Towards Freedom

One day we heard that the Jilu were gathering every available force and preparing to march on Khoy. They laughed and rejoiced as though going to a wedding, calling excitedly to one another, “We are going to Khoy!”

The inhabitants and Iranian forces prepared the city’s defences. Khoy was surrounded by walls and a deep moat that was filled with water. The bridges over it were removed and the main gate closed. Iranian troops took positions inside while the Christian force advanced, destroying villages in its path.

Russia was then in civil war, and the Ottomans took advantage of its weakness. A force under Ali İhsan Pasha moved through Azerbaijan towards Tiflis, passed through Julfa, and turned towards Khoy.¹ After hearing the situation from the Iranian commander, the pasha ordered the bridges rebuilt and three battalions encamped outside the walls to meet the enemy.

That night the Christian force reached the outskirts and clashed with the encampment. According to what we were told, more than half the Ottoman force was disabled within two hours, and the battle continued through the night. Near dawn the attackers entered the abandoned tents, realised from the boots and equipment that they had fought Ottoman troops, and their mood changed at once.

The Armenians and Jilu called the Turkish soldiers “our butchers.” They declined to press deeper into Khoy and took up defensive positions. Ottoman, Kurdish, and Iranian forces attacked from outside and began to force them back.²

We longed to know what was happening but dared not ask. One day in Golozan we saw everyone gathering at the edge of the village and looking towards a hill near Pataver. My mother and I joined them. Ottoman fire sounded from the hill, and the Jilu answered each shot with three rounds of artillery.

Christian women wept as they loaded their possessions onto carts and horses. Seeing us cry, they asked, “Why are you weeping? Those are the forces that will save you.” My mother replied, “We have grown used to you; what will we do if we fall into Kurdish hands?” One woman answered, “They are not Kurds. It is the Ottoman army — your saviours and our butchers.” In our hearts we rejoiced, but while the Jilu remained we were afraid to show it.

Before long a cloud of dust rose from the hill, and within it we saw Armenians and Jilu retreating. We watched them for a time; when we looked around again, everyone near us had vanished. The retreating force abandoned almost everything except gold and valuables.

We waited for the Ottoman army to enter, but no one came that night. At noon the following day several Kurdish horsemen rode into the village. They said the army was approaching and ordered us meanwhile to gather in one house the sick and elderly Armenians who had been unable to flee.

At last an Ottoman company arrived and camped on the edge of Golozan. Shimon went to introduce himself and our family. At that very moment the company commander was asking for someone who could sew and repair the soldiers’ worn uniforms. Shimon said there was no tailor in the village, but that he could mend clothing.³

The commander gave us a tent and sewing machine and eventually declared us the company’s tailors. Shimon understood that hunger and scarcity would worsen. The work brought us protection and food and enabled us to survive.

The security did not last. An acquaintance arriving from Khosrova saw Shimon working with the Ottomans and denounced him to the battalion commander, saying that during the captivity he had carried a rifle and shown Armenians the hiding places in houses. “He became an Armenian,” the man concluded.

The battalion commander ordered Shimon shot. The company commander, who had befriended him, allowed him to speak. “I did carry a rifle,” Shimon explained. “I was a captive. To save my life, I did what I was told.” The company commander believed him and presented the case to his superior in a way that saved my brother’s life; the order was withdrawn.

The soldiers seized the informer, beat him, and imprisoned him. In the end it was Shimon who asked that the man be released.

We asked the soldiers why they had not entered Golozan immediately after the Christian retreat. They said they had pursued the fugitives beyond the bridge, killed many, and thrown their bodies into the water. Only a small number escaped, they said; this was why they had not reached the village that night.

The Jews of Khosrova had passed a night of terror. According to the account later given to us, Ottoman soldiers brought Jews and Christians out of their houses and lined up the non-Muslims. A Jewish man named Nisan, who spoke good Turkish and had previously returned from captivity in Russia, demanded to speak with Ali İhsan Pasha.⁴

Nisan addressed him: “My pasha, why do we have no right to live? We are Turks. The Russians took us from Turkey as captives to Kuhna Shahr; there the Nestorians killed thousands and placed the rest in camps. Every day we prayed for rescue, and God sent you. You are our saviours — and now you order our destruction?”

His words moved the pasha. He said that his duty was to save people like them and that he had not known Jews lived in the frontier villages⁵. He ordered the Jews separated from the Christians and placed in the vacated houses of Khosrova; Kurds and Ajams could enter afterwards.

Families moved into houses left with their contents and brought in horses, cattle, buffalo, sheep, and goods gathered elsewhere. Life improved while Ottoman forces remained in Iran. In my memory, that period lasted only about six months.