An Emotionally Draining Visit to Der Zor: The Killing Fields of the Armenian Genocide

Sylvia Iskenderian

 

Sydney Australia

No one had prepared us for that day ahead. Four hundred Armenian men and women mounted the

buses from Aleppo to embark on a day trip to Der Zor.

The buses headed northeast towards the Iraqi border. There was obvious trepidation in the air.

Everyone was apprehensive, immersed in deep thought in anticipation of what the day would

reveal.

It was 2010, the year of the 100th Anniversary of the founding of the Armenian Relief Society.

Members from all over the world had gathered in Aleppo, Syria, to pay homage and celebrate this

great event in one of the largest Armenian diaspora communities in the world.

Our visit thus far was filled with joy and recollections, as friends encountered and reconnected with

one another. Exploring iconic sites in Aleppo and visiting Armenian centers.

Der Zor was almost 120 kilometres from Aleppo. It was the epicentre and the killing fields of the

Armenian Genocide. This was where most of the victims had met their death, in the barren,

desolate, Syrian deserts during the years 1915-16.

The two-hour journey was long and exhausting. “This is where the Ottoman Turkish troops had

cast out the Armenian people from their ancestral homes, villages, and cities, leaving them to starve

and die,” I reflected.

As the bus drove through the ceaseless desert landscape, my imagination conjured up images of

weary mothers walking past me, carrying their babies on their backs. Little children orphaned and

alone clasping to one another. Exhausted elderly men and women dropping away from thirst , and

the weak, barely able to stand, plodding along through the prickly, spiky desert tumble-weeds.

Under the unrelenting summer sun, every step taken would have been a struggle on the rough rocky

terrain.

For a moment, I thought I could step out of the bus and go to help those miserable souls. Then I

realized it was only a vision of the past swirling in my head.

Traveling through this hostile land, my thoughts again summoned the image of the thousands of

human remains that still lay within these fields of death. When the wild desert winds blew, they

unearthed layers of sand that still reveal tiny bones of children and mothers who had perished in this

wasteland so many years ago.

Those human bones emerged and stuck out on the white desert sands like festering wounds, as if a

reminder of the indifference of this uncaring world. And when that wind blew like a whisper, it

gently touched the scattered bones of the orphaned children, like an endearing mother lovingly

singing a lullaby to the ossified bones of those abandoned, defenceless little souls.

The Bridge

Emerging deep in my thoughts, I realized the buses had stopped. Everyone’s gaze turned to the

amazing view outside.

A mixture of surprise and dread filled my heart. It was the River Euphrates. The river I had known

about since childhood. Here it was, a massive, wide, majestic river with all its glory.

We all rushed toward the tremendous iron-clad bridge. The sight was spectacular. The gentle

morning sun was shimmering on the fast-running waves, sprinkling silvery glows on the blue-grey

water.

Along the edge, the Euphrates’ dense green vegetation added a stunning beauty to the whole scene.

It was impossible to imagine that this noble river had turned red during the most hellish days of

human cruelty. When the children of the Armenian nation were being massacred and thrown into

this river here,. When young Armenian women threw themselves into this river along with their

babies, not to be taken or killed by the Turkish sword.

The horror this river had seen was unbelievable. During the Genocide, thousands of swollen bodies

had floated down this river, some even entangled in those beautiful vegetation growing on the sides.

Now, looking at it, this river looked so serene and majestic.

The 400-strong pilgrims had already spread and placed themselves across the length of the bridge.

The organizers handed everyone a white lily in memory of the souls of the victims who had died

there. After reciting the Lord’s prayer together, everyone threw the lilies into the Euphrates river.

With our hearts pounding and tears running down our eyes, we all chanted the song ‘The Wound of

Exile.’

While we were singing, the hundreds of white lilies floated along with the flow of the Euphrates

River and drifted away into the distance, like the souls of all those who had perished in it.

With sorrow deep in our hearts, we returned to our buses and drove on.

The desert scene was already changing. The sparsely located rural properties with their small

gardens were a pleasant sight to see on the road now.

After a short distance, our transport took a turn for another bridge. We had reached the city of Der

Zor.

Our large group disembarked from the buses and headed towards the center where a beautiful

fountain stood in the middle of the square. Directly opposite the fountain was the magnificent Saint

Martyrs Memorial Armenian Church.

An imposing sandstone church, bearing an Armenian Cross on its high dome was a sight to see. We

realized we were about to enter the most sacred memorial constructed in honor of the Armenian

Genocide. This was the church built in memory of those Armenian souls who had perished in that

area during the 1915 genocide.

Passing through lattice iron gate at the entrance of the great cathedral, we climbed paved stone

stairs to a large courtyard. The pilgrims noticed a delicately decorated ‘khachkar’ on the side of the

church. At the foot of the monument an eternal flame was lit in memory of the Martyrs.

Next to the khachkar was the entrance to the Holy Chapel.Just like the others, I was already in

turmoil. What was I to encounter going into the cathedral? What would my feelings be there?

The pilgrims, in a strange automated unison, rushed in. As I entered, the small church was already

filled to capacity. The atmosphere was tense. The silence in the room was deafening.

Only a murmur, and the faint sounds of silent sobbing could be heard all around.

It was impossible not to notice the large round stone pillar right in the center of the church. A

portion of th ground around the pillar was cut open through to the floors below. As one gazed down

from the barrier surrounding the pillar, one could see glass cabinets at the ground level laden with

human bones . Bones found and collected from the area.

This unusual sight in the church mirrored the many wells in the deserts of Der Zor, where during the

genocide people were murdered and thrown in those wells. Where later piles of bones were found

inside.

There was no solace for my heart. That scene and the church service harrowed my soul even more.

After the solemn church service, we were ushered to the lower floor, where the museum dedicated

to the victims of the genocide was located. This museum was a repository for a collection of

authentic pictures taken during the massacre, showing atrocities beyond human understanding.

Apart from the photos taken by eyewitnesses during the genocide, one could see personal items of

clothing, collected from the remains of Armenians from the desert, including robes, beautiful

dresses, eyeglasses, bags, shoes, trinkets, and even a baby’s beautifully embroidered christening

outfit.

There, on the far wall, hung a magnificent full-scale sculptured mural which was crafted in

honor of the thousands of women who suffered and perished during the genocide. Made with

white clay, it depicted a mother crouched on the ground, writing the Armenian alphabet on the sand

of the desert, teaching her child to read during the exile.

With a solemn ceremony, the Armenian Relief Society Central Committee board placed an eternal

flame at the edge of the sculpture in honor of those martyred mothers.

When we went outside into the yard, I thought the buildings on the sides were closing in on me.

They were leaning forward and choking me and the church. But the reality was that I alone was the

one going through those feelings. It was my soul that was suffering. I was the one who could not

come to terms with what I had witnessed and could not accept the fate that had befallen our nation.

The Restaurant

It was mid-day, and we had already gone through enough tribulations. The governing body had

taken us to a nearby restaurant for lunch.

This lovely two-story establishment, located in the middle of a beautiful garden could barely

accommodate our large group, but the management had been prepared. The attendants had divided

all the guests between the two levels. We had remained on the upper floor, and we had been

honored to have the two priests who had accompanied the group from Aleppo to perform the

official ceremonies, at the Der Zor church seated at our table.

During lunch, we had heard the sounds of loud music coming from the ground floor. We had

assumed some of our group members were trying to lighten up the heavy atmosphere of the day

when we realized that one of the priests at our table was looking visibly angry. He stood up and

burst out: ‘such a thing cannot happen here.” and proceeded downstairs to stop the music. When he

had returned the music had stopped. He then explained to us that every year they come to visit this

restaurant on 24th April to offer homage to the martyrs of the Armenian Genocide..He then added

that more than 40,000 young Armenian boys, aged between 12-17, had been massacred by the

Turks during the Genocide on those premises, which was now this restaurant!

A feeling of horror had come over me. It became impossible for me to finish my meal. What an

unspeakable savagery had happened there. Such inhuman cruelty, my brain could not comprehend.

So much evil and misery. Such ruthlessness could not have been imagined.

The shock had taken my sense of being. I had stood frozen for a long while. 40,000 children

murdered there! I collected myself and went out to the garden to take a breath.

Away from the clattering noises in the hall, the scene outside was peaceful and pleasant. It was a

tidy garden, surrounded by multicolored flower beds, small plants, and manicured bushes. It was

tranquil and quiet. I could only hear the sounds of swallows chirping amongst the trees and the

pounding of my own heart. I was alone in my thoughts and still in a state of shock. As I walked

amongst the flowers, I finally came to my senses and calmed down. I was at peace for a moment.

I looked around the garden to see some kind of memorial or plaque that referred to this horrible

atrocity that had happened there on those grounds. I was unable to see anything. nor did I notice a

memorial indicating that something terrible had happened there.

The blood of so many young boys had been spilled there. How many children of Armenian mothers

had been massacred there? Lost forever on this land. The entire future of my nation had been

destroyed with one blow. Blown away with one stroke right where I had been walking.

I would have gotten on my knees there and prayed. Where I would have sworn in front of a shrine

and cried out “Megha Asdvadz!” a thousand megha— forgive me, God! But how had you allowed

something like this to happen to the Armenian people?

I had been totally drained and exhausted from the day’s events and went back inside to encounter

those who had no idea or were completely oblivious to what I had heard and experienced.

The next place on our pilgrimage of the day would have taken us to Maragha. But a massive storm

in the area that day had prevented our trip there, and all our protests couldn’t convince the guides to

take us. Why had our disappointment been so acute? Maragha had been a place to go in the desert.

A place where the killing fields had been the most exposed to the elements. From time to time, the

human bones get exposed to the surface there. As if, the restless souls were still trying to tell the

world to look and see what humanity could not fathom.

In a way, it had been just as well, as none of us could have endured any more of that day’s anguish

and pain. This had been a day to remember. A day that has been etched in my memory forever. So

many years later, it is still as vivid as on that day.

That country, that had become an asylum, a refuge that had taken in and protected an Armenian

community for a hundred years, has had its own share of disasters recently. The Saint Martyrs

Memorial Armenian Church in Der Zo no longer exists, as it had been destroyed during the Syrian

war.

Our sincere thanks to the people of Syria who had spared no efforts to protect and reached out to

the Armenians refugees who had survived the 1915 genocide and had arrived there alive.

Now, let’s take the time to think about the Armenia we have, its security, and its future.

Sylvia Iskenderian

Sydney Australia