Judgment Unto Truth

Witnessing the Armenian Genocide

Milton Konvitz, Ephraim K. Jernazian, Milton Konvitz

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781351510455
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Historia
• Subtopic: Historia del Holocausto

This dramatic personal narrative is a unique contribution to understanding past and current events in the Near East. These memoirs of an American Protestant clergyman reveal little known aspects of major events in Asia Minor in the early twentieth century, give valuable insights to their background, and describe pivotal interrelationships with the western world. Those perceptions are woven into the story of the author's protracted genocidal experiences. Dispassionately rendered, Judgment Unto Truth is a call for truth and justice.

In the Hamidian massacres of 1895. Jernazian, a five-year orphan, loses two brothers. When all the Armenian Protestant clergy of Cilicia are killed in the Young Turks' "Adana massacre" of 1909, Jernazian answers the call to replenish the vacant pulpits. In 1915, when the "final solution to the Armenian question" is in progress, the author, an interpreter of the Turkish government, is in a unique position to observe the genocidal process. Afterwards, he and his new bride work to rehabilitate destitute survivors. He serves as liaison and advisor during the British and French occupations (1919-21). And during the Kemalist revolution (1921-23), Jernazian loses his remaining family and nearly his own life. Only through a miraculous escape after twenty-one months in a Turkish prison is he reunited with his wife, her mother, a daughter, and a son born three months after his arrest.

An unusual blend of religious idealism and pragmatic politics, his memoirs provide a singular emotional experience. As Vahakn Dadrian observes in his Introduction, "This volume is a unique document of historical significanceaThe author presents comments and interpretations which portray him as an acute observer of intricate events." The book will appeal to historians of the period, educators, and professionals with an interest in the use and abuse of state power, and specialists interested in human behavior in extreme conditions.

Part I
Early Years

1. Eclipses and Armenians

The rooftop was cold and noisy. I was numb with chill and terror, lying very still, my back against the bordering two-foot high stone wall. My older brother Luther lay stretched out beside me. Following his instructions very carefully, I kept my eyes shut tight and over and over again fervently repeated the Lord’s Prayer in my native Armenian: “Ov Hayr Mer vor yerginkun yes . . . . ”

Today as I write these words in Los Angeles, California, I am past the age of seventy-five. Then, on that rooftop in the city of Marash, Turkey, I was barely five. But that distant morning of November 18, 1895, and the events that followed remain vivid and unforgettable.

Early that morning the whole city of Marash had suddenly been filled with fire and fury. What later became known as the “Massacre of 1895” had come to our city. News of a massacre at Zeitun (about thirty miles north and slightly west of Marash) had been received about a month earlier. Since then, sensing that their turn might come soon, the Armenians in Marash kept close to home and moved about cautiously. As a child, of course, I was aware only of the extra restrictions on my outdoor play.

Once before I had heard the sounds of guns and cannon, when the moon was in eclipse. The occasion had been exciting. We went out and watched as the Turks gathered around a cannon in the street and shot salvos of balls and bullets into the sky. They were upset about the wild beast in the sky that was covering the moon and threatening to destroy the earth. The shots rang out until the moon reappeared.

This time my oldest brother Dicran (age nineteen) made sure none of us left the house. He was in a grave mood and gathered the family together in the upper room for special prayers. Family prayers were a daily routine; they gave me a sense of well-being. I vaguely remembered having had special prayers on only three previous occasions, once when Uncle Avedis died, and once each time our parents died. Illness had taken them away, and everything had been quiet on those days. No one had died today, and the town was full of noise. Why were we having special prayers instead of going outside to watch the shooting, as we did during the darkening of the moon?

My brother Luther (age sixteen) led me to the upper room. Dicran and his wife Khatoun were already there with their little baby Krikor in her lap. My other brother Samuel (age fourteen) came soon. The din and roar outside increased. The tension and anxiety in the room disappeared as Dicran spoke and prayed. As we knelt there together, we felt a sense of closeness to each other and to God. I could not grasp all Dicran said, but I understood that the Turks would soon be coming to our house, and that they might kill us if we did not agree to be separated from Jesus. I was confused. Shooting a wild beast on the moon seemed proper, but shooting us for loving Jesus? Why? It did not seem right to ask questions. I remained silent.

The Turks did come — very soon — while we were still praying. The mob chopped down our front door, and three soldiers with guns, bolting up the stairs, broke into the room glowering fiercely. Without asking any questions, one pointed his gun directly at Dicran. Samuel stood up, stepped in front of Dicran, and pleaded, “Kill me if you have to, but spare my brother. He has a wife and a baby to look after.” Dicran jumped aside and forward saying, “My brother is very young; give him a chance. Kill me if you must.” The scowling intruders retorted, “Don’t worry, it’s no problem. We will kill you both.” As the fatal shots rang out, I saw my two brothers collapse, lifeless, onto the floor. Petrified with horror and bewilderment, I clung tightly to Luther. He grasped me firmly, and instantly whisked me up through the skylight out to the roof.

We then jumped down onto the adjoining roof of the Third Armenian Evangelical Church School. Luther placed me along our wall, and he lay in front of me to protect me from gunfire. The reverberating sounds of incessant shooting and piercing shouts came at us from the street and from the rooftops, from all directions. Some of the bullets struck close. Luther’s presence and the prayers gave me some comfort, but I shuddered still. The horrors of the last hour made ugly inroads upon my prayers. I wondered: What would the Turks do with Khatoun and the baby? Had the Turks reached my two sisters — three-year-old Dirouhi, who after the death of our parents had gone to live with our maternal grandmother, and my older married sister Aghavni, who lived in another part of town? What would happen to our little dog Funduk? But I was too stunned by all that I had just seen and heard to be able to think much about anything.

Suddenly the air was still. Luther was not stirring. As I cautiously lifted my head, I could see blood covering my brother, and before I could look further, I felt a rough hand grasp my shoulder. It was our Turkish neighbor: “Come, I will take you to our home.” Frantically I struggled, and repeatedly cried in vain, “I love Jesus! I won’t be a Turk! You killed my brothers. Kill me!” The Turk took me to his wife and told her to feed me. But how could I put a single morsel into my mouth? I passed the night trembling and shedding silent tears.

At daybreak a town crier announced, “The purge is over. Every Turk who has Armenian women and children must take them to Jernazian’s church.” The Armenian Episcopal Church was called “Jernazian’s church” because my uncle Stephen had established it and was pastor there. The Turk who had taken me home the night before took my hand and led me to my uncle’s church. As I walked, I was mainly preoccupied with avoiding all the rubble, especially the bits of broken glass, because I was not wearing shoes. They had been left at home when we escaped the day before. (Since streets were unpaved and floors were covered with rugs, shoes had to be removed on entering a house. We followed this custom, and I had my shoes off while in our upper room. There was no opportunity to put them on when Luther rushed me out.)

As we arrived at the church, I was filled with new horror when I saw the hundreds of wounded men, crying children, and distraught women crowded into the worship hall. The Turk who had taken me there promptly called out in a loud voice, “Who is here from the Jernazian family? I have brought their little boy. Let them come and claim him.” To my great relief, Khatoun came forth at once and took me beside her. My brothers’ assassins, who had abducted her, had brought her and baby Krikor unharmed to the church when the town crier had announced the end of the massacre. The Turk who brought me to the church left disappointed, for his plan to adopt me and claim the Jernazian properties was thwarted. It was customary in those times for Turks to adopt Armenian orphans, take over their inheritance, then either kill the children or raise them as Moslems.

Khatoun and I cried and cried until we were exhausted. The plight of the people in that church was sorrowful beyond description. Most of the women had seen their husbands killed and their homes vandalized and looted. They had no help from any source and not a shred of hope. Death seemed preferable to life under those conditions. That night in the church seemed like a year.

Early the following morning I heard a familiar voice. Was it coming from Heaven? It was the voice of my older sister. She was there in person, looking for us: “I am Aghavni, daughter of Krikor Effendi. Is there anyone here from the Jernazian family?” (Effendi was a Turkish title of respect by which my father was addressed.) Greatly relieved, I immediately ran to her and clutched her. Khatoun followed closely with the baby. My sister’s neighbor, a Circassian captain, Hassan Effendi, had taken her family and about ten other Armenian families into his mansion to protect them. He had also sent his soldiers to guard the homes of those families.

With the consent of a Turkish guard at the church, Aghavni took us to her home. For a long time we sat there dejected and bewildered, my sister holding her little nephew in her lap. Our eyes were brimming with tears. We could not understand why these horrible things had happened.

The day after we were reunited, my sister and her husband Nazaret, taking me with them, went to our home. When we entered the upper room, we saw the bodies of Dicran and Samuel still there, lying in dried pools of blood. Our little dog Funduk was standing guard and would let no one come near the bodies. He must have had no food for three days. As soon as he saw me, he ran to me and, whining mournfully, jumped up to me. We took Funduk with us — loyal, affectionate Funduk. Nazaret hired two men to bury my two brothers temporarily in the yard of our home. The Armenian cemetery was outside the city limits; Armenians were being confined to the city and could not use the cemetery.

As for the body of my brother Luther, it was nowhere to be seen. We could not find it on the roof or anywhere else. For one whole month every time we saw a corpse, we examined it to see if it might be Luther. We searched and inquired everywhere but with no success. Grief remained heavy in our hearts.

Then one day a knock at the door brought a friend of ours, a tinsmith, who announced, “I have good news for you — very good news!” We were amazed. In those evil, cursed days, what possible good news could there be? Our friend continued, “Your brother is alive. He is in the Turkish hospital. Go to him quickly. He is waiting for you.” Our friend had been called to the hospital to repair a stove and, while there, had recognized my brother. We went immediately to the hospital and, seeing at least one of our brothers actually alive, gave thanks to God. There was no limit to our joy. We learned that Luther had received five bullet wounds. As he lay near death, he had been discovered by a Turkish captain on an inspection tour of the Third Armenian Evangelical Church next to our house. The captain, a friend of Luther’s, had ordered his soldiers to transport my brother to the hospital at once.

How was such friendship possible? This ironical situation was not unique. In the Ottoman Empire in times of peace, Turks and Armenians living side by side often had friendly relationships. Being forced into the position of second class subjects for several centuries, the Armenians had learned to cope with discrimination as a way of life. With ingenuity and hard work, for the most part they led useful and resignedly contented lives. The Turkish people, for their part, enjoyed their position of official superiority. Being dependent for many economic necessities on their Armenian subjects, the Turks willingly accepted the services of the giavoors (infidels), as the Christians were called, and maintained a tolerant attitude while exploiting them. The sultan was the religious and political head of the Empire. The Turkish Moslem population unquestioningly obeyed their chief. Disobedience meant death. Triggered by various motives, the sultan periodically decreed a jihad (holy war) against the infidel Christians. Then friendship was instantly suspended between Turk and Armenian. As soon as the sultan decided to stop the slaughter, friendships were resumed. So the Turkish captain had participated in the massacre, but now he performed this act of kindness for his Armenian friend, my brother Luther.

My sister obtained permission from the medical chief at the hospital to take Luther to her home, where she nursed him for many months until he recovered adequately. Thus Aghavni, Luther, and I survived the Massacre of 1895. Khatoun and Baby Krikor joined her family, who had likewise escaped death. Dirouhi and my maternal grandmother also survived; they had found refuge in the Catholic church. But my grandfather and my brothers Dicran and Samuel were killed. My Uncle Stephen was also murdered, and his wife, Aunt Yepros, died when she received the news. The story of Uncle Stephen’s martyrdom became a legend in the city. He and several of his church officers had been seized and brought out from a basement where they had gathered. He was taken aside while his colleagues were killed. Reverend Stephen was then brought back and shown the mutilated bodies of his friends. He was offered a “special privilege”: “We know you are a good man and great. Become a Moslem and we will spare your life.”

Three times they offered, and three times he refused, saying, “Do not force me to deny my Lord. I am ready to die with my friends.” His wish was granted. As he died, he prayed forgiveness for his murderers. The Turks who carried out the assignment to kill my uncle and his colleagues related the incidents themselves, with a bit of awe but hardly with remorse.

2. Fragments from a Lost History

Our loss of property during the Massacre of 1895 was extensive. The family import-export business and our olive ranch were destroyed. Our home was emptied of all its contents, even to the ashes in the hearth.

One day after the massacre a Turkish neighbor of ours named Osman, for whom my father had done many favors, came to my sister’s home and said, “Aghavni Hanum [a title of respect for women], by the sultan’s orders I took part in the massacres and plunder. I got a number of things from your father’s home. Please say konshu, halal olsun [neighbor, bless you!] so I can have a clear conscience and enjoy what I’ve taken.” Needless to say, my sister would not give him the satisfaction. Instead, she said, “Osman, with what kind of conscience can you expect me to say halal when you’ve been such an ingrate, a thief, and a murderer? No, no.-I have to say Osman, haram olsun [curse you!] for what you did.”

In those trying times my sister Aghavni, who was twenty-four years old, courageously endured our endless troubles and was a source of strength to all of us. She and her husband Nazaret had two children about my age. They took in my wounded brother and myself as well. We began to rebuild our lives.

Of all our losses, the one irreplaceable item was a family history my father had written. With it was lost much information I might have had about my background. Aghavni and Luther told me a few fragments, but I was not with them very much when I was old enough to understand such matters. When I did see them, they were reluctant to talk about the family past. Perhaps the heartache was too great, or perhaps the problems of the day were all we had time to talk about.

One story which Luther told me I remember very well, since it shows how early in life God’s protective hand was upon me — even from the day I was baptized as an infant. At birth I was named Sarkis. On the morning of my baptismal day, during family prayers before church, the Bible reading was from the 48th chapter of Genesis in which Jacob blesses his grandsons Ephraim and Manasseh, giving Ephraim, the younger, a special blessing. My father suddenly said, “I want to name my youngest son Effrayim (the Turkish form of Ephraim) that he shall be specially blessed. ” And so it was. A number of times throughout the critical years of persecutions, having the name of Effrayim saved me from interrogation by Turkish authorities and from certain harassment or even death. When asked, “What is your name?” if I had replied, “Sarkis,” that obviously non-Moslem name would have assured further questioning. Effrayim, being a name used also by Turks, elicited no further probes. I was allowed to pass on. (Surnames were not required in those days.)

Other relatives and friends have told me a little about my family. The martyred Stephen was my father’s oldest brother. He had been one of the charter members of the First Evangelical Church of Marash, established in 1854. He was a graduate of Bebek American College of Constantinople and of the Marash Theological Seminary. His first pastorate was in Egypt at Cairo, where he was also tutor of a son of Boghos Nubar Pasha, the internationally known Armenian philanthropist and statesman. In 1885, having returned to Marash, Uncle Stephen established the first Episcopal church there and served until the tragedy of 1895. Noting the similarity between the Episcopal Church and the Armenian Apostolic Church, he had become an Episcopalian. He thought adopting this denomination might lead to the reconciliation of the Armenian Apostolic Church and the Armenian Protestant community.

My father Krikor was the youngest of the brothers. He and his other brother Avedis were partners in business, successful merchants in the import-export trade. They were active lay stewards in the First Evangelical Church of Marash. Later my father transferred to the Second Evangelical Church, where I was baptized by the Reverend Aharon Shirajian. Uncle Avedis’s wife, Shamira, was a sister of the Reverend Hampartsoum Ashjian, a professor at the Marash Theological Seminary and pastor at Aintab, Adana, and Konia (Iconium). Neither of my uncles had any children.

One suburb of Marash was called “ Jernaz(ian) District,” in honor of my father who was the first to obtain olive trees and produce olives in Marash. Having brought seedlings from Kilis, a town about one hundred miles south of Marash, he planted them two miles outside the city. Many were skeptical at first, and some ridiculed the idea. But the results were successful and encouraged others to try. Before long, olives and olive oil were fast becoming a substantial source of revenue for the city.

Uncle Avedis died in 1892 as a result of unsuccessful surgery. My mother, née Mariam Shamlian, died of cholera the following year when I was three. My father died a year later, of a broken heart — I was told.

My father had one sister; I do not know when or how she died. Thirty-two years after the Massacre of 1895,1 discovered her son-in-law, Steve Arabian, and his two daughters as parishioners in our church at Troy, New York. He had no further information about the Jernazian family. He was a widower. His wife, my cousin, had heard that we were to come to Troy and eagerly awaited our arrival. She became ill and died just before we reached the city.

My only close relative with whom I could keep in touch after coming to America was my mother’s brother, Astor Shamlian. He was very fond of his sister and visited her grave almost daily for a year after she died. He told me that my maternal grandfather, Hagop Shamlian, had died young. Ten years later my grandmother Pambuk Anna had married a Catholic, who died in the Massacre of 1895. Pambuk is the Turkish word for cotton. My grandmother acquired the name because of her soft, fair complexion. I have a very hazy recollection of her. I never knew my other grandparents, and I know nothing more about any of them.