dangers to which the Armenians are exposed. There can be no doubt
that many of them—chiefly men—have been massacred in cold blood.
Although no instances of this seem to have occurred during my stay
in Broussa, I was informed by very trustworthy sources that, shortly
before my arrival, about 170 of the most prominent Armenians from
Broussa and neighbouring towns had been shot near Adranos, whither
they had been exiled in June. I have all the more reason to credit
this report because, when I made inquiries concerning two of the
men, the brothers A., whose relatives live in America and who are
insured with American companies, the Vali replied evasively, but
finally said that he had heard that they escaped from custody and
had disappeared!
However, even if no Armenians had been killed outright, the result
would be the same, for the deportation as carried out at present is
merely a polite form of massacre. Unless the whole movement be
stopped at once, there is, I am firmly convinced, not the slightest
chance of any of the exiles surviving this coming winter, except
possibly the very wealthiest amongst them.
Nor do the authorities make any secret of the fact that their main
object is the extermination of the whole Armenian race. The Vali
admitted quite frankly: “We are determined to get rid, once and for
all, of this cancer in our country. It has been our greatest
political danger, only we never realized it as much as we do now. It
is true that many innocents are suffering with the guilty, but _we
have no time to make any distinctions_. We know it means an economic
loss to us, but it is nothing compared with the danger we are
thereby escaping!”
Without commenting on the truth or falsity of these remarks, the
fact remains that the Turks are rapidly depleting their country of
some of the thriftiest, most intelligent, and, in many respects, the
most valuable elements of their population. One has only to walk
through the streets of any town in the interior to realize how this
deportation has wrought havoc with the life of the community. Nearly
all doctors, dentists, tailors, carpenters are gone—in short, every
profession or trade requiring the least skill has been stopped, not
to mention the complete stagnation of all business of any
consequence. Even Turks are realizing the danger, and in some
villages they petitioned the authorities to allow certain Armenians
to remain! It is therefore all the more surprising that the Ottoman
Government persists in this shortsighted policy, for there can be
little doubt that every place left vacant by an Armenian
will—irrespective of the outcome of the European conflict—have to be
filled by a foreigner, as the Turk has proved himself totally
incapable of doing this kind of work.
102. ADAPAZAR: STATEMENT, DATED 24th SEPTEMBER, 1915, BY A FOREIGN
RESIDENT IN TURKEY; COMMUNICATED BY THE AMERICAN COMMITTEE FOR
ARMENIAN AND SYRIAN RELIEF.
On the 1st August the beating began in the church. The object of
this was to force the people to bring in any ammunition and firearms
they might have. Most of the people accepted their fate in silence,
but one man said boldly: “You must answer to God in heaven for these
things.”
“What do I care for your God in heaven? He says you are good people
and I must not beat you; but he is not good, we must kill him.”
A mother threw herself in front of her consumptive son, and herself
received the stripes. A German woman tried to save her Armenian
husband. “Get out of the way or I will beat you,” cried the Beast.
“I don’t care for the Emperor himself; my orders come from Talaat
Bey.”
Some Armenian ladies came to intercede with the Beast, and for a day
or two the beatings were less vigorous.
Then came the awful Saturday, the day of darkness and horror. Women
came to our house saying: “They are beating the Armenian men to
death, and they are going to beat the women next!” I ran to a
neighbour’s house and there found men and women crying. The
Protestant brethren had gotten out of the church and were telling
their story. “They are beating the men frightfully,” they cried.
“They say they will throw us into the River Sakaria; they will send
us into exile; they will make Mohammedans of us; they will beat our
women next; they are coming to the house.”
“Come to the school and I will put up the American flag,” I said.
Soon after, more women came to the school to find out if I could do
something.
“We will go to the mayor; we will go to the Beast,” said they, “and
we are all losing our heads!”
Then our woman doctor came, crying frightfully. She had been down to
the church to care for the wounded. Then the trustee came. “I want
you to take my money and give it to my son if I die,” said he. Then
he sat down and wept, the tears rolling down his face.
At last I could endure it no longer. “I am going to the church; I do
not care what you say,” I exclaimed. I did not know the way and
every one was afraid to show me, but I found it by inquiring. One
man said: “You are going to the church? It is hell there.” I arrived
and walked past the guards at the gate without looking at them, and
came to the door and lo, one of the trustees came to meet me. We
walked up and down the church together and he remarked: “I think the
police do not like to see you.” I said: “They had better not; I am
going to America to tell of all these things.” He said there was one
Turkish soldier outside the church in tears. He said he had been
crying three days and nights because of the awful treatment of the
Armenian people. Some of the people were shut up ten days in the
church, but special favour was shown to the Protestants; none were
beaten, and they had more liberty to go in and out. During all this
time the Armenian shops were closed, and Armenians were not allowed
to go to market to buy food or even to their gardens to gather their
fruits, so that many were on the verge of starvation.
Three days after this the beating ceased and we were beginning to
take courage again; a few Armenian shops were opened; but the next
morning early, which was Sunday, news came that all the Armenians in
Adapazar, numbering about 25,000, were to be sent into exile. They
were to go to Konia by freight train, if they could pay their
passage, and then to Mosul by carriage—on foot a journey of weeks
and months. Such awful stories came to us about things that had
happened to those who went on foot, that people sold their last
possessions to get enough to pay their train passage. They were
afraid to take money with them. The poor had none to take; the rich
must leave all their property behind. If they took money they feared
violence. By Wednesday there were no goods trains to send them by,
as so many had gone, but all the people were turned out into the
streets to await their turn—many for several days—except the
Protestants, who were allowed to come to the Protestant church to
wait, while some of the wealthy people remained in their houses. The
Protestants, in Adapazar especially, were in good favour with the
Government, and their condition is somewhat hopeful.
A card has been received, written three weeks after the exile began,
from Eski Shehr, telling how some of the Protestants in the hotel
there were allowed to have their church services on Sunday and were
being well treated. They thought it possible that they might be able
to rent houses and remain there. If this is indeed true it will be a
very great blessing.
103. ADAPAZAR: FULLER STATEMENT BY THE AUTHOR OF THE PRECEDING
DOCUMENT; PUBLISHED IN THE JOURNAL “THE NEW ARMENIA,” OF NEW
YORK, 15th MAY, 1916.
For several months there had been occasional exiles from Adapazar,
but we felt safe because we had a good Mayor and a good Military
Commander in the city. They were our friends. The Commander
frequently joined us in our daily games of croquet, while the sick
soldiers watched us from the windows. We gave a garden party to all
the officers. They liked us and would have spared the school and the
Protestants had they been able. But one day little Arousiag, one of
our youngest pupils, came to us, a refugee, with only the clothes on
her back. She had been staying with relatives at Sabandja, but the
whole village had been exiled. As she had been born in America, of
naturalized parents, she was saved, and I was afterwards able to
bring her to her parents in America.
Soon after, some villagers whom I knew came from another mountain
village, Tchalgara, and from their lips I heard how for seven days
the men had been shut up in the church and beaten—especially the
priest—until some fainted. The Government was searching for weapons,
and the men were beaten until they either produced their own or
secured others to surrender. Then in Bardezag, our nearest
neighbouring missionary city, similar things happened. We did not
know what was going on in the interior, although occasional vague
rumours had come to us.
Then horrible cruelties began in Adapazar. About 500 important men
were imprisoned in the Gregorian church. Those belonging to the
Socialist Party were mercilessly beaten. Most accepted their fate in
silence, but one man said boldly: “You must answer to God in Heaven
for these things.” “You have no God but me,” was the response, and
the man was beaten till his feet were red with blood. “What do I
care for your Mayor?” continued the Beast, as he was called: “He
says you are good people, but he is no good himself. Kill me if you
wish,” he continued, “but ten men will come to take my place.” A
mother threw herself in front of her invalid son and herself
received the stripes. A German woman tried to save her Armenian
husband. “Get out of the way or I’ll beat you,” cried the Beast; “I
do not care for the German Emperor himself, my orders come from
Talaat Bey.” But afterwards the man was released. When I heard these
things I knew it was of no use for me to try to interfere; if the
Beast would not listen to a German, he certainly would not to an
American.
One day two of our delicate ladies went to see the Beast—to plead,
like Queen Esther, for their people—saying, by this act: “If I
perish, I perish.” They found a man of fine appearance who had been
educated in Europe, and who received them most politely. “We have
heard bad things about you,” they said, “but now we see that you are
a good man. Can’t you persuade the people to surrender their arms
without beating them?” “I am glad to see you so patriotic,” he
responded, “and would be glad of your assistance. You go, too, to
the houses and persuade the people to give up their arms, and it
will be well with them.” So these two ladies hired a carriage and
drove up and down the city, exhorting the people to surrender all
their arms.
For a day or two the beatings were less. Then came the awful
Saturday—the day of darkness and horror. Someone came running to the
school-house crying: “They are beating the men in the church to
death, and are going to begin on the women next.”
I ran over to the neighbour’s house and there I found men and women
crying. Two of our Protestant brethren had escaped from the church
and were telling their story. “They are beating the men
frightfully,” they cried. “They say they will throw us into the
River Sakaria; they will send us all into exile; they will make
Mohammedans of us. They are going to the houses to beat the women
next.” I begged the women to come to the school and I would put up
the American flag, but they did not wish to leave their houses to be
pillaged, although they promised to come if necessary.
Soon after, more women came to the school, frantic to do something.
“We will go to the Beast; we will go to the Mayor,” they cried, and
we were all losing our heads. Then our lady doctor came. She had
been to the church to care for the wounded and the tears were
streaming down her face. Then one of the school trustees came. “I
want you to take my money and give it to my son if I die,” he said.
Then he sat down and the tears streamed down his face and mine. At
last I could endure it no longer. “I am going to the church; I don’t
care what you say!” I exclaimed, and I put on my hat and started. I
did not know the way to the Gregorian church and everyone was afraid
to show me, so I had to find my way by inquiry. “You are going to
the church?” asked one man: “It is hell there.” I arrived. I walked
past the guards without even looking at them, and there at the open
door stood one of the trustees, Mr. Alexanian. “Can’t I speak to the
police and get you out?” I asked. The other trustees had already
left. “No,” he said, “I am superintendent now.”
The beatings had ceased for a time, in order that leading men might
go out to search for weapons. Mr. Alexanian would write down their
names as they went out, erasing them when the men returned. “I am
glad I was here last night,” he continued, “for I have been able to
help the poor people to-day.” How many of us would be glad of the
privilege of spending a sleepless, bedless, chairless night for the
sake of being useful? He told the same sad story of awful beatings.
No Protestant had been beaten. The Turks have always been favourable
towards the Protestants, especially in Adapazar. This trustee told
how after the beatings he went outside the church and found a
Turkish soldier in tears, who said he had been crying three days and
nights because of the wrongs inflicted upon the Armenian people. So
you see there are some good Turks. It is the Government that is
responsible, not all the people.
Soon after this, an important exile returned, the father of our two
sweetest kindergarten children, and the head of a society. Great
anxiety was felt on his behalf, for we feared he would be hanged and
we grieved for his refined and delicate wife. He answered boldly at
the trial. “Why do you punish these men? If there is any fault it is
mine, and yet I also am guiltless. This society was organized with
the permission of the Government. You allowed us to obtain
firearms.” Which was all very true. The Government was hatching a
diabolical scheme to send all the Armenians into an endless exile,
and wished first to disarm them.
Sunday brought new terrors but no especial troubles. On Monday the
Beast left the city, and our hearts were filled with a subdued
rejoicing, even though he said he would return on Wednesday. We did
not believe it. We thought he had been recalled on account of his
cruelties. As to the man himself, he was an ex-convict, having been
implicated in a conspiracy against the Government and sentenced to a
thousand years imprisonment. He was working for his liberty by
carrying on this devilish work, and, to give himself courage for it,
he drank heavily of the most intoxicating liquor.
During these ten days of imprisonment all Armenian shops were
closed. The Armenians could not go to market to buy provisions or
even to gather the produce of their gardens. Many were on the verge
of starvation. On Saturday evening a few shops were opened, and we
began to take heart a little. Some were fearful of exile, but I
declared it would be impossible to send from twenty to thirty
thousand Armenians from one city into exile, though a few would
doubtless be sent. At this time the Government collected taxes from
the Christians a year in advance—a bad sign. On Sunday morning I was
awakened early by someone calling below my window. I put out my head
and was informed that all the Armenians in Adapazar were to be sent
into exile. As early as possible I went to the Mayor to intercede
for the people, but it was useless. He would not even promise to
protect our American property, and out of the entire city I could
save only little Arousiag, who was American born.
From that Sunday onwards, the streets were full of Armenians trying
to sell their possessions for a mere pittance. All was very
quiet—the silence of despair. Even the Turks looked serious, for
they knew that their city was financially ruined, as the Armenians
are the most thrifty and skilful of all the peoples of Turkey. In
spite of apparent quiet, however, robbery was not lacking. A poor
servant girl was trying to sell her sewing machine—her only
possession—and when she refused to sell it for four dollars, a man
seized it and ran away with it. A few days later, the husband of one
of our school servants was bringing their machine to our school when
a man snatched it from his shoulders.
The people who had any money went to Konia (the ancient Iconium) in
goods-trucks, being allowed to take only a few possessions with
them. They were told to leave their possessions in the churches and
they would be safeguarded, but the same promise had been made in
Sabandja, and the church had been looted almost before the people
were out of the city, so nobody trusted this promise. The exiles
were crowded on the top of their possessions, sixty to eighty people
in a truck marked for forty people. Some missionaries from the south
met a train-load of these refugees and described their condition as
miserable in the extreme. One girl had hanged herself on the way;
others had poison with them. Mothers were holding out their
beautiful babies and begging the missionaries to take them. A
Turkish officer ordered the Americans off, saying: “These Armenians
are dangerous people; they may have bombs.”
From Konia they were to go by foot or carriage to a desert place
called Mosul, in Mesopotamia. Those who had no money must make the
entire journey on foot. Such dreadful stories came to their ears as
to the treatment of those who walked—of how people were not allowed
to sell them bread, of how they were robbed, and families separated,
the men slain and the women and girls given to the Turks, the
children sold to be brought up as Mohammedans—that people sold their
last possession so as to be able to go as far as possible by train.
They were afraid to take money with them, lest they should be robbed
by the way. They must leave all their property behind, and as soon
as they vacated their houses, refugees from Macedonia took
possession of them. What a lamentable condition—to be poor and in
danger of starvation; to be rich, accustomed to luxury and
refinement, and then suffer all these things; to be a woman,
especially a pretty woman, with all a woman’s dangers (some in
Constantinople told me they would disfigure their faces if they were
exiled); to be a man and see all these things and yet be unable to
lift a finger in resistance; to be there and endure; to be here and
imagine!
How can the people keep their faith in God during such trials? How
many will deny and curse Him? How many will accept Mohammedanism? Or
how many will remain faithful to the end, and say through their
tears: “Though He slay me—or worse than slay me—yet will I trust in
Him?” Again and again they said to me: “Oh, if they would only kill
me now, I would not care; but I fear they will try to force me to
become a Mohammedan.”
What was the meaning of all this? It was the death blow aimed at
Christianity in Turkey, or, in other words, the extermination of the
Armenian people—their extermination or amalgamation. And why? At the
beginning of the struggle, or soon after, the Holy War was declared.
This signified a purpose to kill all Christians, the reward for
which is eternal pleasure in the Mohammedan paradise. At first
Turkey declared that the Holy War was directed only against nations
at war with herself, but later she waged it against all Christians.
The Armenians were so patient, so silent and uncomplaining. We came
very near to each other in those days. “You have made our sorrows
your sorrows,” they said to me: “You have an Armenian heart.” But as
the realization of what their exile actually meant dawned upon me, I
could neither eat nor sleep. One day I said to my friends: “I cannot
comfort you to-day; you must comfort me. I think I feel worse than
if I were going into exile myself.” And they were so brave and
cheerful that I did actually carry away cheer and comfort from that
home.
I had planned to remain with my friends until all were gone, but
that was impossible. The Protestants were given special favours;
they were the last to go, and were allowed to remain in their homes
or in the church, while on the Wednesday of that week all other
Armenians were turned out into the streets to wait their turn to go.
There they waited, with their baggage, for days, by the roadside
near the station.
So, with a sad heart, on the Friday of that exile week, I bade
farewell to the group of friends gathered at the school-house door,
and with little Arousiag mounted on to the top of my goods in the
ox-cart, fearing to trust my possessions out of my sight a moment. I
put up an umbrella to protect me from the rain and the curious gaze
of others. I felt and looked like an exile myself.
When we reached Constantinople, everything looked so peaceful and
quiet that I felt disappointed. We had received no news from the
city for some time, and thought that it must be nearly in the hands
of the enemy. To see women and children all dressed in the height of
fashion, and seemingly indifferent to the misery of the world, was a
painful contrast.
Not only did I leave terror behind me. In Constantinople also every
man’s heart was failing him for fear. There were rumours that
Constantinople also would be evacuated, and awful stories of the
separation of families, of the Mohammedanizing of Christians,
reached our ears. “This is worse than massacre,” again and again
they said: “Only let them kill us now.” Everybody was frantic to
leave the country, and the police stations were crowded with people
seeking, too often in vain, for permission to go to America,
Bulgaria, or Roumania. No men at all were allowed to go. They were
left behind to be exiled or massacred. On some days women were given
permission to leave, and on other days they were refused. It took
me, an American, two days to get my papers, with help from the
Embassy, and at every step I feared difficulty or refusal because of
Arousiag, and also another Armenian girl whom I was bringing with
me.
On the train just before we reached the boundary-line, an Armenian
family was sent back. Two of our graduates joined us in Bulgaria,
and they were said to be the last Armenians to leave Constantinople.
I know that some American ladies who joined us later were not
allowed to bring a servant with them, although she was badly needed
to help them with their babies.
At last we were out of the land of the dreadful Turk, but alas! a
part of us has been left behind. In all our silent hours visions
float before our mental eyes. As we passed through desolate-looking
provinces on our journey, I could see marching, marching, without
food or water or rest, my poor friends—the sun beating down upon
their heads, the cruel faces and rods of their oppressors urging
them on when they were ready to faint with weariness and hunger. No
place to buy bread, no bed to lie upon except the bare earth—only
marching, marching always. And I wondered whether the sublime faith
and courage with which they had started out would fail them in the
end. And thinking of these things the words of the Psalmist became
my words: “My tears have been my meat day and night, while they
continually say unto me, ‘Where is thy God?‘”
But there is a brighter side to the picture. One Sunday on my voyage
I turned to Revelation to see if I could find a message for these
days, and lo! there it was in Rev. vii., 13-17:—“These are they
which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes and
made them white in the blood of the Lamb.... They shall hunger no
more neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light upon them
nor any heat.... And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”
XIV.
THE ANATOLIAN RAILWAY.
_The Anatolian Railway runs diagonally across Anatolia from the
Asiatic suburbs of Constantinople to the Gulf of Iskanderoun
(Alexandretta), but, beyond Konia, the line is in the hands of the
Baghdad Railway Company, and the construction of this section is
still incomplete. The tunnel through the Taurus Range is not yet
open to traffic, and the present rail-head is at Bozanti, on the
northern side of the mountains. In the Adana plain, a short section
of line has long been in working order between Adana itself and the
ports of Mersina and Alexandretta. But beyond this, again, there is
another breach of continuity at the Amanus Range, and this second
mountain barrier has also to be crossed by road before the traveller
reaches the railway system that radiates from Aleppo._