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.

Days of Tragedy in Armenia

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.