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Sold to an Arab
Story of an Armenian Girl (Part five)
by Serpouhi Tavoukdjian
Mother's lips moved
in prayer as we struggled ahead, as she pleaded with God to keep
he faithful to Him, and to keep her children faithful in this
hour of trail. Of course, we had only to drop to our knees at
the Mohammedan call to prayer, and our sufferings would have
been ended. But we never thought of doing this.
Another day
passed. We came to a village. Mother asked for a blanket to make
us a little shelter where we might rest, but this was refused.
She had a few pretty buttons left on her dress, and at last the
Turks-for it was a Turkish village-said they would sell us a
little corn for these buttons. It seemed that we just could not
take another step, so we tried to hide ourselves, and hoped they
would let us stay for a little while. But the village people
knew we were refugees, so they drove us back to the line with
sticks and stones, shouting, "Armenian pigs! Armenian pigs!
Armenian pigs!"
Then we came to
the Orontes River. Water! It was wonderful. We drank, and drank,
and felt much revived. We followed along the bank of this river,
and then late one afternoon came to the camp. Almost the first
person we saw was my little brother. He was looking for us, but
he had not yet found my sisters. We left mother and started out
together on the search. As we ran about, asking everybody, "Are
the carriages with the sick people here? Where are the
carriages? Where is the hospital tent?" we fell on the rocks and
were torn by thorns, for it was an immense camp, and there were
many people here.
Finally we found a
man we knew, who told us where to go, and said he had seen my
sisters. We went back to mother and hurried to them as fast as
we could. At last we stood beside them. Will I ever forget the
pitiful sight? Rebecca, who was just fourteen years of age, was
in her last hour of death. Starvation and its attendant fever
and suffering had done their ghastly work. Mother cried out, "O
Rebecca, child, what is the matter?" She opened her brown eyes
and looked first at mother and then at me, but could not speak a
word to either of us. In a few minutes all was over. We had come
just in time to see her die. As we closed her beautiful eyes and
smoothed her hair, we wept bitterly. Then my sister, Ahavne,
spoke. "Do not cry, mother," she said, "we are all going to
die." But somehow this did not lessen our grief nor ease our
heartbreak.
The soldier would
not let us stop to bury Rebecca. Mother asked a woman standing
near to help us, and we managed to carry her to a field not far
away, and placed her there. We were obliged to leave her
uncovered and alone. We could not stop for even a prayer. The
Turks drove us on-and on-and on! But I am sure our merciful
loving Father looked down from heaven and marked her resting
place. She never denied Him by word or look. If I am faithful, I
shall meet her again in that resurrection morning when Jesus
comes to claim His own.
Once more morning
came. How could we go? But we must! There was no escape, no
rest. The carriages did not go farther, so there was no more
transportation for those who were sick. Ahavne was so sick she
could hardly lift her head. Mother made two small bundles of the
very few belongings we had left, and strapped one on her own
back and the other on mine. Arasig still carried what was left
of the tent. Then we got my sister to her feet, and she leaned
on me and we walked. Mother leaned on Arasig, for neither could
she walk without help. Slowly we followed the moving line of
stricken humanity. My sister forced herself to walk with my
feeble help for several miles. But finally she dropped down by
the roadside, and could go no farther.
Mother begged the
soldiers to allow us to stay with her the few hours which she
could possibly live. But they only said in Turkish, "Go on. Go
on!" And guns were held ready and straps raised to beat us if we
dared disobey. Why did they not kill us? That would have been
too merciful!
When my sister
realized that she must be left to die alone, her grief and
fright were heartbreaking. Terror-stricken, she begged us not to
leave her. Mother tried to comfort her by saying that we would
also probably be dead in another day. But that was not much
help. There was no time for prayer or even for a last tender
embrace. She waved her hand feebly as we looked back. It seemed
that we simply could not leave her. But there were the guns and
bayonets and knives and fierce soldiers! And so, with tears
streaming down our faces and our hearts fairly bursting with
grief, we waved back to her. The road turned around foothill
and-that-was-all!
Dear Ahavne! She
was so lovely and loving, and so beloved. I do not know her
fate, though probably she was soon beyond suffering, as she was
even then in the last throes of starvation. But to leave her
dying alone by the roadside, unprotected and at the mercy of
wild beasts and brutal men-how can I write it down! But our
Father knows. He has marked the spot where she sleeps, and I am
sure her angel stood guard when her loved ones could not. Some
day we shall meet again. Precious sister! What a happy reunion
that will be!
Only three of us
were now left. There were more days of weary marching without
food and little to drink. We were so starved that my little
brother and I picked corn from the dung of animals and begged
mother to cook it for us. But when she had prepared it, we could
not eat it, for we had never tasted anything unclean. Then we
went back to eating grass again, though when it was cooked it
was bitter as gall. We could hardly force it down.
And then we came
to Hamah. Here we were allowed to stop and rest. The camp was
made outside the city in a great field. And Arabian merchants
had set up a bazaar, or market, where they were selling things
to the refugees. There were thousands of Armenians in this camp.
Few of them had anything with which to buy food or clothing. But
perhaps there was a valuable ring, or jeweled pin, or a small
piece of money that had escaped the keen eyes of the Turkish
soldiers, who had so often robbed us. These could change hands
here, and a miserable existence be more or less prolonged. Why?
Because the love of life is a fire which burns bright in every
human heart. We sometimes think we wish to die, but when
actually face to face with the specter, death, we shudder and
turn away.
As we rested on
the ground near the bazaar and I saw the food, I begged mother
for something to eat.
She said, "I have
no money. I cannot buy you food."
"Then sell
something," I urged. "Sell your dress. O mother, please! I am so
hungry!"
A man whom we knew
came by while I was crying and begging. He had something to do
with helping in the bazaar. "Serpouhi," he said, "the Arab
merchants are buying girls. Why don't you ask your mother to you
to an Arab? Then you would have plenty to eat, and also she
would have money to buy food for herself and your brother."
I was all excited.
"O mother, please sell me," I begged. "Then we can eat again."
"Do you want to go
with an Arab?" she asked me, and there were tears in her eyes.
"Oh yes, mother, I
want to go. I want food. I am so hungry."
And so several of
the Arabs came and looked at me. They examined my teeth and felt
of me. There was really nothing left but skin and bones, and I
had every sign of starvation. All the men who came spoke kindly.
But finally the kindest one of all, an Arab of middle age,
offered to give my mother a little gold money for me. Perhaps it
was $5. I do not know. I remember that she asked how much it
would make in Turkish pounds.
Of course, I was
just a little girl, and I was so hungry I did no think of
anything else. I had not dreamed that I must be separated from
my mother. When the man wanted to take me away, I objected
strenuously, and insisted that she come also.
"No, Serpouhi,"
she told me, with the tears streaming down her face, "it is you
who are bought. The man did not buy me. You must go with him. He
will be kind to you, and will give you food."
It threw my arms
around her neck and cried and cried. This was too much! How
could I leave my dear mother? Finally my master gently loosed my
hand and said, "Come with me now. Some other day we will return
and get your mother."
I was heartbroken.
I kissed her again and again. She told me that some day I must
come back and try to find my father, that I must not forget to
pray to God in heaven, nor to keep His Sabbath. The last thing
she said was that we would meet again in the new earth. And then
the Arab took my hand and led me away.
My mother and
brother stood looking! looking! looking! Somehow I realized that
I would never see them again. But I do not think my brother knew
what had happened-he was so nearly starved. I am sure that
neither of these dear ones could have lived more than a few days
longer, even with the food that they were now able to buy. Two
more lonely, unmarked graves! I know not where they are, but God
knows. And I can trust Him to watch over this precious dust
until the great resurrection morning dawns.
My master's name
was Allel Moose. He owned a long line of camels and donkeys, and
he traded in fruits and dates and fine flour. He bought me just
as he was starting for his desert home with this merchandise.
Grief at leaving my mother blotted all fears of the future from
my mind, and when I was placed on the back of a camel to ride, I
made no objection. But the constant swaying motion of that
animal is like the waves of the sea, and was very sickening to
me. I did not like it. So when we stopped for refreshment, I
made signs with my hands-for, of course, I could not speak a
word of Arabic-and asked that I might ride one of the donkeys.
When the men understood my wishes, they took me down. All the
journey after that I rode my own special donkey.
These people in
the caravan (there were ten or fifteen men and several Arab
women) were very kind to me. They smiled and gave me food. I
remember especially the dates and candies. I had been hungry for
so long that I just smiled back at them, since I could not
speak, and ate everything they offered me. Allel Moose had
bought me, not for a wife or a slave, but to be his own
daughter, since his wives were childless. And he proved to be
indeed a real father to me.
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