The following is an excerpt from Amid the Ruins (1911),
writer Zabel Yessayan’s account of the aftermath of the 1909 massacres in
Cilicia. It is translated to English by Jennifer Manoukian.
Towards Cilicia
The steamboat brought us to Cilicia’s port and that last
night on the Mediterranean filled me with looming terror and dread. As we
gradually approached the threshold of the catastrophe, reality seemed to escape
my comprehension, and I could not truly believe that the next morning we would
reach Mersine, Adana, Cilicia—the places that we had been reading about for
weeks, the places that had lodged themselves in our brains. There, we would
find a bloody, open wound, and the thought of touching it sent a painful
shudder through me.
Zabel Yessayan
A warm, serene environment surrounded us. Under a
star-studded sky, the dark blue waves of the Mediterranean gently rocked the
steamboat. There was a conflict between the luminous, immutable beauty of
nature and the torturous thoughts racing endlessly through our minds. This
conflict became so exhausting that it almost caused physical pain.
The idea of sinking deep into the heart of the
catastrophe produced a gloomy impatience in all of us, and although we walked
on the deck in silence until late at night without talking about our feelings,
I was convinced that everyone’s mind was seized by the same burning curiosity.
There were both Turks and Armenians on board. The Patriarchate’s second
delegation and the members of the second military bureau were travelling on the
same ship. On board were also wounded merchants and relatives of victims, who
were rushing to the ruins to see the extent of the catastrophe with their own
eyes.
We stayed on deck until well past midnight. Every so
often, heart-breaking sighs could be heard from the third class cabins below.
On deck, the black hood of an Armenian clergyman could sometimes be seen in the
pale rays of light radiating from the ship’s lanterns. The soldiers walked as a
group, and as they came closer, I could hear pieces of their conversation:
—The closer we come to Mersine, the more my heart burns
with an inexplicable pain.
Below deck, I heard a passenger sigh deeply, as if to
second that thought.
Alone in my cabin, I was besieged by the reality that I
would see the next day. Until that moment, it was as if my inner being was
bathed in an unfamiliar light, which rather than giving my thoughts a distinct
shape, muddled them and shrouded them in a haze. In that feverish state of
mind, an image stubbornly returned to me in pieces.
Two months earlier, men and women from the Red Cross had
left from Galata. They were the very first to leave. The sky wept steadily onto
the city below; Stamboul was covered in a humid, grey fog and everything exuded
infinite sadness. Behind us, hoarse, passionate, and melancholic songs rose
from the cafes along the pier like intense, lamenting cries of pain.
We were all as pale as corpses, but tried in vain to
smile at the passengers. The boat started to sail away. A mother’s face was
gradually growing fainter as the boat sailed further into the distance. Next to
us, her teenage daughter struggled to smile in an attempt to hide all the
suffering in her young soul. The combination of the mother’s face disappearing
into the grey mist, the mournful melodies flowing out of the cafes on the pier,
the patter of the rain—at once cruel and calming—falling on the city exalted my
soul with a feeling that made me lightheaded and caused my knees to go weak.
On our way back, we were all sad and absorbed in thought.
In a red nightmare, I saw the city in flames, displaced people in a faraway
place, enraged girls in mourning and gallows—gallows everywhere!
What was then only a vague nightmare would become my
world in a matter of a few hours.
The steamboat stopped. I immediately came up on deck. I
thought I would be the first person there, but everyone had already gathered.
There was a sickly pallor to everyone’s faces and their sleep-deprived eyes
were careful not to meet those of their fellow passengers. The soldiers formed
a group of their own and watched Mersine intently with eyes full of sadness.
One of the clergymen from the Patriarchate’s delegation turned toward Cilicia,
the pale face under his black, velvet hood contorted by his grief.
At the same time, small boats rushed towards us and the
soldiers hurried to get off. They passed us trying to avoid our gaze and
sorrowfully bid us a quick farewell. Their footsteps were irregular, almost
bewildered, and we could hear the sound of their swords dragging on the ground.
At that moment, it was difficult to decide who was unhappier: us or them.
Mersine lay before us. Its flat, bluish land extended
into the distance towards a chain of mountains enveloped in a haze, and the
colorful palette of daybreak lazily billowed across that stretch of rural
simplicity. Once again, the nightmare of the catastrophe became a distant
thought and I had the urge to smile at the sunny sky. But the delegation was
ready and waiting, and our boats were about to arrive. Anxious, somber faces examined
us, and everything grew dark in me.
The clergymen were solemn and serious, as if they were
preparing for a funeral. We all grew paler. My heart was gripped by limitless
grief and I felt as though my veins were freezing.
Those who came to meet us had seen everything. Some had
fled fires and swords. Swelling flames danced in their eyes and the bitterness
of their memories gave their words an unsettling quickness. In those few
minutes, they told us many things. Despite our limitless despair, to them our
words seemed to be filled with meaningless optimism. They shook their heads and
said:
—How can you be so sure when you’ve only just stepped off
the boat?
When we first set foot in Mersine, my impression of it
was very clear. It was as though we were crossing the threshold into the realm
of death. People received us with unspoken sadness. They shook our hands and
passed in front of us. Who knows what was so foreign about us that made them
not want to talk to us? Taking refuge in their sorrow, they stood together in a
group and watched us, their eyes brimming with tears.
Our hotel was filled with all kinds of displaced people.
Here we also found the Catholicos and were immediately introduced to him. All
day, it was as if I was seeing everything through a nightmare: There were women
dressed in black—the family members of the first victims—and cries and laments
of the wounded, the orphans, and the widows whose grief was reignited upon
seeing us.
The following day we would go to Adana and be amid the
ruins. I thought senselessly about it, and spent another sleepless night with
my heart racing, tending to my sorrow.
The night was cool. Moisture rose from the sprawling sea
and soared over the sleeping city. The roar of the waves soothed me, as
caravans of slow-moving camels passed endlessly through the street, their
undulating movements marked by the sound of ringing bells.
________________________________________
About author
Jennifer Manoukian
Jennifer Manoukian is a recent graduate of Rutgers
University, where she majored in French literature and Middle Eastern studies.
She also studied Armenian language and literature and
wrote her senior thesis on the early work of Zabel Yessayan.
In the fall, Manoukian will be starting her graduate work
in Armenian literature at Columbia University.
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