Forced into Genocide

Memoirs of an Armenian Soldier in the Ottoman Turkish Army

Adrienne G. Alexanian

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN:
  9781412865524
• eBook ISBN:
  9781351294829
• Topic: Ciencias sociales
• Subtopic: Historia de Oriente Medio

This memoir recalls Yervant Alexanian's death-defying experiences in the center of the Armenian Genocide. Like other Armenians of his generation, he was an eyewitness to the massacre and dislocation of his family and fellow countrymen in Ottoman Turkey during World War I. Alexanian was conscripted into the Turkish army—but unlike others so conscripted, he survived.

Alexanian was forced to become an onlooker while he watched the atrocities unfold. His story of resourceful action and fateful turns is a suspenseful "insider's account" of a Genocide survivor. From his singular position, Alexanian was able to document the tragedy of his people in his journals and diaries, but he also offers us a behind-the-scenes look into the motivations and actions of Turkish military officials as they committed the atrocities. His story continues after the war as we follow the trail of his journey through Europe and finally to America, where he found solace and was able to start anew with fellow survivors.

No comparable account exists in the literature of the Armenian Genocide. This edition, translated from Alexanian's hand-written Armenian-language chronicle, includes never-before-seen documents and photos that the author preserved. Through his eyes we relive the astonishing cruelty of the Genocide's perpetrators—but also rare, unexpected acts of humanity between victim and oppressor.

Memoirs of Yervant (Edward) Alexanian

The worst day of my life was July 3, 1915, when I watched fifty-one members of my family disappear over the hill. I remember it as if it were yesterday—after spending the night on the banks of the Halys River, the grisly caravan that included my family was woken and driven up the Kartashlar Yokush Hill. They were scaling the Armenian Golgotha. I stood there and watched my mother and my entire extended family climb over that hill never to be seen again. In total I lost fifty-one members of my family that day.

Yervant Alexanian

1

Childhood Early Life

I was born at 5:00 p.m., on Friday, November 15, 1895, in the Azabzig neighborhood of Sivas, in a house that was adjacent to a mill and that had been bequeathed to my parents from my maternal grandfather. My family and uncle’s family shared this house. Three days after my birth, the pogroms of 1895¹ began; it was common knowledge of the time that Sultan Hamid had announced that Turks had the government’s permission to fall upon their Armenian neighbors. Soon, the clerics at the mosques were repeating the government’s orders and began distributing knives, swords, and other weapons to the worshippers, inciting them, filling them with bloodlust, and reminding them of their religious duty to attack Armenians. Thus, began the Hamidian massacres. As my mother once said, I was born under an evil star. As soon as I came into this world, I was thrown into violence.

A view of Sivas in the early 1900s. An Armenian church is visible in the upper left corner.

Many years before this eruption of violence, things had been different. For some time, we even had a governor who was fair and just to Armenians, but for this reason, the local Turks nicknamed him geyavour² Pasha.³ His actual name was Rashid Pasha, and he was a member of the Ittihad Party,⁴ despite his convictions and actions. During his tenure, he had even built an orphanage and a workshop that helped the local Armenians. Many Armenians referred to him as a “fine Turk.”

Our house was located at the confluence of the two sections of the Halys River—the Upper Halys, which was used to power the mill and for wading, and the Lower Halys, often called Murdar Irmak.⁵ The house was in the neighborhood of Azabzig, in the Kanli Baghchi district. The street was named Hassanli, and we lived right across from Bozig’s butcher’s shop, and the presence of that shop meant that the street was also often called Kasap⁶ Bozig’s street. Right by the butcher shop, also across the street from our house, was a barracks, as well as my Uncle Terzi Serop Alexanian’s home, next door to Garabed Kapikian’s house. Right beside our house, on the other side of the mill, was a madrasa.⁷ The mill, which was located on the left side of the house, was a constant motif during my childhood. I would constantly hear its huge stones turning and grinding the wheat. This sound, alongside the gurgling of the water that the mill used, and the song of the water that sprang from the fountain in our courtyard, lulled me to sleep in the evenings. I could also usually hear the sounds coming from the madrasa on the other side of the mill. I remember that this small structure had its own minaret, and inside, a Turkish hoja,⁸ his head wrapped in white, and wearing his shalvars,⁹ would force his young students to constantly repeat the lessons. The children had no writing utensils, so they would simply read whatever the hoja wrote on the blackboard. These kids were taught to hate all those who were non-Muslim from a tender age.

This was the first house I knew until much later, when my mother’s older brother, Nishan Apkarian, offered to buy the entire house from my mother for the price of twenty gold coins, so that his family and his brother Merujan and his family could live together in a two-story house. My mother agreed to the sale, and we then rented Baretenk’s house, near Dr. Goghmor’s house, with my older brothers Kaloust and Hovhanness. By this time, my brothers were significantly older, and as they all worked, my mother was able to stop washing other people’s laundry, which she had been doing to make ends meet. We no longer needed the money so badly. Much later, when my brother Kaloust moved to Samsun,¹⁰ and money was tight again, we moved out and rented two rooms in Godoshian’s house, and my mother had to resume washing whites to eke out a living. I would help her around the house and with her work, performing tasks such as making the beds and cleaning the house. By the time we had moved there, I was old enough and was employed in diverse professions to bring in some income to the family.

§§§

As I mentioned, the house where I was born had been bequeathed to us by my maternal grandfather. My family used to tell an interesting story about him—according to legend, he was once traveling to Istanbul with a herd of oxen that he wanted to sell in the capital. He found his route obstructed by a river, and he was not willing to pay the exorbitant sum of money that would be needed for him and his animals to cross by ferry. So, he decided that they would ford the river together. Just at that moment, the Sultan was sailing down the river with his entourage, and noticing my grandfather, and amazed by his courage, called him over after the latter had swam across.

“Tell me, what would you like? I want to reward your courage with anything your heart desires.”

Again, according to legend, my grandfather’s response was

“I wish a long life and good health to our Holy Patriarch, your Highness!”

The Sultan, disgusted by this response, simply dismissed him.

§§§

Our family, by now, was already quite large. I had seven siblings at the time. From the oldest to the youngest, they were—Dikran, Hovhanness, Haiganoush, Harutyun, Anna and Hovagim (who were twins), and Kaloust. My brothers all worked with my father at his tailor shop, helping the family make ends meet, while my mother worked as a laundry woman one day out of the week to generate some extra income.

According to my mother, when the pogroms of 1895 began, three of my brothers—Dikran, Hovhanness, and Kaloust—were not at home when the massacres began, and neither was my Aunt Merijan. They were probably out on business. The rest of the family huddled in the upper floor, praying that the violence would soon end—a rather apocalyptic, indescribable scene. These were the first days of my life.

A panoramic view of Sivas, taken from the ancient citadel of the city, with numbers indicating important landmarks, as follows: 1, Unspecified Armenian Apostolic church; 2, The Jesuit School, which Alexanian attended; 3, Armenian school (presumably, the Aramian school that was later converted into the military workshop); 4, Greek orthodox church; 5, Perkenik; 6, Teke; 7, Saint John Church; 8, The Grand Mosque; 9, Erzinguian Street.

Suddenly, my aunt Merijan burst through the door of the first floor. The other members of the family went downstairs, unlocked the door to the second floor, and gathered there again, glad that she was safe, but still disappointed at the thought of losing three young sons. My mother was beside herself, already wailing and mourning her sons. Meanwhile, my aunt told them all how she had survived—hearing gunfire, and correctly surmising that danger lurked, she had shut her store and had tried to make her way home. Then, she had seen two Turks advancing from the other end of the road, holding guns and long daggers. Realizing that she would be lynched, she had lain on the ground and had decided to play dead. The Turks had reached her and had tried to rouse her. She had kept her eyes closed and had refrained from breathing. They had taken her coin purse, and mockingly thanking her, had walked away. A few minutes later, my aunt had raised her head and opened her eyes to find herself in a completely deserted neighborhood. She had wrapped some cloth around her head, hoping this would fool the Turks into believing she was one of them, and had resumed her walking. She had come across another group of Turks, lurking in the streets and waiting for their next quarry, their daggers red with blood.

However, the Turks, taking her for a Turk as well, just as she intended, had left her alone. Then, my aunt had basically run to the house, as if sprouting wings, and had finally fallen into the lap of her kin again, whose happiness knew no bounds, and was only dampened by the continuing absence of the young men. Just then, a gunshot was heard, very close to the house. Some of the Turkish neighbors, who had witnessed my aunt take refuge inside the house, spread the malicious and potentially fatal rumor that the gunshot had come from inside the house. Some of the Turks who were part of the mob outside went to the government and convinced the officials to give them two barrels of gasoline, and came back, with the intention of burning our house down, with us still inside. Their excitement reached new heights when they saw a bottle of kerosene inside the house through a window, as they now expected a great conflagration to satisfy their bloodlust. The screams and the pleas of my family filled the air.

Just at this moment, one of the slaves of one of our Turkish neighbors, a black woman named Dado, walked by the house, and witnessing what was happening there, ran home and roused her sleeping master, who was a wealthy landowner. Ethim Effendi,¹¹ who was a friend of my family, ran out into the street, calmed the mob, and planting his chair right outside our door, announced that our family was under his personal protection.

He was the savior of the entire family. Nothing my family could do for him in subsequent years would satisfy my mother’s insistence that we pay Ethim Effendi back for his actions on that fateful day. Sadly, he could do nothing for my three brothers who were still unaccounted for. The wailing and mourning inside our house continued.

Three days later, as the violence subsided, government officials fanned out across the city to announce that all fighting had ended, that the government was issuing a “pardon” to the Armenians (despite the fact that the Armenians had not been the ones committing crimes), and that all could leave their homes safely, without fear of attack. Naturally, the only thing on everyone’s mind was whether or not my brothers were still alive. Just then, there was a knock at the door, and all three of my brothers, together, appeared at the threshold. The return of my three brothers completely changed the atmosphere inside the house. Knowing that they would be targeted, they had hidden under a bridge during the violence. My mother spent the subsequent hours kissing them, one after the other, and sang the Lord’s praises for returning them to her safe and sound.

Due to the chaotic and unsafe situation, my family couldn’t take me to church to baptize me. Instead, they asked a priest who lived nearby to perform the baptismal ceremony at our home. That’s when I was finally given the name Yervant. My brother Kaloust was my godfather during the ceremony.

A tableau created much later, in America, of the Alexanian family. Hunazant, Alexanian’s mother, is at the top, followed by (clockwise)—Alexanian’s brother Hovhanness, Yervant, his sister Khanum, and brothers Dikran and Kaloust.

Weeks passed, but the memories of those terrible days would not dissipate. My father was especially traumatized. He had seen, with his own eyes, the Turkish mob prepare the fuel and the torches to burn down his house and to burn him and his entire family alive. It must have been a huge shock for a man who had worked his fingers to the bones to provide a comfortable existence for his family. Seven months later, on June 12, 1896, at the age of forty-two, unable to recover from the trauma and the terror, he passed away, leaving behind a widow and eight orphans. Since I was seven months old when he died, I never knew what my father looked like. He was the oldest of four brothers, in a family of eight children. When he died, my mother was so distraught that for many days, she didn’t have the wherewithal to take care of me and my younger siblings. Thankfully, my sister stepped up to the plate and did what she could for me. Instead of milk, she fed me other liquids. I owe a huge debt to her for ensuring my survival. I was, after all, only a fragile newborn infant.

Life was never easy for the Armenians of Sivas during my childhood years. I recall one specific incident—I was barely ten years old, a member of a family of six sons and two daughters, five of whom were still living at home. Being the youngest member of the family, many menial chores were assigned to me, including the procurement of the household’s drinking water, which I had to get a few times a week from a spring located about a mile away. I was also tasked with shopping for the family—vegetables and meat, which I would carry home using a contraption that allowed me to carry two bags, one hanging down my chest, and the other down my back. After all, the older sons of the family ran their own businesses by this point, and they weren’t going to leave their work to do the shopping.

A panoramic view of Sivas, specifically of the Armenian quarters of the city.

My early childhood was spent helping the family. At the time, my duties included shopping for the family, helping my older brothers in their shop, keeping the coals in our tonir¹² warm, etc. By that time, after my father’s death, in order to ensure our family’s survival, my oldest brother Dikran, aged fifteen or sixteen, kept his promise and became a shopkeeper, taking over my father’s tailor shop. My brother Hovhanness, too, had left school at the age of thirteen, in order to help Dikran at the shop. Hovhanness stayed at the shop usually, while Dikran traveled to sell his wares, as most of his customers were farmers who could not make their own way to the shop. Much of the clothing Dikran had was bartered for essentials such as barely, wheat, etc.

Yervant Alexanian’s brother, Hovhanness, and Hovhanness’s wife, Anna.

At some point, my brother Hovhanness married a girl named Anna Bakalian. She was a short girl, whose wealthy family hailed from Gurin. Prior to the wedding, her father, Artin Agha, had promised her and her family one of his nine homes, as well as a store. He kept this promise, and my brother became the owner of a store. After the wedding, we were expe...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Table of Contents
• Acknowledgments
• Foreword
• Introduction
• Translator’s Preface
• Dedication
• Memoirs of Yervant (Edward) Alexanian
• Afterword
• Final Thoughts
• Appendices
• Timeline of Yervant N. Alexanian
• Select Bibliography and Further Reading
• About the Author and Contributor