Silences:
My Mother's Will to Survive
by
Alice Tashjian
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Foreword
Preface
Introduction
Appendix
Frances' Story-Ch. 1
Four Sons-Ch. 2
ThreeDaughters-Ch. 3
Missionaries-Ch. 4
Deportation-Ch. 5
To America-Ch. 6
Leon's Story-Ch. 7
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Foreword
Preface
Introduction
Appendix
Frances' Story-Ch. 1
Four Sons-Ch. 2
ThreeDaughters-Ch. 3
Missionaries-Ch. 4
Deportation-Ch. 5
To America-Ch. 6
Leon's Story-Ch. 7
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Foreword
Preface
Introduction
Appendix
Frances' Story-Ch. 1
Four Sons-Ch. 2
ThreeDaughters-Ch. 3
Missionaries-Ch. 4
Deportation-Ch. 5
To America-Ch. 6
Leon's Story-Ch. 7
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Foreword
Preface
Introduction
Appendix
Frances' Story-Ch. 1
Four Sons-Ch. 2
ThreeDaughters-Ch. 3
Missionaries-Ch. 4
Deportation-Ch. 5
To America-Ch. 6
Leon's Story-Ch. 7
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Chapter 5
The Deportation
Historians record that in January of the year 1915, the Turkish government proceeded to exterminate the Armenian people according to a secret plan drawn up by the leaders Talaat, Enver, Jemal, and other pashas. Worried over negative publicity, these same leaders devised a plan to release the criminals from all of Turkey's prisons, giving them permission and instruction to ravish and massacre all villages inhabited by Armenians.
At the same time, little by little, they collected all the Armenian soldiers and placed them in noncombatant service. They were used as labor battalions where they were so overworked and mistreated that many deserted. Therefore, the Turks sent gendarmes into private homes in search of the deserters. At the same time, they confiscated all arms and weapons of defense.
Many devout Muslims felt commerce to be corrupt. Since my father, Parnag, was a prosperous merchant, he and my brother Hemayag was among the first to be conscripted and taken to jail. Their dry goods store was bolted and later emptied.
It was a June morning. We were eating breakfast. Suddenly, there was a deafening banging on the door. My mother opened the door; the uniformed gendarme pushed forward into the room seeking out my father.
"We have come for Nazareth Parounagian. We hear he is making too much money," the gendarme bellowed. "You are stealing from the Turkish government. You have to come to court and settle this matter with the city officials. By the way, bring your oldest son, Hemayag, with you."
And . . . they took them, two men who had committed no crime; gentle men who sold dry goods, printed fabrics for clothing and household linens. My father had inherited his home from his father, who had repurchased it from the Turkish government who had confiscated it once before during the pillage in 1890. At first, my grandfather was fortunately spared. We hoped that father would be spared and return home. My sisters and I were horribly frightened. Only our mother seemed to be composed. We watched in disbelief as she made conversation with the Turkish soldiers.
The procedure was to arrest all the prominent men in the cities and villages. Without warning they took the men to the city square to be questioned. Within twenty-four hours, all were pronounced guilty, and placed into prisons. Then the gendarmes searched the houses, ostensibly for firearms, but in truth, they searched to determine what of value could be taken later.
One day after school, my mother and I visited my father at the jail. She had prepared a basket with paghach (Armenian bread), some cheese and olives. Together, the two of us handed the food through the bars and gates to the unfortunate man, doomed to much torture, suffering and inevitable death. When we greeted my father, we noticed he held his arms toward the sky. We did not understand until he told us his arm pits were blistered from the hot hard-boiled eggs tied to his arm pits and between his upper legs. This had been his torture for the moment.
My mother and father said some words to each other. I did not hear them, because I stood to the side. Then, we hugged each other through the bars as best we could. "God will take care of you," he shouted as the guard hurried my mother and me away. How my mother and I parted from him and did not cry is now hard for me to imagine. But, she had very little time. Too much depended on her. The responsibility of taking care of the remaining family was immediate.
That night, Karekin planned to escape into the countryside. My mother packed food and supplies, and begged him to be careful. This time she could not control her tears. She had sent away her fourth and last son. Her pain was too great. There were so many stories of girls being taken and kept for soldiers' harems that mother had all she could do to tend to the safety of her daughters and herself. She had to ration the food. The chickens and eggs would come in handy. She felt that Tornig (grandchild) should have more attention. He needed some toys. Perhaps, he could use this ball of yarn for a ball. Our mother hung a long chain, carefully hidden, inside her dress. On this she strung the gold pieces she had been given by her mother-in-law and her husband that she had been saving. "These will be very helpful," she told me. Witnesses record that on the morning of June 3, 1915, the Turkish authorities arrested and put all adult Armenian men into prisons. After unspeakable tortures, they bound one to another, and at night took them to points where they were killed.
An edict was issued that the homes be searched for military deserters and hidden weapons. They went from house to house and committed barbarities on defenseless village women and children.
I don't know why they did not harm us. Perhaps, my mother gave them a piece of gold. It was in late June or early July. They knocked again and told us we must leave. Our mother packed the cart, pulled by our own two oxen. With much care, she gathered suitable clothing and transportable food. We mounted and as we rode away from our house filled with so many memories, we saw them nail the doors shut. From our cart, we kept looking back until we could see our house no longer.
They were strong men; they had guns and swords. We saw them use them on others. What could we do? We had to go; we had to leave our house, our animals, our land, our Armenia.
. . . To go where? We did not know.
. . . To go where? Mayrig, tell us.
We packed home-baked breads and dried foodstuffs on the cart. The gendarme carefully watched us load our favorite items. Mother packed the cart well and made certain all the valuables were hidden. The people of Sivas formed fourteen caravans. I think we were in the first caravan. Sepastia had an Armenian population of nearly 5,800 families consisting of approximately 36,000 persons. The average family numbered six or seven persons.
According to Garabed Kapikian in his documentary, Yeghernabadoum [Story of Genocide]
The deportation of the Armenians of Sebastia began on Monday, June 22, and ended on Sunday, July 5: every day another caravan left the city making a total of 14 caravans. The departure of the first caravan constituted a particularly horrid and heartrending scene. Each ward had already been surrounded by regiments of gendarmes armed with bayonets. The police cracking whips shouted at the residents of the ward, "Come outside quick, you infidel dogs!" Lamentations and supplications were of no use. The members of the various households came outside with their loads on their backs and got into ox carts or onto donkeys . . . . The caravan, amidst weeping and lamentations, was taken out of town; it crossed the "Crooked Bridge" over the Alis River, and, at nightfall, stopped at the foot of Mt. Kardashlar. That was only the beginning . . . .
Forced on the march, we walked and walked and walked. We did not know where we were going. They told us we were going to Mardin. I remember though, that the first night was quite pleasant. We sat by the side of the road and had a picnic from the good food our mother prepared for us. "God will take care of us," she consoled as if in prayer. I was silent. I could not reach her God.
But, when we were in the hills, climbing treacherous roads, the rod of the enemy was at our back. I was scared. One false step and I would be in the bottomless abyss below. Many fell and we heard their cries, but none of us could help them. We had to continue or be struck with the end of their gun. It was sad; I think that they who fell along the march, or fell below died there . . . alone.
Many times the carts could not make the climb. How pathetic it was to see these animals lose their footing and tumble down with their packs of food and family possessions. Our oxen did not fall, but when we reached a flat place, some Turkish soldiers who had been watching us came and took the oxen, the cart and everything we had left . . . food, clothing, everything. My mother tried very hard to restrain them, but it was useless. They took it all. We were left helpless with what we wore on our bodies.
For many days, it must have been many months, we kept walking. Many died of hunger and thirst. Then we came to a desert. We walked under the hot, August sun; I was tired. We were hot by day and so very cold at night. We had no cover on our bodies. The little we had to eat, mother, using the gold she had hidden in her dress, purchased from wandering nomads.
Soon the gendarme realized that mother had money and they made us remove all our clothes. They took them and we had to walk, naked. How those awful men would look at us. At first, I was ashamed, but after awhile, we walked on and, unbelievably, adapted to our humiliation. Many young women, these awful men took to bed and did to them what men do in bed. You know. I was very skinny. One day, by the river, my mother shaved my head because she claimed it was full of lice. I guess I looked terrible. The Turkish men left me alone.
Some survivors relate how they swallowed the pieces of gold and retrieved them. Some relate that when the Turks found out, they ripped the bodies with their swords and took the gold from the unfortunate victims. Ripping bellies of pregnant women was even better sport. A friend told me later that they would cut the nipples off dead women and string them as prayer beads to enjoy as they recited the Koran. They would tear infants away from the arms of their mothers and throw them in the air and catch them on the bayonets as they fell.
We walked to the city of Mardin (at least three hundred miles from Sivas). People felt sorry for us and helped us with bits of food and water. Then the soldiers decided to move us from place to place. They did not intend for us to make friends or find shelter or help. One day we came to a desert-like area. I was with my mother and sister. We found a big stone under the shade of a tree.
We rested and cooled our bodies. In addition to being without food, our thirst became unbearably painful under the hot sun. Our bodies were burned and bleeding. Tootoosh left the group and went looking for water. Numbers of Armenian women committed suicide by jumping into wells. These wells soon became poisoned. We were forbidden to drink from the river. Sometimes, men traveling by would take pity and share their supply. This became our only hope.
Evening came and Tootoosh did not return. My mother became worried. She felt that before the sun went down, she must go to find her so that we might join our caravan. My mother instructed, "Iskouhi, you wait here by this stone. Let me go to find out what is keeping her." So, my troubled mother stationed me by a large stone. I waited and I waited. The caravan departed. Days passed. I waited.
She never returned. I was all alone now. I went in the direction she left to look for her but was unable to find her anywhere. I did not know if they killed her or if they kidnaped her or if she became lost. All I knew was that I was all alone. I had no clothes, no food, no water, no sisters, no mother . . . no God. The Turk came; the end of his gun told me I must move on, no clothes, no food, no water, no sister, no mother . . . no God.
It is very hard to be alone. One cannot imagine what it was like at such a young age to have no one. What kind of God is it who allows the innocent to suffer? What kind of God left me alone with no one who cared whether I lived or died? Tears welled in my eyes, tears of anger, rather than tears of self-pity. The loss of my mother in this way inflicted a pain of denial from which I have never recovered. For a long time, I would not speak.
Yet, the tears dried. Many committed suicide. I became aware that I must continue. Except for Hamazasb, who died many years later, I never saw any other of my family die. I had always been separated. I always had the hope that, someday, I would find one of them, but it never happened. Finally, I gave up hope. The memories silenced my words. We waited for another time.
How did I eat? How did I survive? I begged. And I begged until someone gave me food. Who gave me food? Certainly not the Turks. The Turks gave us the butt of their gun. We walked through small villages. We begged from the people. We found wild panjar, a form of Swiss chard. We looked through other people's garbage. We lived like animals.
By this time my body, especially my shoulders were burned and bleeding from the sun. A man came and asked me, "Would you like to go with me?"
I decided to go with that man. He put a cloth on my shoulders, put me on a donkey and took me to his cottage. I stayed there several months. Then, because his family did not have enough food for themselves, and feared the constant reprisals from the Turks, they put me on a camel and we went to Severik, a small city. He had been kind to me. I had not cried for a long time. On the ride, I cried and cried. Soon I would be all alone again.
Often, at night, I would sleep with the dogs who gave some warmth. I had to keep warm. The nights were so cold. I had no clothes. We sought whatever gave us protection and comfort. One night, I buried myself in a pile of dead bodies. I don't know how I dared, because, sometimes, they burned the piles. This night I was lucky; they did not. I finally fell asleep. What else could I do?
However, as if my plight were not bad enough, I caught a disease from these bodies and my eyes became infected. For a long time, I suffered with pain and incessant itching. The pain was terrible, but I had to walk. A Kurdish lady gave me some egg white to put on my eyes. I'm not certain if the egg white helped, but, eventually, I got better. I stayed away from the dead bodies after that.
It was at this time the kind Turkish lady I told you about asked me to teach her daughter English. Yet, far too soon, the threat of punishment to anyone who showed kindness or helped these unfortunate children in any way, prevented her from keeping me at her home. She put me on the road again to provide for myself. She took me to Dikranagert (Turkey) where I might find others who would help.
In Dikranagert, I heard there was an Armenian shoemaker. I went to him and begged him to let me stay at his house. "I am a young woman; I am all alone, please give me a place to stay. Please give me a piece of bread," I begged. He chased me away. But the next day, I approached him again and begged and begged. Finally, he took me to a church. I found a place where I could lie down. During the days, I sat in front of the church and begged for money, or a small piece of bread. One night when a group of us girls, soon to be young women, had gathered for the night, I found my school friend, Haiganoush Tatarian. We were both so happy. Both of us had been separated from those we loved and we both felt alone. We stayed together as long as we could. For a short while, everything was quiet and no one bothered us. We continued begging as we wandered and constantly looked for some corner to sleep. At least, we were together.
Then one night, a Turkish man took a young Armenian girl to his house. After he bedded her, he fell asleep. She took his sword and killed him. Then the persecution began again. We young people were safe nowhere. No one dared to help us; we began to wander again. Two years went by. We walked in caravans; sometimes, I walked alone. Often we were kept from starvation with the food and cover the missionaries gave us. By this time, I was getting older. The orphanages were for children. There was no room for older young women like me. The year was 1918.
Finally, one missionary asked, "Can you speak and write Turkish?"
"Yes," I answered, "I studied it in school."
"We need someone to write letters for the wounded Turkish soldiers in the hospital. You may stay there in one of the rooms and they will give you some food." At first, afraid to go, I hesitated. The headmistress of the missionaries convinced me that no harm would come to me.
I lived in the hospital. Because there was little room in the crowded quarters, they assigned me to sleep on the floor. They gave me food and used, clean clothes; I was safe. Again, my schooling came to my aid. I enjoyed writing letters for the Turkish soldiers wounded in the war. Many times I would tell them what to say. Many had mothers; many had sweethearts; many had both.
Sometimes, when the patient was so wounded that he was not able to read, I would read the letters that came to him. The study of Turkish had been compulsory in my school. I found a sense of self-worth when I wrote letters for these sad, injured men.
Workers in the hospital were very scarce. The nurses often asked me to help by cleaning wounds and changing bandages. I did this as I did my sewing and needlework. Perhaps I am bragging, but the soldiers liked my bandaging. They would motion that they preferred me. My bandaging was neat and did not bind. Some other girls, whether it was on purpose or whether they were inept, bandaged so tightly the patient felt discomfort. Many times the wounded would ask me to wrap the bandage again. I did not mind.
I liked the hospital. I had food to eat, even if it was not very much, and I had a corner of the floor where I slept. No one hit me with the end of a gun and told me to march on. Best of all, I did not have to ask anything from anyone. I had work to do and I was needed to help rather than in need of being helped. What a wonderful feeling that was.
I worked at the hospital until the war ended. Then, I decided to try to find my brother Nishan. Someone told me he was in Constantinople. A friend had given me his address and I wrote to him. He was so happy to hear I was alive that he asked me to come there.
I left the hospital to meet him in Constantinople. In the back of my mind, I hoped to go to the United States of America. A friend and I went to meet him. We jumped on a freight car (all the poor people did) and rode from Dikranagert to Haleb to Istanbul (Constantinople). Ironically, when I was on the way, someone in the same freight car told me that Nishan had not found work and was returning to Sivas. One place I knew that I did not want to return to was Sivas. I found my cousin Vartan Parounagian in Istanbul and went to his house. For several days, I slept on the floor. Soon, I realized they had no room for me.
There was work. People needed housekeepers and other help, but I never forgot the experience with the girl and her cigarettes. I did not want that kind of work.
I was nearly twenty. After the war ended, the Near East Relief took care of the orphans in war-torn Turkey. A group from Kharpet who were helping people told me that there was a need for teachers in an orphanage in Izmit. They gave me some money to take a boat there.
A former teacher, who had helped the orphans throughout the war, told me that Miss Hold, a teacher I had in Sivas, was working in a Bible School. Strangely, we who were displaced found each other in our wanderings. I met Haiganoush again and together we wrote to Miss Hold to ask if she might find work for us there. One cannot imagine how happy we were that she remembered us.
The night was very dark when we arrived. Turkish soldiers were everywhere. I was worried, but we walked on, asking for the orphanage. After what seemed hours, we found the place. It was on the second level over one of the shops. I went up the stairs, and spoke with Miss Hold, the principal. She asked, "What can you teach?"
"I can teach anything you wish. I would like to teach arithmetic," I said.
"Can you teach English?" Miss Hold asked.
"Yes," I answered.
She spoke several minutes with me in English. Again, it proved to my advantage that I had studied English in school. Many students in my class had not been able to imagine any use for the subject in a small town so far away from England or the United States. That was why they kept me. I had found shelter again. An unbelievable peace entered my whole being. My sleeping area was private and divided with sheets from the dormitory of the students.
I was very happy. We had few supplies and no books. Finally, we taught using the Bibles the missionaries brought with them; they had excellent maps. We found some papers and we taught the poems and recitations we had learned when we had been studying in our classes in Sivas. I was very happy. They called me Oriort (Miss) Iskouhi. For the first time since I left my mother's home, I had my own bed, and, in a fashion, my own room. Four of us young women taught and enjoyed each other's friendship there.
At this time, my brother Nishan was alone in Sivas. He kept begging me to come. Miss Hold, reminding me that there really was no true safety there, advised against it. I again felt lonely and at night I woke from dreams of returning to my family, to live with my brother.
Then I met Siranoush, an Armenian lady whom I had known from Sivas. I asked if she knew of a village in the United States called Lestershire. I knew that my brother Hamazasb had gone there, but I did not know that knowing the state was necessary. She gave me the address of Keroppe Ketchoyan who lived in New York State with other young men from Sivas. I wrote to Keroppe who gave the letter to my brother. My brother Hamazasb was so happy to hear I was alive that he sent letter after letter encouraging me to come to the United States. He said he would send me the money.
At first, I did not go, because I had finally found work. I truly enjoyed a clean and comfortable place to sleep. Earning five dollars a month and five dollars for food, I felt I received very good pay for my circumstances. The scenery was beautiful. On warm evenings, we would sit out on the sand and look out on the sea. The fishermen would bring in fresh fish for our dinner. Though the preparation was simple, the food was delicious. I decided I would stay there.
Then, news came to us that the Turks had begun another purge of the Armenians. They threatened to bomb the orphanage. We left Izmit and moved all the children in the orphanage to Topkapi, a small valley on the Black Sea, one of the nicest places in Istanbul. With our newly earned money we hurried to the offices in Istanbul where the people from Kharpet and missionaries helped with our passports. The purge came after the First World War, on October 30, 1918. Sultan Mohammed V capitulated and signed the Armistice of Mudros. Mustafa Kemal rebelled against the harsh conditions of the Armistice which meant the dismemberment of Turkey. He collected a small army to defend Eastern Anatolia and to expel the Greek Army which had been brought into Izmir (Smyrna) by the Allies. They achieved this by burning down the ancient and magnificent city of Smyrna. Mustafa Kemal heralded, "Turkey is now purged of the traitors, the Christians, and all foreigners. Turkey is for the Turks."
I stayed again with Cousin Vartan and his three sisters. They had never married because they were poor and had no dowry. They were kind to me. With the little money I had left from my teaching, I had purchased several pieces of fashionable yard goods to have new dresses made for my trip to America. I gave the sisters the material. I was happy I had something to pay for my stay with them. Yet, it was difficult to part with such pretty fabric and hopes of a new outfit for my arrival into the new country.
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