vast sandy area and the Armenians there were from all over, not
only from Marash. We had no water and gendarmes would not give
us any. There were only two gendarmes for that huge crowd. Just
two. Wasn’t there a single man among us who could have killed
them? We were going to die anyway. Why did we obey those two
gendarmes so sheepishly?
The word was that from Meskeneh, we were going to be deported
to Der-Zor. My father had brought along a tent that was black on
one side and white on the other. Each time gendarmes approached
us to send another group to Der-Zor, my father would move the
tent. He would pitch it on the other side of the crowd—as far away
as possible. We were constantly moving. He bought us quite a bit
of time that way.
Eventually, we crossed the Euphrates River to Rakka where we
found an abandoned house—with no doors or windows—and we
squatted there. But we still had no food. We used to eat
grass. We used to pick grains from animal
waste, wash them and then in tin cans fry
them to eat. We used to say: “Oh, mommy, if we ever go
back to Marash, just give us fried wheat and it will be enough.
b. 1908, Marash