Surviving the Forgotten Armenian Genocide:

A moving personal story

© 2015 Isaac Publishing

Published in the United States by

Isaac Publishing, 6729 Curran Street, McLean VA 22101

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, photocopy or recording without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in brief quotations in written reviews.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015937347

ISBN: 978-0-9916145-7-8

Book design by Lee Lewis Walsh, Words Plus Design

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 9780991614585

Contents

Foreword by Patrick Sookhdeo

Chapter 1   Forced to Leave

Chapter 2   The Hardships of Daily Life

Chapter 3   Experiences in Tafilah

Chapter 4   Under Occupation

Chapter 5   Escape to Hebron

Chapter 6   Journeys as a Soldier

Chapter 7   Reunited and Still on the Move

Chapter 8   A Home in Cyprus

Conclusion by Patrick Sookhdeo

Glossary of Unfamiliar Terms

Appendix: The Testimony of Elmas

Foreword

As I travel around the world, I have the privilege of meeting Christians from all backgrounds and nationalities. It is always a joy to meet Armenians, who have been scattered across the globe because of persecution, like the early Christians (Acts 8:1), and have settled wholeheartedly into their new contexts (Jeremiah 29:4-7). But every Armenian family I have ever met carries a sorrow that has burdened them for a hundred years – the tragedy of the lost generation who suffered and died in what Armenians call their “Golgotha”.

The year 1915 was the pivotal one in almost three decades of violence inflicted on the Armenian inhabitants of the Ottoman Empire. Because of the vast scale and centrally planned strategy of the killings, most historians agree that this was genocide.

This book is the frank and candid story of one survivor of the Armenian genocide, Smpat Chorbadjian. There is much to shock the reader, not only the brutal suffering inflicted on the Armenians, but also the desperate measures required to survive it, not all of which are recorded here. For example, the family recalls that when Smpat’s father died he was sad, but when his mother died he was relieved because it had been such a responsibility to care for her. He immediately cut up the sheet she had been lying on and sold it as headscarves for Muslim women.

But any Armenian will tell you a similar story of their own grandparents or great-grandparents.

Surviving the Forgotten Armenian Genocide: a Moving Personal Story is a tale of two journeys. We travel with Smpat around the Middle East, in the tumultuous years of the early 20th century and through the unspeakable horrors he witnesses and endures. But it is not until the final pages that Smpat reveals his journey of faith. As an Armenian, Smpat was born into a strong Christian heritage, which was very precious to him. But a life-changing personal encounter with Jesus Christ on 6 February 1931 opened for him a new dimension of trusting God and walking with Him.

After the tempestuous events of this narrative, Smpat spent the rest of his life peacefully in Cyprus. He worked as a tailor in Nicosia and brought up his three sons, the eldest of whom, Sam, joined him in business and went into the clothing trade. When Sam was advised by an English customer to move to Limassol because all the English were settling there, Sam duly went to reconnoitre the possibilities. In those days it was a two-hour drive on narrow roads from Nicosia. On arrival, he strolled around the town and spotted an empty shop in St Andrew’s Street, enquired for the owner, contacted him, and made a deal with him to rent the premises. Sam and his wife moved to Limassol and the following year, 1961, Smpat joined them. The other two sons also moved to Limassol so the whole family was united there. After a period of poor health, Smpat died on 11 April 1963.

I am very grateful to Smpat’s sons and their wives for allowing us to make known his story. This version has been translated from the original, which was written in Turkish language but employing Armenian script. The stark simplicity of the narrative has been retained in order to preserve the authenticity of Smpat’s voice.

I pray that this moving testimony of survival and faith will be an inspiration to many.

Patrick Sookhdeo PhD,

DD March 2015

Preface

It has been pressing on my heart to write the history of my life. This is a story of things I have seen and experienced. I started to write this on 18 February 1941, from memory. I hope my readers will not expect exact dates and times. In fact you will discover when reading this that not only can I not remember days and months; it can be challenging now for me to remember what day of the week it is! I can only assure you that there is no lie, no exaggeration and no addition to my actual experiences. I have written what I remember, and what I have written is the truth.

Smpat Chorbadjian’s Journeys

Chapter 1

Forced to Leave

I Begin My Life Story

To start my story I first need to establish my birth date, as my birth certificate was lost. In 1895, the Turks came to Marash [today called Kahramanmaras] and slaughtered a huge Armenian population there. According to my mother, I was born three years after this massacre, which would set my birthdate at 1898.

I was born in Marash, now part of Turkey, in the house of Haroutune Agha Chorbadjian. As I grew up and began to discern good and evil, I realised that I was the son of a good, happy family. I had a father, mother, brothers and sisters, and although my father was not rich, we were comfortable. We had a vineyard in the best resort of the town, where we would spend the summer months. I had three sisters, all married. Then tragedy struck. My eldest sister’s husband died, leaving his young widow to care for two small children. Soon afterwards, both my younger sisters died, by the will of God. I was already a schoolboy at that time. I had an older brother, Yervant, and two younger brothers, Timoteos and Sarkis.

Then in 1909 large-scale Armenian massacres started again in Adana, Turkey, and spread to many places. They came to Marash, too, but the governor at that time, Moukhtasar Moutessarif, did not go along with the plans. One Saturday morning when the killing was to have taken place, they attacked, running through the streets with axes and knives, killing any who were found on the streets or in the shops. It lasted about 15 minutes and 50-60 Armenians were killed. I was eleven years old at the time. We had a small powder gun in the house for scaring people; it could not fire cartridges. I took the dummy gun and rushed into the street to kill the Turks. My mother and sisters were in the market at that time and I wanted to save them. When my mother saw me, she took the gun away by force. The killing did not last long, and soon my father and brother also arrived safely home. We all got back to work, and life returned to normal.

Until 1914, all was well. I had finished preparatory school and became apprentice to a tailor, but once the war started, I could no longer continue this. The government started collecting a number of different taxes from each home. Another massacre was also planned in Marash, but instead they began deporting families, forcing them from their homes and sending them to remote countries. In 1915 the Armenian deportation began.

There was an Armenian village near Marash called Zeytoun. The brave men of this village had been resisting the Turkish government and from time to time had led certain uprisings in the defence of the Armenians. Many times they had fought government troops and come out victorious. No massacre had ever succeeded in their village. But in 1915 the Armenian situation was so delicate and critical that the nation begged this village to surrender themselves for the sake of the Armenians in other Turkish provinces whose lives were also in danger. The Zeytoun villagers agreed to the request, and surrendered to the Turkish government on condition that they would be allowed to come and live in Marash.

The brave leader of the Zeytoun village, Sergeant Nazareth, was brought to the Marash prison, where he “died” after a few days. After his death, the other villagers began to arrive. Some were put up in the inn; others were sent out of town into the surrounding fields. It was winter time. The weather was cold and wet. We Armenians in Marash tried to help them by taking food and warm clothing out to them, but the government would not allow us to do this. The “prisoners” were kept guarded by jandarmas (Turkish soldiers). Sometimes we managed to smuggle some wood to them by bribing the guards, but the ground was so wet it was difficult to start a fire in the open field. Then they were ordered to march. Old and young, women and children, all began to walk to their unknown destination.

Now it was the turn of the other villages around Marash. Deportees arrived in our town in a miserable condition. One village, Findijak, resisted the deportation order. When troops came to take them by force, the villagers turned and fought, even managing to kill many Turkish soldiers in the fight. Then the people of the village divided into two parties. One party hoisted the white flag and surrendered, while the other party escaped to the mountains, where they resisted the Turks until the end of the war. The party who had surrendered were brought to Marash in a terrible condition, barefoot and wounded. Soon they too were deported from Marash, to perish from cold and hunger on the road.

The Deportation of Armenians from Marash

Finally, our turn came. First, all the prominent Armenians in Marash were ordered to leave. They were to make for Aleppo, and stay there. Twelve families left, although not all made it to Aleppo. Some were taken to the Der el Zor desert, where thousands of Armenians were massacred during the war. Then a new order came for all men between 18 and 45. They had 24 hours to leave their homes. They were to take one blanket and some food and gather in a field outside Marash. My elder brother, Yervant, was among them. By this time, people were willing to be deported. Any method of getting away from Marash was welcomed. Every morning we would hear that five or ten people had been hanged that night. We would wake up to the sounds of crying and mourning from every house. During the day, more people would be shot and dumped in a big limestone pit, so the sound of weeping and mourning never stopped, day or night, from every house. It was better to die en route than to be hanged, shot, or cruelly tortured in your own house. At that time we received a letter from my brother Yervant, saying he was well, and was staying at Hama, Syria, at a place near the railway station.

In 1915 an order came to everyone in the Kumbet district to be ready and waiting in a field outside of town, to be deported. I was quite grown up by now. The government did us a great and unexpected kindness by allowing each family a donkey to load their belongings on to. My father managed to hire two extra donkeys, and we packed food, clothing, and some bedding on to these. We could take nothing else. We wanted to sell some of our household belongings, but no-one would buy Armenian goods. They all knew that soon enough the Armenians would be deported and they could help themselves to anything they wanted! So we left our house and everything in it and began to walk away, weeping as we went.

Our family and my uncle’s family together, about 18 of us from one house, gathered in the field known as Marash Alti, “Below Marash”. From there we went to Kara-Biyikli, “The Black Moustache”, where we spent the night. The villagers in this area were desperate characters, cut-throats and robbers. We, of course, were on foot, and if anyone remained a little behind the villagers caught them and killed them. All that night long the menfolk kept watch, together with the two jandarma who were guarding us.

Early the next morning we resumed our walk and in the late evening we reached the town of Aintab. All communication with the town was forbidden; we were not even allowed to go in and buy some essentials. Again, the following morning from crack of dawn till evening we continued walking, women, children and elderly; all our feet were beginning to swell and cause much pain. Some of the ladies were not even used to working in their own homes. They had had several servants working for them. Even the young men were not used to this much walking. Now, the cruel whips in the jandarmas hands encouraged them to keep walking. At last, we arrived at a town called Kilis.

In Kilis we met some people from Gurun. They were refugees like us. They had been walking for about a month, wandering from one place to another. There was no male older than 13 among their group. They had separated the men and massacred them on the way. The women and young girls continued; their legs and feet were bleeding, swollen and covered in sores. Still, the jandarmas’ whips obliged them to keep walking. Those who fell on the way never got up again. Many had already died. Those who survived joined our group, and we walked together from Kilis toward Katma. One woman had a son who was very sick. Soon he was no longer able to walk. I saw the woman take the child and hide him under a bush, in the shade. Then she began to walk away, continually looking behind her, weeping. As she was walking, looking behind her, weeping, a jandarma rushed on her and began to whip her. I could watch no more. He was still whipping her when I ran away, into the group of walkers. Finally, we reached Katma.

Katma

Katma was a large railway station, the centre for deportations. Armenian refugees were brought here and from here they were sent away to be massacred. We waited in Katma for about eight days. Sometimes the villagers brought some food to us, but they sold it at very high prices. Every night the men would keep watch, guarding our few belongings. There were policemen there, but they were not much interested in guarding the Armenians’ belongings from the robbers!

There were thousands of Armenians in Katma waiting to be deported. Everywhere families were huddled under their blankets or pieces of sack, which made a shelter from the heat of the sun. Then our turn came. We were loaded into a goods wagon and at night we reached Aleppo. The train stopped here, and Bedros, a young lad that I knew personally, came down to find some water. The policemen caught him and beat him up so much he barely managed to throw himself back into the wagon. That same night we left Aleppo and reached Hama. Just before dawn, hearing that we had arrived, my brother and some young men hid in one of the wagons, and then came and joined us.

Next, we arrived at Damascus, where we changed trains, to the Hiyaz railway line. We travelled some distance from Damascus and were approaching a station called Jouroufun Dervish when the train stopped. The wood for the engine had run out, we were told. During the war, Turkey had run out of coal. At this very moment thousands of Armenians were, therefore, working in the forests cutting wood to further Turkey’s war effort. Young men were preferred for this job. The Turkish government killed their wives and children in front of them, but they were generously spared to labour in the forests and build roads for the Turks. When the mission was accomplished they were sent to join their wives.

We came off the train and began gathering twigs and thorns for the engine. Thus we finally reached Jouroufun Dervish, where we stayed, camped out in a field near the station, sheltering under our blankets from the terrible heat of that place. We stayed there for about three days. The most terrible thing was that they locked the water tank and no water was given at all. There was a little water to be bought, but at terrible prices. We had no water with us at all. We managed to take a little from the soldiers, but in the terrible hot weather this was nowhere near enough. It was maddening to think of the lovely, large supply in the tank, when we were not allowed any. The next day a group of us took our water skins and escaped in search of water. A little down the path we found a well. It was very deep, but there were iron steps down the side. My brother Timoteos went down and fetched up some water. I went next and filled my water skin. Then the Turks found us. From that day there was a soldier put to guard this well and make sure the Armenians didn’t get any water from it.

Three days later we woke up to see many Arabs had joined our party. On their heads were the typical Arab agils, with long locks of black hair and long white shirts that reached the ground, and black meshlah cloaks. They were barefooted; the soles of their feet were so thick they reminded you of camels’ hooves. Each one had an English rifle on his shoulder and about 100 cartridges, donkeys’ reins and saddles, all strange looking to us. We had never seen anything like it before and were much afraid. They stayed there that day and the next day transportations began. They were taking us to Tafilah, a small town ruled by a kaymakam, or governor. Tafilah was a good place, we were told. Those who bribed the transport officer would be taken to Tafilah. Everyone else would be sent to the villages. We gave them some money, and we were given donkeys for the transportation. Then we were set on our way. Timoteos was suffering badly from sore eyes at the time. We travelled hard all day and at night we arrived at Tafilah.

Chapter 2

The Hardships of Daily Life

Now We Are at Tafilah

When we reached Tafilah we were taken to an old castle. There were no windows to let any sunshine in, and the place was terribly damp and smelly. We stayed there a few days, and every day our numbers increased as more and more refugees arrived. My uncle was taken to a village called Sunfiye, three miles away. We were separated from him at the station. We lived instead with a close friend of my father’s. The “houses” where they were living were four walls and a makeshift roof covering them, and an earthen floor. It was little better than the castle, but at least we were away from the lice! My brother was still suffering from sore eyes. We found a woman who could make up medicines, but she couldn’t find the medicine we needed for him.

Lice started troubling us badly. The more we washed them away, the more they seemed to multiply! As if that wasn’t enough, we had a problem with fleas in our house too. One day in the summer time we were sleeping on the roof of the house. Our landlord had found a key to our door, and he broke in during the night. Every bit of clothing or anything else that was any good at all he took. There was even a little money among the clothes. We reported the incident to the government and they found the thief, but they could do nothing about it because the whole village was rebellious against the government.

My brother’s eyes became increasingly worse. Where exactly did one find an eye specialist in this god-forsaken place anyway? Instead, we took him to the government doctor, and he gave him some medicine. For a couple of days he seemed to do better, and the doctor changed the medicine. After that his eyes swelled up completely and for one month he couldn’t open them at all. When he finally did, we saw that there were wounds in his eyes each bigger than a grain of lentil. Naturally, these were causing him terrible pain. One eye was virtually blind, the other only a little better. By this time the lice had been on a rampage, and typhoid was spreading like wildfire among the refugees.

As the typhoid spread, causing misery in each house, it opened the floodgates to other infections and diseases. Every house could boast of two or three critically ill patients. In our house my father’s friend died, then his wife. His son, daughter and daughter-in-law moved to another house. The same day we received the news that my uncle also had died. Two days later his eldest son died, leaving a young widow and three children. We were sick too. My father sent word for my cousin Baroyr to come and stay with us. He was a clever young man of about twenty-five, a teacher by profession. My father was very fond of him. He came as soon as he received our message, but the priest, Father Krikor, who was a relative of ours, asked if Baroyr could stay with him to help. Every week he led a church service, and Baroyr would help him in this. Typhoid struck there too, and the priest died, and Baroyr was bedridden. Next we heard that Baroyr’s mother had died, and the next day my cousin Khoren died. None of this did we tell to Baroyr. In the end, all four brothers and the father and mother died, leaving only the daughter-in-law alive in that family, with the three children. Baroyr got worse and worse. He used to get out of bed and try to run away. My father constantly kept watch at his bedside.