The people who had any money went to Konia (the ancient Iconium) in goods-trucks, being allowed to take only a few possessions with them. They were told to leave their possessions in the churches and they would be safeguarded, but the same promise had been made in Sabandja, and the church had been looted almost before the people were out of the city, so nobody trusted this promise. The exiles were crowded on the top of their possessions, sixty to eighty people in a truck marked for forty people. Some missionaries from the south met a train-load of these refugees and described their condition as miserable in the extreme. One girl had hanged herself on the way; others had poison with them. Mothers were holding out their beautiful babies and begging the missionaries to take them. A Turkish officer ordered the Americans off, saying: “These Armenians are dangerous people; they may have bombs.”
From Konia they were to go by foot or carriage to a desert place called Mosul, in Mesopotamia. Those who had no money must make the entire journey on foot. Such dreadful stories came to their ears as to the treatment of those who walked—of how people were not allowed to sell them bread, of how they were robbed, and families separated, the men slain and the women and girls given to the Turks, the children sold to be brought up as Mohammedans—that people sold their last possession so as to be able to go as far as possible by train.
They were afraid to take money with them, lest they should be robbed by the way. They must leave all their property behind, and as soon as they vacated their houses, refugees from Macedonia took possession of them. What a lamentable condition—to be poor and in danger of starvation; to be rich, accustomed to luxury and refinement, and then suffer all these things; to be a woman, especially a pretty woman, with all a woman’s dangers (some in Constantinople told me they would disfigure their faces if they were exiled); to be a man and see all these things and yet be unable to lift a finger in resistance; to be there and endure; to be here and imagine!
How can the people keep their faith in God during such trials? How many will deny and curse Him? How many will accept Mohammedanism? Or how many will remain faithful to the end, and say through their tears: “Though He slay me—or worse than slay me—yet will I trust in Him?” Again and again they said to me: “Oh, if they would only kill me now, I would not care; but I fear they will try to force me to become a Mohammedan.”
What was the meaning of all this? It was the death blow aimed at Christianity in Turkey, or, in other words, the extermination of the Armenian people—their extermination or amalgamation. And why? At the beginning of the struggle, or soon after, the Holy War was declared. This signified a purpose to kill all Christians, the reward for which is eternal pleasure in the Mohammedan paradise. At first Turkey declared that the Holy War was directed only against nations at war with herself, but later she waged it against all Christians.
The Armenians were so patient, so silent and uncomplaining. We came very near to each other in those days. “You have made our sorrows your sorrows,” they said to me: “You have an Armenian heart.” But as the realization of what their exile actually meant dawned upon me, I could neither eat nor sleep. One day I said to my friends: “I cannot comfort you to-day; you must comfort me. I think I feel worse than if I were going into exile myself.” And they were so brave and cheerful that I did actually carry away cheer and comfort from that home.
I had planned to remain with my friends until all were gone, but that was impossible. The Protestants were given special favours; they were the last to go, and were allowed to remain in their homes or in the church, while on the Wednesday of that week all other Armenians were turned out into the streets to wait their turn to go. There they waited, with their baggage, for days, by the roadside near the station.
So, with a sad heart, on the Friday of that exile week, I bade farewell to the group of friends gathered at the school-house door, and with little Arousiag mounted on to the top of my goods in the ox-cart, fearing to trust my possessions out of my sight a moment. I put up an umbrella to protect me from the rain and the curious gaze of others. I felt and looked like an exile myself.
When we reached Constantinople, everything looked so peaceful and quiet that I felt disappointed. We had received no news from the city for some time, and thought that it must be nearly in the hands of the enemy. To see women and children all dressed in the height of fashion, and seemingly indifferent to the misery of the world, was a painful contrast.
Not only did I leave terror behind me. In Constantinople also every man’s heart was failing him for fear. There were rumours that Constantinople also would be evacuated, and awful stories of the separation of families, of the Mohammedanizing of Christians, reached our ears. “This is worse than massacre,” again and again they said: “Only let them kill us now.” Everybody was frantic to leave the country, and the police stations were crowded with people seeking, too often in vain, for permission to go to America, Bulgaria, or Roumania. No men at all were allowed to go. They were left behind to be exiled or massacred. On some days women were given permission to leave, and on other days they were refused. It took me, an American, two days to get my papers, with help from the Embassy, and at every step I feared difficulty or refusal because of Arousiag, and also another Armenian girl whom I was bringing with me.