14. Der-el-Zor: Letter, dated 12th July, 1915, from Schwester
L. Möhring, a German Missionary, describing her Journey from Bagdad to
the Passes of Amanus; Published in the German Journal, "Sonnenaufgang,"
September, 1915.
At Der-el-Zor, a large town in the desert about six days' journey
from Aleppo, we found the big han full to overflowing. All available
rooms, roofs, and verandahs were occupied by Armenians. The majority
were women and children, but there were also a certain number of
men squatting on their quilts wherever they could find a spot of
shade. As soon as I heard that they were Armenians, I started going
round and talking to them. They were the people of Furnus (a village
in the neighbourhood of Zeitoun and Marash); herded together here in
these narrow quarters, they presented an extraordinarily melancholy
appearance. When I enquired for children from our Orphanage at BM.,
they brought me a protégée of Sister O., Martha Karahashian. She gave
me the following account of what had happened.
One day Turkish gendarmes had come to Furnus and arrested and carried
off a large number of men, to turn them into soldiers. Neither they nor
their families knew where they were being taken to. Those who remained
were told that they would have to leave their houses within the space
of four hours. They were allowed to take with them as much as they
could carry; they might also take their beasts. After the lapse of the
specified time the poor people had to march out of their village under
the escort of soldiers (zaptiehs), without knowing where they were
going or whether they would ever see their village again. To begin
with, as long as they were still among their mountains and had some
provisions left, things went well enough. They had been promised money
and bread, and were actually given some in the early stages--as far
as I can remember, it was 30 paras (1 1/2d.) per head per day. But
very soon these rations ceased, and there was nothing to be had
but bulgur meal--50 drams (=150 grammes) per head per day. In this
fashion the Furnusli, after four weeks of extremely hard travelling
via Marash and Aleppo, had arrived at Der-el-Zor. They had already
been three weeks there in the han, and had no idea what was to happen
to them. They had no more money left, and the provisions supplied by
the Turks had also dwindled almost to nothing. It was days since they
had had any bread. In the towns they had been barred in at nights,
and not allowed to speak to the inhabitants. Martha, for instance,
had not been allowed at BM. to go to the Orphanage. She said to me
sadly: "We had two houses and we had to leave everything; now there
are mouhadjirs [33] in them." There had been no massacres in Furnus,
and the zaptiehs, too, had treated the people well. They had suffered
principally from lack of food and water on the march through the
burning hot desert. These Yailadji or Mountaineers, as they called
themselves, suffered twice as much from the heat as other people.
The zaptiehs escorting them told us then that, since the massacres,
the Armenians had cherished such hatred against the Turks that the
latter had always to go in fear of them. The intention now, they
said, was to employ the Armenians in building roads, and in this
way to move them on gradually to Bagdad. When asked the "wherefore"
of this, the zaptiehs explained that the people had been in collusion
with Russia. The Armenians themselves declared that they did not know
the reason for their expulsion.
Next day, at the midday rest, we fell in with a whole convoy of
Armenians. The poor people had made themselves primitive goat's hair
tents after the manner of the Kurds, and were resting in them. But
the majority lay on the burning sand without defence against the
scorching sun. On account of the number of sick, the Turks had
allowed them a day's rest. It is simply impossible to conceive
anything more disconsolate than such a mass of people in the desert
under the given circumstances. One could tell by their clothes that
they had lived in considerable prosperity, and now misery was written
on their faces. "Bread!" "Bread!" was the universal cry. They were
the people of Geben, who had been driven out with their Pastor. The
latter told me that every day there were five or six deaths among
the children and the sick. This very day they had only just buried
the mother of a girl about nine years old, who was now quite alone
in the world. They besought me most urgently to take the child with
me to the Orphanage. The Pastor gave precisely the same account of
what had happened as the little girl at Der-el-Zor.
No one without personal experience of a desert can form anything
approaching a conception of the misery and distress. The desert is
mountainous, but almost entirely without shade. For days together
the route leads over rocks and is extremely difficult going. On the
left hand, as one comes from Aleppo, there is always the Euphrates,
which trails along like a streak of clay, yet not near enough for
one to be able to draw water from it. The poor people must suffer
intolerable pangs of thirst; no wonder that so many sicken and die.
As it was the midday halt, we, too, unpacked our provisions and
prepared to eat. That morning we had had bread and tea; our midday
meal consisted once more of hard Arab bread, cheese, and a tin of
sardines. In addition we had a bottle of mineral water. It was not
very sumptuous, and yet it was not an easy task to eat anything in
face of that crowd of distressed and suffering humanity. We gave
away as much as we possibly could, and each of my three companions
silently pressed into my hand a medjidia (3s. 2d.) "for the poor
people." A bag of bread from Bagdad, as hard as stone, was received
with extraordinary gratitude. "We shall soak it in water and then
the children will eat it," said the delighted mothers.
Another scene comes back to me, which will give an idea of their
destitution. One of my companions threw away an empty glass bottle. An
old man threw himself upon it, begged to be allowed to take it for
himself, and gave profuse thanks for the boon. Then he went down to the
river, washed it out, and brought it back filled with the thick clayey
water, carrying it carefully in his arms like a treasure, to thank us
for it once more. Now he had at least drinking water for his journey.
Followed by many good wishes we at last continued on our way, with
the impression of this misery still weighing upon us. In the evening,
when we reached the village, we met yet another Armenian convoy of
the same kind. This time it was the people of Zeitoun. There was the
same destitution and the same complaint about the heat, the lack of
bread and the persecutions of the Arabs. A little girl who had been
brought up by Kaiserswerth Deaconesses in the Orphanage at Beirout,
told us of her experiences in good German:--
"Why does God allow it? Why must we suffer like this? Why did not they
strike us dead at once?" were her complaints. "In the daytime we have
no water for the children and they cry of thirst. At night the Arabs
come to steal our bedding and clothes. They have taken girls from
us and committed outrages against women. If we cannot drag ourselves
further on the march, we are beaten by the zaptiehs."
They also told us that other women had thrown themselves into the
water to escape their shame, and that mothers with their new-born
children had done the same, because they saw no other way out of their
misery. Along the whole desert route there was a dearth of food--even
for us who had money to pay for it--on account of the number of Turkish
soldiers passing through and resting at every han. In Zeitoun, too,
no one had been killed; the people could mention no instance of it.
The Armenian is bound up with his native soil; every change of climate
is extremely upsetting to him, and there is nothing he misses so much
as clear, cold water. For this reason alone residence in the desert
is intolerable for him. A speedy death for the whole family at once
seems a better fate to the mothers than to watch death by starvation
slowly approaching themselves and their children.
On my arrival at Aleppo I was at once asked about the Armenians,
and how they were doing for supplies. Their case had been taken
up in every possible way, and representations had been made to the
Government on their behalf. All that could be obtained was permission
for the formation of an Armenian League of Help, which the Government
at Constantinople as well as the Vali of Aleppo had sanctioned. The
Armenian community at Aleppo at once proceeded to raise a relief
fund among themselves, and have been supporting their poor, homeless
brethren with money, food and clothing.
In the Amanus mountains, on our second day's journey after leaving
Aleppo, we met with Armenians again. This time it was the people of
Hadjin and the neighbourhood. They explained to us that they were
going to Aleppo, but they knew nothing beyond that. They had only been
nine days on the road, and did not ask for any assistance. Compared
with those in the desert, they were faring sumptuously; they had
wagons with them carrying their household goods, horses with foals,
oxen and cows, and even camels. The procession making its way up
through the mountains seemed endless, and I could not help asking
myself how long their prosperity would last. They were still in the
mountains on their native soil, and had no suspicion of the terrors
of the desert. That was the last I saw of the Armenians, but such
experiences are unforgettable, and I publish them here with the
most earnest appeal for help. Many of the Armenians may be guilty
and may only be suffering what they have brought upon themselves,
but the poor women and children need our help.