Chronicler of genocide

In memory of the 103 rd anniversary of the Armenian Genocide

I have read Franz Werfel’s epic work (900 pages) The Forty Days of Musa Dagh (1933), almost twenty years ago. A thrilling novel based on the appalling testimonies of Armenian refugees, whom the famous Austrian-Bohemian writer had encountered in Damascus, Syria in 1929, while touring the Middle East with his wife [i].

I was so much impressed by the events and the characters that for months they had become a part of me. I don’t know why, may be because I myself am a descendant of a genocide-survivor and my troubled soul has been haunted by countless stories of mass-killings and deportations.

To tell you the truth, I have sometimes asked myself the hypothetical question: Had Franz Werfel continued his journey in Syria traversing the concentration camps of Deir elZor to north-east Syria: Ras alAin, and my hometown Qamishli, he might have encountered, among countless other Armenian Genocide -survivors, my grandfather Bedros and heard his incredible story of death and resurrection! And why not? He might have produced his second masterpiece entitled Scheherazade, after the famous story-teller of the Arabian Nights!

It all started in a tiny village in south-east Turkey in the Batman province, Besiri district. A region predominantly inhabited by Kurds, some Armenians and other Christian minorities, during and in the aftermath of the Armenian Genocide perpetrated by the Ottoman-Turkey in 1915.

Following the horrible massacre of his extended family, the orphan Bedros, was not put to death for the sole reason of having been endowed with a wonderful voice and an amazing capacity of memorising and orally improvising Kurdish traditional songs of folk origin. Hence, the illiterate Armenian kid, who spoke only Kurdish, aged probably 14-15, would grow up to become the principal traditional-singer of an influential Kurdish feudal Chief in the region.

Each evening, the weary villagers and guests from the neighbouring areas flocked in the grand hall, presided by the Chief, eager to hear the “entertainment” of Bedros. He would recite from his endless “repertoire”, folk-songs and historic narratives he had heard since he was a little child: of ferocious battles, valiant heroes and great cities. He would also sing praises of the Chief, extolling his virtues as well as his ancestor’s merits! But not a word about the burning pain that was tormenting his body and soul: the gruesome images of the mass-killing of his family and the extermination of his entire race.

Like the intelligent heroine of the Arabian Nights who kept king Shahryar tantalized by her tales so that he would spare her life one more day, Grandfather never ever forgot his next day’s narrative, lest that would cost him his life.

But, while Schehrezade’s story finishes happily at the end of the One Thousand Nights, his ordeal takes yet another tragic turn.

One dreary late-night, having finished his “performance”, worn out and desperate, he drags his feet home at the extremity of the village to find a scene that would freeze his blood and leave him dumbfounded to the last day of his life! The house was totally plundered, his wife kidnapped and his little son and nephew both aged 3-4 years tightly tied to the window bars, throats slung from ear to ear…

Grandfather passed away few years following his miraculous escape to Syria after rescuing his wife. I did not see him, but remember well his pale face gazing out on emptiness from a photo hanging on the wall of our room. His wide-open eyes seemed desperately looking for someone to recount the untold narrative of his loved ones and many more other sad and heart-rending stories…

H. Dono

Membre de la rédaction vaudoise de Voix d’Exils

[i] – BBC radio documentary on Franz Werfel’s novel Forty Days of Musa Dagh http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b09pkmpc

la ville de Qamishili. Source: page Facebook de Qamishili.

An important part of my job as a legal translator in my city Qamishli, situated in north-eastern Syria on the border with Turkey, was working with asylum-seekers and refugees, especially Iraqis who had fled their country following the American invasion in 2003 and wanted to find refuge in the asylum countries. 

I was preparing their dossiers: translating the documents, fixing appointments with the embassies, filling the formulas etc. Hundreds of families came to my office, each had an extremely painful story of deportation, persecution and displacement. It was very distressing to hear the narratives of these unfortunate people, who once had lived a fairly stable and comfortable life, then all of a sudden their world turned upside down and having lost everything they found themselves homeless refugees in other countries.

Being myself a descendant of a refugee family, their stories were not totally strange to me. My grandfather was the only survivor of an extended family massacred during the Armenian genocide perpetrated by the Ottoman government against the Armenians and the other Christians of Turkey during and after the World War I. In 1920, like many of his compatriots, my grandfather could only survive by miracle, traversing on foot the enormous territory separating his ancestral village situated in the province of Diyarbakır in southeaster Turkey and the Syrian border town of Ras al Ayn. Therefore, tales of displacement and mass killing had always haunted my memory since I was a child.

Nevertheless, putting myself then in the shoes of the Iraqi refugees, I could not help thinking of what might happen to me and my family had we experienced the same devastating war in Syria? The mere thought of it was terrifying and nightmarish.

But, what I then thought as something incredible soon became a reality in 2011. The civil war started in Syria and the Pandora box, with all the evils of the world, was opened widely. This time, the troubled faces of my countrymen started streaming into my office, carrying alongside their precious documents, gruesome stories of kidnappings, lootings and killings as the entire security system in the country collapsed, the vital services completely crumpled and considerable territories surrounding the city fell into the hands of Daesh ISIS.

Ironically, the grandchildren of the refugees who one hundred years ago had founded this beautiful frontier city as a safe haven from persecution, were now frantically fleeing from the impending apocalyptic devastation and killing, by seeking refuge in Sweden, Germany and other European countries.

The lights of the lively, multi-ethnic, prosperous city of Qamishli suddenly dimmed, the buzzing activities died down and the streets became deserted and lifeless.

Another sad story of the rise and fall of a city in the endless game of the thrones.

DONO Hayrenik

Membre de la redaction vaudoise de Voix d’Exils

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Version française de l’article parue le 21.09.2016 sur voixdexils.ch