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YESSAYAN: TOWARDS CILICIA
by Jennifer Manoukian
http://www.armenianweekly.com/2012/10/05/yessayan-towards-cilicia/
October 5, 2012
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.
by Jennifer Manoukian
http://www.armenianweekly.com/2012/10/05/yessayan-towards-cilicia/
October 5, 2012
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.