, and we besought them to carry us to a ruined sheep-cote near by. They were so hungry and weak they could hardly walk, and said they were not able to carry us, but yielding to our entreaties, they made a great effort and carried us there, gave us some water and fresh cheese and departed. We remained there three days, these friends coming to ns at night and going away in the morning. We soon saw that this was too dangerous a place to stay, as we constantly heard the sound of guns and bullets passing over our heads. So they transferred us to another ruin, where we were tortured by the heat by day and the cold by night, naked and wounded. Our friends did not do much for us, not believing we could live. After three days my companion's mother came, bringing some millet to cook for us, but going out to get some water, she heard the sound of bugles and fled, but soon returned and cooked it. The next day our brothers came with the woman and tried to cook some wheat, but were again frightened by the sound of the bugles and fled, my brother wishing to carry me with him, but I said, `It is better for you and the family to escape. I must die.' Toward evening they came back and carried us on their shoulders to another place, where some other families had already taken refuge. Soon they were obliged to leave this place also, fleeing in haste, and left me there. I remained in this dreary place eight days alone with my suffering save that they sometimes brought me a little food. After the eight days we heard that a firman had come ordering the massacre to cease. The soldiers then drove any fugitives they met, wounded or not, to the ruined villages. I remained thus among the ruins for two months till my wounds were healed. As soon as I was strong enough, I left the ruins and slowly made my way to Vartenis (an Armenian village on the Mush plain). There I found my wife, but of the rest of the family I know nothing-"

Story of Serope Asdadurian

"Our family consisted of fifteen members, of whom four are now living, the others having died by the hands of the Kurds and Turks. 

"Before the year 1893 the brother of the celebrated robber chief, Mousa Bey, had abducted the daughter of the head man of our village. After a while the girl was rescued from his hands and married to a young man of Vartenis. In the spring of 1893 she visited her father's house, after which her father wished to send her, under safe escort, to her husband at Vartenis. He besought my father to carry her, and he accepted the charge. On the way fifteen Kurds attacked the party and attempted to carry off the woman, but any father and his companions resisted, and delivered the woman safely to her husband, two of the Kurds being killed in the affray. My father fled to Russia, but soon returned, and for a month or so remained so concealed that no one saw him. After a while, however, it became known that he had returned, and suddenly one day the Mudir (Turkish petty governor) of the neighboring village surrounded our house with a band of zabtiehs (gendarmes) to seize my father. He knew that to be taken was probably to be killed with tortures, and determined to sell his life as dearly as possible. So when the zabtiehs burst open the door and came in my father killed one of them and rushed out with his rifle. But in his haste he struck his head violently against the frame of the door and fell, nearly dead. One of the zabiehs fired and killed him. They then killed my mother, my two sisters, my uncle and four cousins. They carried away our cattle and sheep, robbed the house and burned it."

So the crimson storm of carnage rolled on, until not less than thirty villages had been laid waste, so completely destroyed that even the names had been erased from the official records. As to the number of killed it is almost impossible to give accurate estimate. It must have been not less than five or six thousand, many put it much higher. Some soldiers said that a hundred fell to each one of them to dispose of, while others wept because the Kurds did more execution than they. Some, however, claimed to have been unwilling actors in the scene and suffered great mental torments. The wife of one noticed that he failed the pray, as had been his invariable custom. She spoke of it to him and he answered, "God will not hear me. If there is a God he will take vengeance for these awful deeds. Is there any use to pray? "It is also told of other soldiers that on reaching their homes they inquired of Armenian acquaintances, "Who is this Jesus of Nazareth? The Sassun women were constantly calling out to Him."

At last the carnage stopped. The commander-in-chief of the fourth army corps at Erzingan reached the field in time to save a few prisoners alive and to prevent the extermination of four more villages that were on the list to be destroyed. He then sent a telegram to Constantinople that rebellion had been overcome and that order had been restored in the province. For this he received a medal and the thanks of the Sultan.

By Siamanto

And as her tears drowned in her blue eyes,
On a field of ash where Armenian life was still dying,
This is what the witness of our horror, the German woman narrated:

"This story which I tell you and which cannot be told,
I saw with my cruel human eyes,
From the window of my safe house which looked on hell,
Crushing my teeth from my terrible rage...
With my cruelly human eyes I saw .
It was in Garden city, which was turned to a pile of ashes.
The corpses were piled high to the top of the trees,
And from the waters, from the fountains, from the streams, from the roads,
The rebellious murmur of your blood...
Still speaks now its vengeance into my ears...

O, don't be shocked when I tell you this story which cannot be told...
Let men understand the crime of man against man,
Under the sun of two days, on the road to the cemetery
The evil of man against man,
Let all the hearts of the world know...
That morning in death's shadow was a Sunday,
The first and helpless Sunday which rose over the corpses, 
When inside my room, from evening to dawn,
Bending over the agony of a girl slashed with a sword,
I was wetting her death with my tears...
Suddenly from afar a black, beastly mob
Brutally whipping the twenty brides who were with them,
Stood in a vineyard singing songs of debauchery.

Leaving the poor dying girl on her mattress,
I approached the balcony of my window which looked on hell...
In the vineyard the black mob became a forest.
A savage roared to the brides: "You must dance,
You must dance when our drum sounds."
And the whips started wildly cracking on the bodies
Of the Armenian women who were missing death...
Twenty brides, hand in hand, started their round dance...
The tears flowed from their eyes like wounds,
Ah, how much I envied my wounded neighbor,
Because I heard, that with a peaceful moan,
Cursing the universe, the poor beautiful Armenian girl,
To her young dove spirit gave wings toward the stars...
In vain I moved my fists against the mob.
"You must dance", roared the furious crowd,
"You must dance until your death, lustfully and lasciviously,
Our eyes are thirsty for your movements and your death..."

The twenty beautiful brides fell to the ground exhausted...
"Stand up", they shrieked, waving their naked swords like snakes...
Then someone brought to the mob a barrel of oil...
O, human justice, let me spit at your forehead...!
They anointed the twenty brides hastily with that liquid...

"You must dance", they roared, "here is a perfume for you which even Arabia does not have..."
Then they ignited the naked bodies of the brides with a torch,
And the charcoaled corpses rolled from dance to death...

In my terror I closed the shutters of my window like a storm,
And approaching my lonely dead girl I asked:
"How can I dig my eyes out, how can I dig them out, tell me...?"

Marash, Nov. 26th.

We survived the massacre of Nov. 18th, though we had given up all hope for hours. For four weeks previously Christians had been shot at sight in the streets, houses plundered, men's heads put on pikes, and two cases in my knowledge where little girls had been disemboweled. It was a reign of terror, culminating in the butchery of the 18th. Early that morning the three church quarters were fired, and the steady report of the guns told us of the work of annihilation.

"We took the girls (of the college) and crossed the seminary yard into the one occupied by the Lees and McCalloms. It was not a moment too soon, as the houses overlooking their walls were then being plundered, and we plainly saw what was in progress. It was about g o'clock. The Arab soldiers had been turned loose on the city. A number of regiments were drawn up west of the city ready to lend assistance if there should be any opposition. A company was on a hill near us, not regulars, but still in uniform, to see that no one interfered here, and the Arab fiends had possession. I cannot now describe the scenes we witnessed. The raiding of tlie houses in the seminary yard, the killing of our two men and a third riddled with bullets. Finally they were held up and chopped and hacked with the sword as mercilessly and with as little purpose as a child attacks a mullein head. After the soldiers had left to carry away a load of our academy stores, the old women and children came in to carry away what was left. It seemed the plan that everything must go. I had said, `There will be a larger and better organized force come here, for they may think we can resist.' There were 290 people in the two houses, chiefly women and children, and as still as death; and our girls, our sweet-faced girls, who tortured us with uo wailing, but looking, in a heart-rendering manner, into our faces for the comfort and assurance that had never failed before. Everything was given over. The smoke and dusk were closing in around us. The seminary yard was nearly finished. A lull of perhaps a moment. We peeped through the curtains (Miss B. and I), and turning to each other, quietly said, `They've come.'

"A large force of Arabs was in the street, drawn up in order, each with his gun ready for firing, I thought, and started to go below to our girls, to be with them to the last. Someone was pounding on the street door, and we heard friendly calls. Mr. McCallom gave a glance at his wife and babies and said, `I must go,' and he went. The calling continued and we were puzzled. But the gate, on being opened, let in some of our people and a colonel who had come with a guard-the first in all that day. We had seen the man on horseback in the afternoon, riding among the soldiers and playfully hitting them on the shoulders as if pretending to drive them away. This only made us feel sure that the government had doomed us and wanted a pretext for trying to protect us. Fortunately for me, the two wounded theologues were brought in, and I had my hands full till midnight, when one of them died. The other was shot and hacked up terribly, but I dressed his wounds and he is still alive. The condition in the city is beyond description. Starvation on every hand; the best of our people gone. The soldiers estimate as their day's work 4,700 dead, but it is too much. They were occupied with plunder. One young man was given the alternative of death or becoming a Moslem. He chose death and they struck his head off. His poor body was taken to his mother, who, taking his hand and kissing it, said: 'Rather so, my son, than living to deny our Lord and Saviour.' He is one of thousands to sacrifice his life rather than deny Christ."

A letter from an American missionary lady

"Urfa, January 7th, 1896."

We had often heard that the Moslems were dissatisfied with the attempt of two months ago which resulted in the destruction of only 40 lives and about £150,000 worth of goods, the plunder of 600 shops and 289 houses. After this the Christians were all completely disarmed by the government. Some 80 men had been imprisoned, and we feared another scene of terror. It came at last with great suddenness.

"On Saturday, December 28th, the firing of a few guns in the Moslem quarter south of us proved the signal. Immediately an immense multitude gathered on the hill back of our house. The guards in the street east of us went to meet the people, fired a few shots over their heads, and then allowed the mass of wild humanity, thirsty for blood, to pass into the city and begin their work. The horrid work continued until dark. Three soldiers kept the mob from entering our street, constantly proclaiming: 'It is the house of a foreigner, and it is forbidden to touch her.' We find by couut that our, shadow' covered 17 houses and 240 people. The mob came as far as to enter our girls' schoolrooms in the churchyard, and they broke open the third door below us on the street and plundered the house. I saw one man beaten and then thrown down on the roof just opposite to me on the other side of the street. The Syrians and Roman Catholics were also spared. All other Christians suffered complete loss of all home furnishings, and some houses were burned. The number of killed cannot be less than 3,500 and may reach 4,000. Of these it is estimated that t,5oo perished in the great Gregorian church. On Saturday that portion of the city was hardly touched, and great numbers of Armenians ftockecl to the church for safety that night. Sunday morning the work began again at daybreak, and when the people reached the church the soldiers broke open the doors. Theu entering, they began a butchery which became a great holocaust. !t was participated in by many classes of Moslems. For two dav·s the air of the city was unendurable; then began the clearing up. During two days we saw constantly men lugging sacks filled with bones and ashes. The dragging of 1,500 bodies for burial in trenches was more quickly completed, some being taken on animals. The last work of all has been the clearing of the wells. From one very large well it is said that 6o bodies were taken. It is well authenticated that 20 bodies were taken from another well. About 300 persons escaped from the church by way of the roof, which was reached by a narrow staircase on the inside, Shortly after noon on Sunday, some fifteen or more of the prominent citizens and government officials (not including the Mutessarif, or the military commander), precedeci by a military band and mounted guard, made a grand parade of the city. They entered our yard, and, speaking with me from the veranda, they assured me of perfect safety and begged me not to be alarmed, as it was 'nothing that pertained to me.' I very quickly went into my room.

"The work did not cease until dark on Sunday, the 29th. On Monday the Kurds and Arabs were prevented from entering the city, the firing beginning about dawn. All day Sunday a strong guard was about our premises. A captain of the army sat on his horse for hours at our northwest corner, just outside of the church premises. Repeatedly I received salutations and assurances of perfect safety from government oficials during that longest day I ever knew. It was evident that the utmost was done to protect me. How wiilingly I would have died, that the thousands of parents might be spared for their children!

"The work of plunder is complete. Literally naught remains. By actual count only ten Protestant houses remain untouched, and five of these are in the district which I have spoken of as my shadow.

"Our loss of life is 105, all but nine being men. These nine include two women and seven children, who were in the Gregorian Church when it was sacked. Our wounded are many. I have eighteen under my immediate care. Most of these have several severe wounds. One has 11; one has 18; ghastly sword and axe cuts on head and neck. There are a few gunshot wounds. There is only one doctor for the whole city. He has 350, and cannot care for more, nor for these but in part. He came at my call to see one who we supposed must lose his hand, dressed the arm and committed the case to my care. Thus far, thank God, all are doing well. I have found three persons who, like myself, are inexperienced in such matters; but they are proving careful, sensible workers with me. We dress most of the wounds in the church. Our schoolrooms (all but one, used as headquarters of our guard) are crowded with some 250 or 300 of the most forlorn and needy. Our home is also full. Those who are spared to their families are in great fear and wish to be near me. We cannot receive all, and it is hard to daily turn away so many. Some have a little fvod, found in their houses, and some nothing. One of the several great men who have called to express sympathy, and to say, Turkish style, 'It was from God,' has sent provisions, for which I am exceedingly grateful.

"The government provides about 200 loaves of bread per day for the poor. But all this kindness will soon come to an end, and utter poverty will be the lot of most. The Protestant pastor, the Rev. H. Abouhayatian, and several efficient members of the church, are among the dead. I tried to secure the body of the pastor, but failed. His children-six-they immediately granted to me.

"The custom in these affairs, so general in Turkey, seems to be for one party to rush ahead and kill. This is followed by another party which hurries off the women and children to some mosque, khan or some Moslem home temporarily open for their reception. Lastly, this operation is followed by the stripping of the house. Children often get separated from their parents and are late in being found. One of the earliest offers made to me was to undertake finding any lost if I would send in the full name. My own guards, twenty in number since Sunday, do my every bidding as if I were a queen. I use them for help in all sorts of ways.

"Markets are closed, and it is very difficult to get some things much needed. We have had but forty-five beds given back to us of those plundered, and a few pieces of copper, as yet I fail to secure more, or instructions as to method of procedure for individuals to secure stolen goods. The government has large numbers of beds and much copper ware stored for return to the owners, but all fear to stir lest the end has not yet come.

"The aged Bishop of the Gregorians was spared, but only one, or possibly two priests.

"Our own teacher of the Boys' High School and several Gregorian teachers were killed. I believe the Gregorians are in greater suffering than the Protestants, having no foreigner to do for them, and any efficient ones spared are afraid to venture out.

"To-day the long-expected soldiers have arrived --- eight or nine hundred. Our city has been guarded (?) by resident soldiers. We must have your prayers and your pecuniary aid. How are the people to live through this winter?

Published in the "Tabor Beacon" newspaper
Tabor, Fremont County, Iowa, January 27, 1910

Miss Effie Chambers tells of her work in Kessab, is thankful for Tabor Congregation.

A letter from Miss Effie Chambers of Kessab, Syria was received by Prof. M. C. Gaston last Wednesday. In beginning her letter Miss Chambers says, “Yours of September 23 reached me in good time and was eagerly read as letters from home always are, and I thank you for it and for the draft it contained, which I used to give seed wheat for the next years sowing for the young men who have fields, who were in defense of the village. So with God’s blessing you have made their wheat – their bread sure for next year, and they are so thankful.”

She tells of her decision, after considering all the facts of the situation, to remain with those people and help them as she alone can. She feels that the work that has been done would all go for nothing, if she should leave this place and make her headquarters in another part of Turkey. She tells of the efforts of the people to rebuild their village and to recover some of the privileges, which they enjoyed before the massacre. A reading room had existed before the trouble came, but it was destroyed and the books were carried away. One day a few young men came with some money and wanted her to send for some more books and arrange to have a reading room again. She asked them where they got the money and learned that they had saved it from the small amount allowed them from the government’s funds. It meant so much for them to have the reading room that they sacrificed the necessities of food to obtain it.

They attempted to repair the old church, which had been burned but found it too expensive and indeed too small for the growing congregation, so they are now building a new structure. She says, “The people are doing all they can in work and money, and will continue to do so to the end, but they can not do it all and therefore we beg all of God’s people to help us and let us have a church building as soon as possible. Our roof is to be of tile and each costs ten cents.” This would be a worthy object for some society or individuals to take into consideration.

Those who contributed to the fund which was sent to Miss Chambers will be glad to know that she received it all right, and may consider, when they read this, that they are each thanked for their share in helping relieve the need of those people.

Published in the "Tabor Beacon" Newspaper
Tabor, Fremont County, Iowa, January 24, 1895

Many Armenian Students at Marsovan Drowned - With Heavy Stones Tied About Their Necks They are Thrown into The River.

New York, Dec. 31 - The most interesting immigrant at Ellis Island last night was Diogenes Menippe, a young Armenian who escaped from the furry of the Turks just in time to save his life and was about to be sent home as an undesirable immigrant, when his case was reviewed by the immigration officials and he was discharged.

Menippe is only 18 years old. He was a student at the American College at Marsovan, Armenia, and after seeing twenty of his school companions murdered and two college professors imprisoned and sentenced to death he determined to escape if possible. Menippe is a bright youth and speaks the English language fairly well. This stood him in good stead when he reached Constantinople, for he succeeding in inducing the authorities to believe him to be a foreigner. The young man’s parents are in the employ of the American Bible society at Marsovan and, being under the protection of the American flag had never been molested.  They furnished him with enough money to come here, but he had only $5 when he landed and thus came under the prohibited class of immigrants.

His flight from Marsovan, he said, was attended with great difficulty and danger. The whole town was patrolled by Turkish soldiers and whenever they had nothing else to do they sent a delegation to the college to examine a student.  This examination consisted of taking him from under the protection of the college, tying a stone around his neck and throwing him in the river.  Twenty of the students, he said, had been murdered in that way in two years.  Two of the professors had been arrested and taken to prison where, after a mock trial, they were sentenced to death.

Previous to the passing of this sentence, Dr. Herrick, an English professor at the college, appealed direct to his country for interference in behalf of the two men, which was promptly given.  Their release was demanded by England and speedily granted by the Turkish Government.

The Turkish soldiers would visit the college, armed with an order for examination, which the college authorities were obliged to honor.  The return of the students thus taken from the institution was always promised but never kept.  Two of the college buildings were burned by the soldiers.

By Sempad Shahnazarian

The end of the first world war was in sight. The Turkish resistance on the Palestine Front was shattered, and the British forces, assisted by the Legion d’Orient, were in hot pursuit of the demoralized enemy.

It was autumn. A battalion of Armenian Legionnaires was being transported on board a French cruiser, from Cyprus to Cilicia to bolster the Allied occupational forces there.

The night was clear and windy, and the ship plowed relentlessly through the dark waters of the Mediterranean Sea.

The masts stood high, silent and watchful; and the guns, like huge logs, elevated on steel platforms, craned their necks toward the dark, wet and hissing distances.

The rolling billows crashed continually against the heavy sides of the ship; and at times, the sky seemed so low over the heaving and raging sea, that the waves were tempted to reach higher and higher to splash their cool and foamy shower at the jewel-studded face of the night.

Innumerable sparks danced graciously in the curves of the breaking waves, -- countless tiny animals with minute lanterns, that breathed and pulsated with life.

Sitting on the deck, at the base of a big gun, Vartan gazed wistfully, now and then, in the direction where the vessel was moving, and read the story he was working on.

“It was about two years ago, when that terrible thing happened; and it happened with Mustapha’s strange dream.”

A ghost stood on the bank of a river that flowed blood, and watched in a trance, an immense conflagration that crashed through cities and towns and ripening wheat fields.

Through the cracks in the smoke and flames, one could clearly see the frames of the buildings burning brightly and entire cities and villages turning into heaps of embers.

The ghost said:

“Mustapha! My son! Behold this beautiful sight of our world!  Isn’t it just enchanting? You know you were born on the bank of this river and bathed in its crimson waters...But why are you looking so surprised?...Oh, those voices!...Those muffled sounds!...They are but the sighs and sobs of the dead left behind in the folds of this infernal river.

Come now!...Closer...Give me your hand!...I shall immerse you in it...Your ancestors were all born here, and all were good swimmers...It requires talent to swim in the sluggishly flowing thick and slimy river...It’s here where Tamerlane, Genghiz Khan, Abdul Hamid and many others were born. Be worthy of your ancestors!...Feel, it’s so warm and comfortable!...Dive in...Go deeper and deeper!...I know you will like it!...

Come out now! See? The heat is caking the blood on you...Magnificent! You look like a red statue...

Here are your tools;...Take them!  They’re the things you need the most in your life...A dagger and a hatchet...Their blades have been tempered in the dark waters of the Styx.

Look again, at this magnificent panorama of fire...Look and feel its charm and beauty!...Open your arms and embrace my world; the world of your ancestors!...

Wake up, effendi! Wake up, Mustapha effendi!  Someone knocked excitedly on the door.

Mustapha jumped from his sleep and sat motionless in bed. He looked around dazed and confounded. Then, he shook the sleep off of him, got up, opened the door and saw one of his men waiting outside with a letter in his hand.

Without opening it, he snapped his fingers joyfully and exclaimed, “This is it!...This is what I’ve been waiting for...”

He opened the letter and read it. “Just what I thought.” He exclaimed with joy. “Get the boys ready! Quick! We have important business to tend to...”

He went back into his room, got dressed, and put on his high boots, spurs and sheepskin hat. From his leather belt hung a dagger and a pistol; and two bands of cartridges crossed his chest over his shoulders.

When he came out, his men and his horse were waiting for him.
 
He said:  “Men! An exact copy of this letter has been sent to every governor and mayor by Talaat Pasha, the Minister of Interior. Armenians are to be deported from their homes to Arabia...You know what that means...We are all going to be rich...We shall inherit everything they posses; Money, land and business.  Today is the day!... Get on your horses!”  And they rode away.

The sight of the burning towns and fields depicted in his dream, inspired and intoxicated him. The glorious ocean of flames, and the rolling billows of smoke haunted his avid imagination, and he took great pride in having found the path his ancestors had followed ever since the dawn of their history.

Riding at the head of his gang, Mustapha spurred his horse, and trotted on, drunk by the prospect of their exploits.

It was Sunday; and the people of the village had gathered in the church for morning service.

A heavy scent of incense and burning candles filled the air. An undertone of prayer rose from the congregation like a thin veil of mist from the slumbering lake.

 The lights of the torches and altar reflected in the silver candlesticks and the sparkling cross and the jewel-studded sacred vestment of the priest, and show red colorful lights upon the ceiling, the walls and the congregation, giving everything the air of unearthliness.

Madonna’s motherly smile radiated from the loft with a caressing and comforting warmth.

At this moment, the crash of horses’ hooves was heard at the entrance. A sudden commotion, and everyone’s eyes turned toward the door.

Mustapha followed by some of his men, suddenly barged into the church. The curses and the clatter of their footsteps drowned the service.

He went up the stone steps to the altar, with a whip in his hand. He stood insolently by the priest, an ironical smile on his face, and his hands on his hips, while his men scattered around in the church, they all awaited his signal...

“...Stop the service right away and follow my men out!” said Mustapha.

The church sunk in silence. The old priest, with the silver cross in his hand, said calmly, “What do you mean, Mustapha effendi?”

 “... Just what I said.”

 “...But this is a crime.”

 “...Shut up! Do as I said.”

 “...But this is a crime, an unpardonable crime...The way you’re acting in the presence of God.” said the priest.

 “...Shut up you bloody beggar.”

Raising the cross solemnly before his eyes, the priest continued quietly.

“...You will, someday, be punished by this Holy Cross for your horrible attitude here.”

Mustapha, knocking the cross out of his hand, kicked him down the steps of the altar.

A chorus of hair-raising screams came out of the congregation, like the crash of huge waves breaking against the reefs of the ocean.

Arsen, a youth of twenty, dashed with an uncontrollable rage, to the altar and threw himself upon Mustapha. But sensing the sacredness of the spot, he stood before him with clenched fists, and his eyes stared at him like the steel blade of a knife.

“What do you mean by all this?”

The corners of Mustapha’s mouth curled up, and with a diabolical glint in his eyes, he spit in his face.

“...Come on out, you coward,” said Arsen. “I can’t fight in the church.” And he walked down the steps to the door.

Outside, the congregation clashed with Mustapha’s men.  Women and children were trampled over. Screams and terror filled the air; and soon everything subsided, leaving several fatally wounded men and women on the ground.

At the edge of town, the priest and many prominent men were overpowered and, with their hands tied behind them, they were slaughtered with hatchets.

Children screamed, terrified, and took refuge behind their mother’s aprons and shut their eyes tightly, so the Turks couldn’t find them.

The sun went down, and the caravan, surrounded like storm-driven sheep, moved on to an unknown destination, joining on the way, other caravans and other bands.

After marching for three days, they arrived at Ayran, in the Amanos ridges. Many women and children had already died from hunger and exhaustion, and their corpses had been thrown away in the bushes.

The sun was on the meridian. The sky clear and bright and the heat torturing.  Arsen’s hands were tied behind his back and he managed as much as he could to walk with Hasmik and her mother, carrying on his shoulder Hasmik’s baby brother, Armen.

They came down the rocky slope limping and panting.  Avalanches of shattered stone and gravel went down the mountainside.  Perspiration had caked the chalky dust on their faces. To protect the chastity of their daughters, mothers had smeared mud on their faces with the hope of making them repulsive.

Mustapha and his men kept the caravan moving under the cracks of their whips. Babies who couldn’t keep pace with the grown-ups, were left behind to be taken care of by the beasts.

Armen had been crying for water all day. A bluish haze of heat shimmered over the woods and the valley, down below. Brownish metallic rocks poured out inexhaustible heat, and Armen cried persistently for water.  He hadn’t eaten anything for two days. They coaxed him to have a little patience...Soon they would have some...Just a little patience and everything would be all right. His fingers clung tight to Arsen’s hair, and his soft thighs pressed against his face. He was quiet now; they were glad. He didn’t cry any more for water....He had become patient...He knew everything would be all right....He even tried to cooperate in torture...bad as it was...He even stopped squirming...

Then, suddenly, his grip loosened, his legs got cooler against his cheeks and with a muffled moan he fell off onto the ground, with a small avalanche of gravel and stone rolling with him down the rocky slope.

His mother and sister screamed frantically and tumbled down after him. They took him in their arms, and kissed him, coaxed him, implored him.

In vain.

Their reviving efforts were futile, and suddenly, they both burst into tears. He was dead.

Mustapha’s whip cracked on their heads with obscene cursing.

“...Move on!  Get going!  You bloody bitches!”

Not very far from there, in a secluded hollow, hordes of Turks and Kurds dashed from behind the bushes and chaparral, and swooped down upon these unfortunates with knives and hatchets.

 The crowd charged with their bare hands, kicking, biting, cursing.  But the knives and the hatchets proved to be far more sharper...The slaughter was under way. Mustapha successfully tested how sharp his knife and hatchet were. With one stroke of his hatchet, he chopped the head of Hasmik’s mother off into the ditch.

Hasmik screamed and lunged after her, unnoticed, beneath the headless heap of corpses, pressing her breast against the bleeding head of her mother.

After everything was over, Mustapha, accompanied by two of his men, took Arsen to the nearby town, Islahie.

Why didn’t he kill him? Why all this extra trouble?

They stopped in front of a one-story building. Two guards stood at the gate, with fixed-bayonets. They entered the courtyard. His clothes were gray from the chalky dust of the road, and his face was caked with dirt.

They walked across the court, then through a door in the opposite wall. They entered into a spacious room, stone-floored, bare and desolate.  In one corner stood an ordinary, unpainted table, with a chair before it, occupied by an armed Turk. Not very far from him, two Anatolian brutes sat on the floor, with their backs against the wall. They were in short sleeves, wearing baggy trousers of dirty white cotton, and long lashes curled in their laps.

As they entered, one of the men got up walked across the room to the wall, bent down, and pushed a small sliding door open. A dark hole gaped in silence.

He called out in a harsh voice “...Come on out you dirty swine!”

No answer was heard from within. He came down to his knees and peeped into the hole. An offensive smell pinched his nose, and his nostrils quivered.

“...It’s to you I am talking! You dirty rat! What are you lying on your back for? Can’t you hear me?”

Again, he didn’t get an answer. Then, holding his breath, he stuck his head into the opening, and reaching with his right hand, he dragged something out; a shapeless mass of a human being.  He dragged him out by his leg to the center of the room, joining his men, who stood on each side of the dying unfortunate. He commanded: “...Ready!” The men uncoiled their long black lashes and let them lay a moment on the floor.  Then, to the rhythm of the sergeant’s harsh voice, they went into action “...One...Two...Three...Four...”

The lashes whined and cracked on the dying man’s body. They coiled and uncoiled like rattlesnakes and their black marks girdled his bare, emaciated and faintly breathing chest.

He couldn’t scream, nor cry.  He had no strength left for that.

After the sergeant reached the hundred and fiftieth time, he stopped, and with a disdainful motion of his hand, he said: “Drag him out and throw him into the ditch, with the others.” And turning to Mustapha, said with an ironical smile. “The floor is yours now...” And he left the room with his men.

Mustapha, a satanic glint in his eyes, took the stand, nodded to his men to get ready, and beckoned to Arsen to take the dying man’s place on the floor.

A few minutes later, they dragged him, unconscious, threw him in the dark hole and closed the door behind.

Mustapha suddenly remembered he had forgotten a very important matter and he hurried back to the hollow where the massacre had taken place.  He took a big stick from the bushes, stuck it into the ditch, and began pushing the corpses to one side, trying to discover Hasmik’s body.

The sun had gone down, and the dusk, like a thin black haze, covered the valley. The ditch was a gruesome sight.  Indescribable sounds came out of the disfigured , dismembered and bleeding bodies. Here an arm jerks spasmodically; there a leg. The muscle of an eye twitches, as if the dead persons were winking, and a lifeless convulsion breaks the thickening blood in the throat with muffled gurgles.

Someone stirred in the bushes. Mustapha turned and listened. He listened and slowly approached the suspected spot. His pistol in his hand, he got closer and peeped into the thick chaparral, then, with a broad smile on his face he stopped and looked at his men who were scurrying the countryside.

“...Here she is!...Right here!” Slowly, and dejectedly, Hasmik came to her feet, dishevelled and bloody.

He rode to the village, high in the mountains. He dismounted and carried her into a deserted house and flung her on the bed. She kicked and bit and scratched, and struggled violently.

He finally overpowered her.

Her unconscious state didn’t bother Mustapha...A moment later, he stood looking at the still unconscious body of Hasmik who lay on the bed. A fiendish smile curled the corners of his mouth.

“...It will take time to tame her...Just a little patience, and everything will be all right...” Then he curled his mustache and walked out humming a cheerful song.

The little village was situated in one of the upper recesses of Amanos ridges, overlooking a vast scene of deserted towns. He stood in front of his house and gazed at the desolate distance: at the fields with no workers, at the houses with no dwellers, at the churches with no worshippers, and chuckled.

An immeasurable mass of human avalanche was being rolled down to the burning sands of Arabia. An entire race was being thrown into the crackling flames.  Mustapha, remembered his dream and felt fine.

Months rolled on, and Mustapha would ride, now and then, with his men to surprise the rolling caravans, to rape the girls, to attack the women, and to kill anyone they pleased and come back with all their belongings.

In the meantime, Hasmik was getting bigger and bigger. She couldn’t conceal it any longer. Her eyes were red from continual weeping.

Many times she heard shrill screams from the village where she now lived. Many times, she saw Mustapha coming home with bloody hands and bloody clothes.

What has become of Arsen? Is he dead, like her mother and brother, or, is he still alive drifting along...No hope? How can she live without him?

She couldn’t bear to see Mustapha.  She couldn’t stand his voice. Every time he came home, she would go and hide herself in a dark corner of the house and cry.

He would drag her out, and would struggle to kiss her; but, she always kicked and struggled and scratched, and then fainted.

She could never go out alone. Always, someone spied on her. How she wished to be able to go out and throw herself from the cliff, into the precipice, and finish everything!...

She had become very big now...The fruit of the crime was ripening fast. The thought of it pained her, tortured her...But Mustapha was happy, and he anxiously waited for the birth...The birth of a boy...He even tried to be more humane toward her. But in vain. She just couldn’t stand the sight of him.

And a baby was born.  A son, who was named Ahmed, after Mustapha’s father. How happy he was!

A few days after the birth, the entire village celebrated the event. They ate and drank and danced. There was nobody in the house, but Hasmik and the baby. Outside, everybody was having fun. The shouts of the celebration pierced her heart like the blade of a knife. She couldn’t look at the baby’s face. His cries alone were enough to drive her mad. Who was he, anyway? Wasn’t he the little Mustapha?...How could she willingly let his filthy lips touch her breast?...They were not created to nurse him...They belonged to Arsen’s children...

A huge kettle of soup was boiling on the fire, and the flames leaped gracefully and licked its black sides.  Now and then, the boiling liquid would spill over the brim into the fire, hissing and crackling.

A thought flashed into her mind.  A dark thought.  She stared a moment, at the boiling soup, her nerves taut, her heart in suspense. She kept looking at it.  Her entire being was in the grip of a whirlpool.

The baby kept crying, from hunger.  Flashes leaped into her brain, like glares of lightning in a stormy night.

She got up, lifted the crying baby, walked toward the fire, and with a cold and merciless hatred in her eyes, she threw him into the boiling soup.

...Shrill screams...muffled sounds...the hiss of the spilled soup in the fire...everything was over.

Hasmik stealthily walked out of the house, plunged into the dark woods and disappeared.

Here, Vartan stopped with a yawn, put his diary back into his pocket and cast a tired look at the greying dawn.

The bugler suddenly sounded reveille and the legionnaires grouped on the deck.

“...Land!...Land!” exclaimed Arsen, who with his knapsack and rifle hanging carelessly from his shoulder, pushed his way through the packed deck toward Vartan.

“...What are you doing all by yourself?” he said.

“...I’ve been up all night...couldn’t sleep,” said Vartan.

“...I couldn’t sleep either.  How excited I am!”

“...The story of our experiences kept me awake...Part of them, I should say...I haven’t covered everything yet...like, how you escaped from the torture chamber in Islahie and how you came to join the French Foreign Legion on Cyprus Island.”

Arsen’s eyes became gloomy, and he looked silently at the bright outline of the Amanos mountains, bordering the Gulf of Alexandrette.

Strips of rosy clouds appeared in the east, and suddenly, flames of the rising sun splashed a huge fire upon the top of Musa Dagh.

It was cold and windy. White crested waves crashed against one another, and the ship plowed its way through the roaring surf toward the port of Alexandrette, in the shadow of the gigantic mountain.

The disembarkation took all morning.  The hustle and bustle subsided around noon, and the battalion marched out of Alexandrette toward Deurt-Yole. Creeks, ravines and a mantle of thick vegetation marked the way.

...It was in the folds of these commanding ridges, where thousands of men, women and children had been massacred by the Turks, and left for the beasts.

At dusk, the battalion camped by the cemetery just outside Deurt-Yole.  The night swiftly spread its jewel-studded cloak over the land and the sea, and the coyotes, from behind the bushes, began wailing a ghastly melody.

Tattoo was sounded and everybody plunged under the bivouacs and disappeared from sight.

“...What are you thinking Arsen?” asked Vartan, whispering.

“...About millions of things.”

“...Mostly?”

Arsen kept silent.

“...I understand...Hasmik’s memory is torturing you...”

“...I wonder if she...is...”

“...You never can tell...Fate is incomprehensible”...said Vartan, philosophically.

In the morning, Arsen jumped from his sleep terrified.  A bushel of oranges was being emptied onto his face, with Vartan still pouring it, laughing heartily.

“...What’s this?” exclaimed Arsen with surprise and amazement.

“...Just come out and see for yourself” answered Vartan ecstatically.

They threw the flap open and scrambled out of the bivouac.

What an amazing sight!

A large strip of orange trees, loaded with ripe fruit concealed Deurt-Yole from sight.

The morning mist had vanished. The sun beamed from the top of the mountains, overlooking the vineyards, the orchards and the Gulf of Alexandrette.  It was cool, fresh and pleasant. The first company was left in Deurt-Yole, and the rest of the battalion continued its way and was stationed in Kourt Koulak about twenty miles away.

The march through the streets of Deurt-Yole was shocking.  An infernal silence hung over the village. No living soul could be seen around.  Every house had its miniature orchard, in the backyard, enclosed by stone walls. Branches, overloaded with fruit, hung over the streets, interlaced, spreading a carpet of fruit all around.  A wild cat, now and then, would sneak in and out of the broken garden gates. Stone walls were torn, here and there, and some house doors still remained creaking on their rusty hinges.

The air was heavy with the intoxicating scent of the fruit.

Two church steeples stuck their crosses high through the trees, watching, tearfully the heard-rending sight of the massacred town.

The legionnaires stationed at the Kelegian Orphanage, a three-story stone structure, all ransacked of its equipment and its pupils.

A few days after the occupation of the village, some survivors of the holocaust, ragged, emaciated and gruesome-looking began to be seen, here and there.

They sneaked, fearfully, in and out of the houses, and at night, they lay their poor heads on the bare floors of their houses to hear only the whisperings of their dead.

Two weeks later the town presented an entirely different picture. The news of its occupation circulated quickly, and here, from the caves and hideouts, survivors began trickling in.

Immediately, a campaign got under way to clean up the streets, the gardens and the houses of rubbish, rotten garbage, dead dogs and cats and of unburied decomposing corpses.

Fires were being built out in the streets and vacant lots, as sanitary measures.

Men, women and children were engaged in this most important work. House doors and garden gates were being repaired and dead trees removed and burned.

A group was frantically working to clean the church, which had been converted to a stable. Manure covered the floor. Scraps of saddles, feeding bags, harnesses and dirty straw were scattered all around.  They shovelled them into heaps and then carried them away and dumped them into special ditches to be burned.

Then, the women got busy with their water jugs. They scrubbed and washed the floor of the church; the altar, the loft, the walls and the windows. They scrubbed and scrubbed. There was plenty of water in town. Many streams crossed the streets. A crude scaffold was prepared to reach the ceiling. They washed and scrubbed the entire ceiling, too. Not a single spot was left untouched.  No filthy breath of beasts and unbelievers should remain at any spot.

They cleaned the courtyard and its walls in the same manner. When everything was spotless, and their conscience clear, they made preparations for the reconsecration of the church.

The third Sunday, the church was being reconsecrated with a High Mass. The old priest performed the ceremony, and some of the legionnaires sang in the choir.

The congregation followed the service in deep silence and devotion, and the spirit of religion warmed them up. Their lips began murmuring prayers and their eyes shone again with the spark of life.

The Legion had furnished plenty of candles for the occasion, and the church was generously illuminated. Living skeletons stood absorbed in the ceremony. The old priest in his sacred vestments, which he had carried in a bundle on his back throughout his entire death march, read, tearfully, passages from the Bible and blessed, now and then, the congregation with the sign of the cross.

The scent of incense once again pervaded the House of God, seeping out the doors and windows like the murmurs of prayers from the hearts of the survivors.

The priest raised the silver chalice, sang a few lines from the Bible and invited the congregation to partake of the bread and the wine.  He knelt before the altar, and gave communion to whoever was ready for it.

People came out of the church revitalized and strong, crowding the courtyard.

Arsen, standing in one corner, looked wistfully around. His eyes searched in vain for her. He saw many familiar faces, but none could give him any comforting information. His heart sunk into a dark pit. He began feeling unbearably lonely and cold, when suddenly a scream pierced the air...and a feminine figure pushing through the crowd excitedly right and left, dashed toward Arsen and threw herself into his arms, crying with joy.

“...Arsen!  Arsen! ”...

“...Hasmik, my darling!”...

After the church service, a mass meeting was to be held. A platform was prepared for the speakers, in the courtyard.

Vartan opened the meeting and invited the priest to say a prayer. He prayed and cried; and the audience, like a petrified crowd, was silent and motionless.

“...Ladies and gentlemen! This is not an ordinary day for us. This is the day of the resurrection of our home town. The presence of the Armenian Legionnaires here should make you feel safe and secure. Nothing should worry you from now on. With work and patience everything will turn out to be all right.”

Then, the speakers followed one another, and then Arsen.

“Two years ago we were driven to the burning sands of Arabia. Torture, hunger, death and exhaustion followed our steps. We died every minute...we remained alive but died slowly. My caravan was the same as your caravan. Only the names of the chiefs were different...Ours was Mustapha, yours Hassan or Ali or Mehmed.  But, they were all the same...of the same blood...of the same infernal elements”...

“The massacre and the torture have driven you to the brink of insanity, I know. The sight of the bloody hatchets is still before your eyes. Everyone of you have gruesome stories to tell the world, I am sure.  But, we are not here, today, to divert you with those stories. We are here to swear to start building what had been destroyed and writing what had been burned.”

“To survive as a nation, we must build our churches, our schools, our libraries and our homes.”

In the deep silence, in which the audience was listening, clatters of boots were heard approaching the gate. Everyone’s eyes turned toward them.

The captain of the first company of the Legion came in followed by a Turkish officer with a pistol and a short bayonet hanging from his leather belt.  Three Turkish soldiers, armed to the teeth, followed them in, as guards.

Arsen’s eyes narrowed to two slits as he saw the oncoming figures.

The captain invited the officer to the platform, to face the crowd, and made an announcement which was translated by Arsen, as follows:

“In order to keep peace and order in this district, I have appointed Mustapha effendi as the head of the local gendarmery.”

“Mustapha effendi charges that we are harboring a criminal here...his wife Hasmik...who must be arrested and delivered to him, right away.”

Mustapha’s eyes shone triumphantly, when he looked at Hasmik and then to Arsen who had already recognized him.

Silence enveloped the crowd...infernal silence...A look of cold and merciless hatred came into Arsen’s eyes, who said in a deadly voice.

“...Defend yourself, Mustapha!” And in a flash, he pulled out his pistol and fired two shots at him.

He fell down at the foot of the platform in a pool of blood.

The crowd cheered wildly and rushed upon his bodyguards and seized them who had drawn their pistols out and aimed them at Arsen.  In a moment the Turks lay on the stone floor, crushed and bleeding under the heels of the infuriated survivors of the massacre.

The captain was powerless before this uncontrollable outburst.

Mustapha was wounded in both shoulders. He was sent to the hospital by the Captain, but the doctors couldn’t save his arms. They both had to be amputated.

Several weeks later, Mustapha came out of the hospital blind and armless.

In order to make a living, he had to stand at the street corners and beg. He would crane his neck now and then, and stare motionless with his sightless eyes at the black space, as if he could see the ghost dancing on the bank of the river, and laughing diabolically at his fate.

Unknown forces hammered steadily on his forehead...A maddening drone sent flashes through his mind’s eye...Angry fingers kept digging into his brain and he screamed like an epileptic.

Then he would quiet down, for a moment, and shake his head violently, as if to dispel the satanic poison off his mind, and would remain silent, motionless and ecstatic.

He continued to live, but he died every minute.  He felt the life pulsating around him with zeal and joy, but, he was unable to see, unable to embrace and unable to clench fists in fury.