ox-carts for the Protestant townspeople and eighty horses, but none
at all for our pupils and teachers; so we bought ten ox-carts, two
horse arabas, and five or six donkeys, and started out. In the
company were all our teachers in the college, about twenty boys from
the college and about thirty of the girls’-school. It was as a
special favour to the Sivas people, who had not done anything
revolutionary, that the Vali allowed the men who were not yet in
prison to go with their families.
The first night we were so tired that we just ate a piece of bread
and slept on the ground wherever we could find a place to spread a
_yorgan_ (blanket). It was after dark when we stopped, anyway. We
were so near Sivas that the gendarmes protected us, and no special
harm was done; but the second night we began to see what was before
us. The gendarmes would go ahead and have long conversations with
the villagers, and then stand back and let them rob and trouble the
people until we all began to scream, and then they would come and
drive them away. _Yorgans_ and rugs, and all such things,
disappeared by the dozen, and donkeys were sure to be lost. Many had
brought cows; but from the first day those were carried off, one by
one, until not a single one remained.
We got accustomed to being robbed, but the third day a new fear took
possession of us, and that was that the men were to be separated
from us at Kangal. We passed there at noon and, apart from fear,
nothing special happened. Our teacher from Mandjaluk was there, with
his mother and sisters. They had left the village with the rest of
the women and children, and when they saw that the men were being
taken off to be killed the teacher fled to another village, four
hours away, where he was found by the police and brought safely with
his family to Kangal, because the tchaoush who had taken them from
Mandjaluk wanted his sister. I found them confined in one room. I
went to the Kaimakam and got an order for them all to come with us.
At Kangal some Armenians had become Mohammedans, and had not left
the village, but the others were all gone. The night before we had
spent at Kazi Mahara, which was empty. They said that a valley near
there was full of corpses. At Kangal we also began to see exiles
from Tokat. The sight was one to strike horror to any heart; they
were a company of old women, who had been robbed of absolutely
everything. At Tokat the Government had first imprisoned the men,
and from the prison had taken them on the road. The preacher’s wife
was in the company, and told us the story. After the men had gone,
they arrested the old women and the older brides, perhaps about
thirty or thirty-five years old. There were very few young women or
children. All the younger women and children were left in Tokat.
Badvelli Avedis has seven children; one was with our schoolgirls and
the other six remained in Tokat, without father or mother to look
after them. For three days these Tokat people had been without food,
and after that had lived on the Sivas company, who had not yet lost
much.
When we looked at them we could not imagine that even the sprinkling
of men that were with us would be allowed to remain. We did not long
remain in doubt; the next day we heard that a special kaimakam had
come to Hassan Tchelebi to separate the men, and it was with terror
in our hearts that we passed through that village about noon. But we
encamped and ate our supper in peace, and even began to think that
perhaps it was not so, when the Mudir came round with gendarmes and
began to collect the men, saying that the Kaimakam wanted to write
their names and that they would be back soon.
The night passed, and only one man came back to tell the story of
how every man was compelled to give up all his money, and all were
taken to prison. The next morning they collected the men who had
escaped the night before and extorted forty-five liras from our
company, on the promise that they would give us gendarmes to protect
us. One “company” is supposed to be from 1,000 to 3,000 persons.
Ours was perhaps 2,000, and the greatest number of gendarmes would
be five or six. In addition to these they sewed a red rag on the arm
of a Kurdish villager and gave him a gun, and he had the right to
rob and bully us all he pleased.
Broken-hearted, the women continued their journey. Our boys were not
touched, and two of our teachers being small escaped, and will be a
great help as long as they can stay with the company. The Mudir said
that the men had gone back to Sivas; the villagers whom we saw all
declared that all those men were killed at once. The question of
what becomes of the men who are taken out of the prisons and of
those who are taken from the convoy is a profound mystery. I have
talked with many Turks, and I cannot make up my mind what to
believe.
As soon as the men left us, the Turkish drivers began to rob the
women, saying: “You are all going to be thrown into the Tokma Su, so
you might as well give your things to us, and then we will stay by
you and try to protect you.” Every Turkish woman that we met said
the same thing. The worst were the gendarmes, who really did more or
less bad things. One of our schoolgirls was carried off by the Kurds
twice, but her companions made so much fuss that she was brought
back. I was on the run all the time from one end of the company to
the other. These robbing, murdering Kurds are certainly the
best-looking men I have seen in this country. They steal your goods,
but not everything. They do not take your bread or your stick.
As we approached the bridge over the Tokma Su, it was certainly a
fearful sight. As far as the eye could see over the plain was this
slow-moving line of ox-carts. For hours there was not a drop of
water on the road, and the sun poured down its very hottest. As we
went on we began to see the dead from yesterday’s company, and the
weak began to fall by the way. The Kurds working in the fields made
attacks continually, and we were half-distracted. I piled as many as
I could on our wagons, and our pupils, both boys and girls, worked
like heroes. One girl took a baby from its dead mother and carried
it until evening. Another carried a dying woman until she died. We
bought water from the Kurds, not minding the beating that the boys
were sure to get with it. I counted forty-nine deaths, but there
must have been many more. One naked body of a woman was covered with
bruises. I saw the Kurds robbing the bodies of those not yet
entirely dead. I walked, or, rather, ran, back and forth until we
could see the bridge.
The hills on each side were white with Kurds, who were throwing
stones on the Armenians, who were slowly wending their way to the
bridge. I ran ahead and stood on the bridge in the midst of a crowd
of Kurds, until I was used up. I did not see anyone thrown into the
water, but they said, and I believe it, that a certain Elmas, who
has done handwork for me for years, was thrown over the bridge by a
Kurd. Our Badvelli’s wife was riding on a horse with a baby in her
arms, and a Kurd took hold of her to throw her over, when another
Kurd said: “She has a baby in her arms,” and they let her go. After
crossing the bridge, we found all the Sivas people who had left
before us waiting by the river, as well as companies from Samsoun,
Amasia and other places.
The police for the first time began to interfere with me here, and
it was evident that something was decided about me. The next morning
after we arrived at this bridge, they wanted me to go to Malatia;
but I insisted that I had permission to stay with the Armenians.
During the day, however, they said that the Mutessarif had ordered
me to come to Malatia, and that the others were going to Kiakhta.
Soon after we heard that they were going to Ourfa, there to build
villages and cities, &c.
In Malatia I went at once to the commandant, a captain who they say
has made a fortune out of these exiles. I told him how I had gone to
Erzeroum last winter, and how we pitied these women and children and
wished to help them, and finally he sent me to the Mutessarif. The
latter is a Kurd, apparently anxious to do the right thing; but he
has been sick most of the time since he came, and the “beys” here
have had things more or less their own way, and certainly horrors
have been committed. I suggested that they should telegraph to Sivas
and understand that I had permission to go with these exiles all the
way, and the answer is said to have come from Sivas that I am not to
go beyond here.
My friends here are very glad to have me with them, for they have a
very difficult problem on their hands and are nearly crazy with the
horrors they have been through here. The Mutessarif and other
officials here and at Sivas have read me orders from Constantinople
again and again to the effect that the lives of these exiles are to
be protected, and from their actions I should judge that they must
have received such orders; but they certainly have murdered a great
many in every city. Here there were great trenches dug by the
soldiers for drilling purposes. Now these trenches are all filled
up, and our friends saw carts going back from the city by night. A
man I know told me that when he was out to inspect some work he was
having done, he saw a dead body which had evidently been pulled out
of one of these trenches, probably by dogs. He gave word to the
Government, with the result that his two servants, who were with
him, were sent for by under-officers, saying that the Pasha wanted
them, and they were murdered. The Beledia Reis here says that every
male over ten years old is being murdered, that not one is to live,
and no woman over fifteen. The truth seems to be somewhere between
these two extremes.
My greatest object in going with these exiles was to help them to
get started there. Many have relatives in all sorts of places, to
whom I could write; and I could, in my own estimation, be a channel
by which aid could get to them. I am not criticising the Government.
Most of the higher officials are at their wit’s end to stop these
abuses and carry out the orders which they have received; but this
is a flood, and it carries everything before it.
I have tried to write only what I have seen and know to be true. The
reports and possibilities are very many, but the exact truth that we
know, at best, calls for our most earnest prayer and effort. God has
come very near to many during these days.
79. EXTRACTS FROM A LETTER, DATED MASSACHUSETTS, 29th AUGUST, 1915,
FROM ANOTHER FOREIGN RESIDENT AT SIVAS TO MR. G.H. PAELIAN.
You may be surprised to get a letter from me from America, and I am
surprised myself that I am really here. It is seven years and our
time for a furlough; but as there was no one to leave the College
with, and the children were small, we decided to wait a year or two.
But when they deported the Armenians and left us without work and
without friends, we decided to come home and get our vacation and be
ready to go wherever we could after the war.
You will want to know about Sivas and about your family in
particular. In general, the Sivas Armenians are gone, but there were
a few exceptions when we came away—the Swiss Orphanage, the
Sanasarian School, the people in prison (1,500 of the best men), and
the Armenians in the army who were employed in making roads,
building houses, tailoring, shoe-making, &c., for the army. Then
there are Dr. A. and Dr. B., the C.’s, a few tent-makers and people
who were necessary to the Turks, a few nurses in our hospital, and
D., our druggist.
The others were all deported on ox-carts on the 5th July and the
succeeding ten days. In general, there was one ox-cart to a family,
and they could take whatever they wished to on that. The Vali
allowed the Protestants all to go on the same day, although they
were scattered all over the city, and the others were sent by
quarters. Our teachers and boarding pupils went with the
Protestants.
E. and her children went with the Protestants too. I bought a cow
for her, and gave it to her and another woman who could take care of
it. I thought that F. must have milk. I did not get down in time to
see them off, but Miss Graffam went with them to help what she
could.
The morning after they started out, we sent G. on horseback to see
how they were. They had spent one night without any accident,
although they had not slept much.
All our teachers went except H., who was in prison. We do not know
why they imprisoned him, but we think some enemy of the family must
have told some lies about them, because they imprisoned his brother,
too, and J. We tried every way to get him out, but it was of no use.
Have you heard that he is engaged to K., a girl who has been in our
family a great deal? She was a teacher in the girls’-school, studied
one year in Smyrna, and then taught one year more. She usually
spends the summer in our family, and was to do the same this year.
When the Armenians were deported, the Vali allowed us to keep three
girls as servants, and, as she was to be with us, we kept her with
two others who were already with us, and we brought the three to
America with us, saving these three from the general deportation.
Since coming to America and hearing about what happened in other
places, it seems that the deportation from Sivas was very humane,
but at best it was awful. I cannot describe the sadness of having
all our friends taken away from us in one day and not knowing where
they were going or whether we should see them again. The College was
full of boys, teachers, carpenters, servants, &c. The L.’s, &c.,
were camping. In a single day they went, and only our family was
left, with G. We were not afraid; we did not care what happened.
Now we do not know what has become of them, or what has become of
the prisoners or the soldiers.
80. SIVAS: NARRATIVE OF A NATURALISED OTTOMAN SUBJECT, DATED NEW
YORK CITY, 10th MARCH, 1916; COMMUNICATED BY THE AMERICAN
COMMITTEE FOR ARMENIAN AND SYRIAN RELIEF.
When the majority of the Armenian people were exiled from Sivas, I
was in Talas, but when I heard what had happened I started back at
once, thinking of course that my relations would also be sent away,
and wishing to accompany them. It was with great difficulty that I
obtained permission from the officials in Kaisaria to go back; they
claimed that the road was very dangerous, and that it would be
impossible for a woman alone to travel over it. Finally, the head
official of the Military Transport, who was living in Sivas and had
taken possession of Dr. AB.’s house there, telegraphed to Kaisaria
that I might travel under the protection of the Menzel, and I
started with two officers who were in a wagon behind me and who
warned me that I must keep close to them, as the road was very
dangerous. The road until we reached Sharkishla, two days’ journey
from Kaisaria, was very quiet, and we met almost no one. At
Sharkishla the plain was black with exiles from different parts of
Anatolia; they had been waiting there for about a week and new
recruits were coming in every day. At that time they did not seem
very unhappy. The weather was beautiful, the plain was covered with
trees, and many of the wealthy people had tents and wagons, while
there were a great many boys and men in the party.
Later, when they reached Malatia, or even before, the men were
separated from them, their wagons and goods were taken from them,
and they were only allowed to take what they could carry on their
backs over the narrow mountain pass through which they went. I know
this because Miss Graffam met these same people later on, while she
was on the road with the Sivas people. I was not very near them, but
I could see them from the han window. The handji, an Armenian, told
me he was sure they were all to be killed, and the officers told me
the next day that they had visited them at night, and that the men
were to be killed; they said they were sorry for the women and
children, but one of them added: “This is what happens to people
that want a kingdom of their own.”
I had a few unpleasant experiences on the road, but I will not stop
to tell them. I found my relations safe, and the Vali had told them
they might stay—I believe because of the influence of some powerful
Turkish friends they have in Constantinople, who had telegraphed to
the Vali to save Dr. AB. and his wife. The prisons at that time were
filled with our Sivas men—several thousand; these men we visited
every day, taking food to some of them and trying to cheer up the
others. Their wives and children had gone with the exiles, and it
was pretty hard work to be brave when they did not know their fate,
but it was surprising how really brave they were. Some of the
gaolers were very brutal men, and would be as disagreeable as
possible to us, but others were polite and willing to let us see the
prisoners, even allowing selected ones to come into the yard and
talk with us. About a month later these men were taken out in
batches of a hundred at night; they were told that they were to be
taken to the railway near Angora to work on it; the rich men were
allowed to hire wagons from Turks, at a big price, to travel in.
They were all taken very early in the morning, several hours before
daylight, and they were seen, those on foot, to go over the mountain
into the valley, where we are pretty sure they were killed, as the
soldiers returned with clothes, and the wagons always came back
three or four hours later filled with clothes. The soldiers,
moreover, described how many of the men met their fate, some
bravely, some otherwise, and we think they spoke the truth, for they
told of men we knew intimately, and who would have been apt to do
and say just what they said they did, in the face of death. It was
hard to see so many of our fine young men go off in this way, and
many of them had no idea they were going to their death. Some of
them took money with them, thinking they might meet their wives and
children. When they heard that Miss Graffam was returning, they were
so anxious to see her and hear of their families. Most of them were
gone when she got back, but she was allowed to go into the prison
and tell those that were left something about the journey she had
made. They were thankful to hear that their wives and children were
still alive, as they had heard they had all been massacred a few
days’ distance from Sivas. Miss Graffam said that although they were
robbed on the road and almost everything they had was taken from
them, still the girls and women were not outraged or treated badly
as far as Malatia. After that, we heard from boys that had escaped
from the party and come back to Sivas that many of the girls were
carried off by the Kurds a few days after Miss Graffam left them.
After all our Sivas men had been taken from the prisons, other men
kept coming in from other cities and towns like Angora and Yozgad.
They were kept in prison for a few days and then taken out as our
men had been. We were not permitted to see these men. Many of them
when they reached Sivas were in carriages. We heard that they, too,
were killed in the mountains, and that Sivas was being called the
“Great Slaughter House.” The last of our young men that remained in
prison were three young doctors. One of them, Dr. AC., had been
educated by Mrs. AD.; he had been brought up in the Orphanage at X.,
and was a splendid young man, full of enthusiasm for his work, which
was in the military hospital. Another of the three was the son of a
wealthy Divrig family, who had been educated in Germany and had many
strong German friends among the high German officials in
Constantinople, who either would not or could not do anything to
save him. They were executed while I was in Constantinople. I had
taken with me letters to a high German official from Dr. AE., asking
him to save them; and later Miss Graffam telegraphed to me that they
were in great danger, and begged me to do all I could to save
them—to go to the Germans. I did so, but was told they had gone to
Enver Pasha before, and that he would do nothing for them.
About thirty or forty families in Sivas, all of them wealthy, had
become Moslems, having the promise that, if they did so, their lives
and property would be safe. A few weeks later, all of them, with the
exception of two or three merchants, were told they had to go, and,
as soon as they left, their property was confiscated by the
Government. The Vali’s family doctor, an Armenian, was told that he
was to stay, and he asked if that meant he was to become a Moslem.
The Vali said: “No, I am tired of these people becoming Moslems.”
At two different times our orphanage children were ordered out; both
times Dr. Y. went to the Vali and begged that they might stay,
telling him how small many of them were, only three or four years
old, and how they would certainly die on the road, for at that time
even ox-carts could not be found. He seemed to be touched and said
they might. There seemed always to be friction between the police
and the Vali; he would give permission for them to stay and the
police would come and say they were to go; several of the police
officers came to the older girls and teachers, and asked them to
become their wives and stay, saying that they would be carried off
on the road anyway, and that they might as well accept them and
remain. Many hundreds of little girls were being brought back to
Sivas before I left; some were being placed in Moslem families and
some in empty houses. We were not allowed to see them. Many of the
Turkish officers had seized one or two of these little girls and
were planning to take them on to Constantinople with them. Some of
our orphanage teachers were able to interview some of the older
girls that were brought back from Kara-Hissar (one of the places
where the Armenians tried to defend themselves). These girls tell
horrible tales of what they saw there. A great many of these girls
were being married to Turks; the Turks were saying they were not
forcing them; they wanted them to become their wives willingly. A
number of women and children who had been in hiding were also
beginning to come out of hiding when I left, and the Missionaries
were taking them into the orphanage and the hospital, trying to save
them.
Several Armenian soldiers from the Samsoun region had also fled to
the hospital for protection; they had started with their regiments
from Samsoun, and the Armenians, who numbered a thousand or more,
had been attacked by the guards and the majority killed or left for
dead. The men that came to Dr. Y. had been among those left for
dead; one of them had a horrible wound across the back of his neck,
where he had been cut by an axe; they usually used axes, saying they
did not want to waste powder and shot on them. Some others came from
a lonely barracks on the Marsovan road, where they and their
comrades, all Armenians (soldiers), had been shut up for three days
without food or water. Finally a young Turkish officer heard the
noise as he passed, and came and let them out. These men said that
they were put in this building towards evening. They were tied
together by threes and called out in succession. Those that went out
never returned, and they found that they were being butchered with
axes. One of the men succeeded in untying the cord that he and his
two companions were tied with; they closed and barricaded the door,
and when the soldiers, who were only a few in number (Turkish),
found that they could not get in, they fastened it on the outside so
that the Armenians should not get out. They were afraid, indeed, to
go out even after the Turkish soldiers had left, until this officer
appeared and sent them on to Sivas; he said that the men that did
these things would be punished, but they were not. We believed that
they were allowed to do pretty much as they pleased with the
Armenians, and so, when they happened to be brutal, they did this
kind of thing, with the result that many of the Armenians that had
gone through it had become nervous wrecks. Dr. Y. had seen and
talked with a number of these men, and I also saw those who had fled
to the hospital.
In Tokat the girls, small and large, were left in the houses alone.
The daughter of the Badvelli there managed to send a letter to her
uncle, who was a nurse in our hospital (a soldier), saying that she
and her four little sisters were in the house alone and had nothing
to live on, and that the city was full of girls in the same
condition; up till that time, which was a month after their parents
had left them, they had not been injured by the Turks. A Turk
brought the letter.