Dilman

The Kurds in our region grew steadily stronger. At their head stood Simko, whom we regarded as the unchallenged ruler from Tehran in the south to Diyarbakir in the west. He appointed judges and installed mayors of his own choosing. Both the Ottoman and Iranian authorities feared his growing power, while tribal leaders joined him one after another. After the Russian forces withdrew from the region, their attitude towards him changed; they sought to placate him with gifts and supplies so that their southern front would remain quiet. The Iranian state was scarcely present. Tehran’s representatives in the region were like kukla¹ in the Kurdish leader’s hands.²

Simko himself lived mainly at Chahriq. He had nineteen wives, one of them Russian. For each he built an estate and provided a male servant, but first had the servant castrated by a veterinarian. On the summit of a nearby mountain ridge was a plateau of about ten dunams. There Simko built the nineteen estates around a pool, together with the building he called his parliament.

Life after our release from the Christian camps was extremely difficult. Many Jewish families decided to leave for Russia despite the war there, and the town gradually emptied. A month or two later, we too considered following them.

At the frontier town of Julfa, near the Kura River, however, the Russian authorities detained a group of Jews from our town and refused them entry. We heard that the long delay exhausted their money and left them destitute. It was also said that Russian gangs raided their camp, abducted young women, and returned them only after assaulting them. These reports extinguished our hope of finding refuge in Russia.

Dilman lay about twenty kilometres from Kuhna Shahr, and it was there that we moved. Along with nine other families, we rented a place in the outlying Haftvan quarter, near the gate of the same name. Our money and gold were gone, and we had to find a livelihood.

My brother knew how to distil arak. He suggested buying raisins and a few other ingredients and trying to survive by selling the drink. We did so, and the income barely sustained us. Many Shi’ites lived in the quarter. When they learned that we were producing a forbidden drink at home, they reported us to the authorities.

One day my brother was summoned before an important Muslim cleric named Ahut. The neighbours who had informed on us sat beside him. “How dare you make and sell arak in a Muslim neighbourhood?” the cleric scolded him. “Do you not know that it is forbidden to us?” He ordered my brother to dismantle the still and threatened him: “If I hear that you have made arak again, I will expel you from the quarter. You will not find a house to rent anywhere in the city.”

My brother returned home despondent and told Mother that this means of earning bread had also been closed to us. We sat together and tried to think of a solution. After nightfall there was a knock at the door facing the street. “Who is it?” my brother asked. A voice outside demanded, “Open the door!” My brother was terrified and did not move. Only when the voice repeated, “Open it; it is I,” did he recognize the cleric he had met that day.

My brother opened the door and tried to appease him. “Sir, as you ordered, I shall remove everything you see here. I will make no more arak.” But the cleric replied, “Shaban, my son, do not be afraid. I knew you would clear it all away tomorrow, so I came early. The people around you are wild donkeys. Our religion forbids drinking, yet those who prohibit it are the ones who drink. I had to speak as I did in their presence; now I have come to taste your arak.”

My brother feared that this was a trap designed to incriminate us. Seeing his hesitation, Ahut removed his head covering and set it aside. “Do not be afraid. Bring the arak,” he said. My brother placed a bottle and a cup on the table. Only after the guest filled the cup to the brim and drank did my brother relax.

Ahut settled into his chair and asked Mother whether there was anything to eat in the oven. “I made a little kofta³ for the children,” she replied, “but you do not eat meat prepared by us. If it were allowed, I would already have served you.”

“Who says it is forbidden?” the guest asked. “There is forbidden meat and there is halal⁴ meat. Yours is the most permissible of all: the animal was slaughtered by a learned man trained in religious law. As for the meat we eat, who knows where it came from? Go and bring me some of it as meze⁵.” He ate heartily and drank again. Once satisfied, he took a clove of garlic from his pocket, put it in his mouth, and said to my brother, “Only trouble can be expected from our uncultivated people. Continue your work as you wish, but from now on do it quietly.”

We continued distilling, and our stock accumulated. Fear of the neighbours prevented us from selling in the quarter, so we had to seek customers far away. My brother heard that a force had assembled at Qara Qeshlaq, about forty kilometres from Dilman, to fight Simko‘s rule.

These mujahidin had come from villages throughout the region and considered themselves a formidable force. They believed they would defeat Simko easily, and he too turned his attention to the new threat. They were commanded by Yusuf Khan, a senior officer in the Iranian army. He was looking for arak to drink, and we set out to supply him.

We loaded four tins of arak onto a donkey and left for Qara Qeshlaq. As we approached, we saw a multitude of fighters dressed in what appeared to be traditional Kurdish clothing. Densely woven cloth hung over their garments like a skirt, and they wore vests of thick dressed leather which, it was said, a rifle bullet could not penetrate. Long cloth and six pieces of silk were wound around their heads. Their hair protruded wildly, their eyes bulged, and their appearance was intimidating. I was surprised to see so many Kurds, but my brother explained that they were in fact Azeris — ‘Ajams — dressed this way so that their origins would not be recognized.

We entered the village and asked to see the commander. The soldiers examined us from head to toe before sending him a message. When the messenger asked our purpose, my brother explained that we had brought a load of arak for Yusuf Khan. The commander was delighted and ordered my brother and the tins brought in at once. He paid more than the value of the consignment in cash and asked us to make regular deliveries. “Do not worry about payment,” he said. “Only make sure that there is always arak here.” On our next visit he kept his word and paid even more.

On one visit my brother went inside with the goods, and the commander instructed his men to feed me while I waited outside. I looked around and saw so many weapons that the men were kark⁶. They carried flintlock rifles and barbellu pistols at their waists, and they set up targets for shooting practice.

A tall man opposite me said to his companion, “Do you see the telephone wire? I shall turn my back and hit it.” His companion answered, “If you stand straight, perhaps you have a chance,” and they made a wager. The tall man reversed his flintlock so that its barrel pointed behind him, turned around, and fired backwards. The bullet struck the target exactly. My hair stood on end and I shuddered. These men seemed so powerful that I thought Simko‘s day had surely come.

We made the journey to the village and back five times. Then we heard that Simko had arrived with his army, attacked Qara Qeshlaq, and routed the assembled force within two hours. Two days later there was no trace of the fighters; they had scattered and vanished. Judging from their appearance and the importance they attached to themselves, no one would have believed they could be defeated so quickly. I too had misjudged them.

Yusuf Khan was an ‘Ajam from the Caucasus and apparently did not know the men under his command. Simko‘s forces surrounded his house and trapped him. When all hope was gone, he put a rifle to his head and pulled the trigger.

Once again our hopes disappeared and our livelihood ended. We took a corner in a city alley and began repairing shoes, using the trade we had learned from our deaf brother. The income was meagre and insufficient. The Kurds grew stronger and consolidated their control of the region. Some time later Dilman filled with mounted Kurds. Shopkeepers closed their businesses and locked themselves in their homes. The Kurds broke open the shops and looted them. By then we had nothing, and therefore nothing to lose.

Again and again we asked ourselves: what would happen to us? Where would life among the Kurds, whom we had come to know in this bitter way, finally lead?

According to the story that reached us, the Iranian government sent Simko a gift chest filled with diamonds and gold, concealing explosives inside it. Simko received the chest in his parliament building, admired it, and placed it on a windowsill intending to open it after prayers. The meeting ran long, and his brother Ali Khan grew impatient. He opened the chest and the charge exploded. Ali Khan and five tribal leaders were killed, and many others were wounded. We believed this incident was among the events that drove Simko into the military campaigns, one of which passed through Qara Qeshlaq.

In response, Simko gave Ahmad Shah⁷, then ruler of Iran, an ultimatum: “Within one week, the maker of this bomb must be surrendered to us.” The Iranian government hastened to comply.

A few days after the explosion, a town crier⁸ passed through the streets of Dilman and proclaimed in Simko‘s name: “Those who sent the bomb will be hanged. Whoever wishes to see the sentence carried out should come to the town centre on Wednesday.” I was a curious child and pushed through the crowd until I reached the front row, then looked around for a gallows. A passer-by who heard why I had come laughed and asked, “Who told you they would die by hanging?”

As I have described, Simko‘s residence stood on a broad plateau atop a mountain ridge. A pool lay at its centre, surrounded by the estates and the parliament building. Springs and water were plentiful, and ducks and swans swam in the pools. It was there that I saw a peacock for the first time in my life.

At the edge of the plateau was a sheer drop, as high as ten mosque minarets and seemingly hewn out of the rock itself. Only one road led there. The crowd assembled at the brink, where Simko and Ahmad Ara were waiting. Simko ordered one of the surrendered prisoners brought forward. The man’s hands were tied behind his back and his eyes were covered. They placed him at the edge and struck him hard from behind, sending him over. Simko‘s men fired at him as he fell to make certain he was dead.

The last prisoner’s eyes were also covered and his hands bound. When he was placed at the brink and understood that his end had come, he called loudly enough for everyone to hear: “You whose name is Simko — know that a man does not blindfold his enemy or bind his hands.” He did not wait for the blow. He stepped forward and threw himself into the abyss. Simko‘s men hurried to fire at him too.

His cries as he fell still echo in my ears. Even many years later, the image has never left my sight.

I returned home and we resumed our daily work repairing shoes. One day a Kurdish customer came to us and told my brother, “I bought old shoes from you and paid for them. I put them on in your shop and left, but I left my former shoes here. I have come to collect them.” My brother answered, “I remember. You bought shoes for one toman. The pair you left was so worn that there was no reason to keep it, so I threw it away.”

“I paid five tomans!” the man shouted. “Give me my shoes or return the money I paid.” My brother stood his ground: “You bought shoes from me for one toman. How can you demand five tomans for your worn-out pair?” The dispute grew louder until the neighbours gathered around them. At last they proposed that a cleric arbitrate, and both men agreed.

The cleric heard both sides and ruled, “Give him three tomans.” My brother protested: “He bought wearable shoes from me for one toman. How can his ruined pair be worth three?” The judge replied, “My son, I too know what the shoes are worth. Nevertheless, you will accept my ruling as it stands.” At that moment my brother decided that he would not remain in that country.

I wondered what kind of life this was — a life of suffering, wandering, and moving from one country to another. If we went to Turkey, what would we do there? Were we destined for the same life there too? I grew angry with our ancestors and asked why they had not settled elsewhere, and why they had chosen a frontier town.

In later years I investigated the question and concluded that Jewish life among other peoples had always been difficult, everywhere and in every age. Our ancestors had lived in Hamadan among Iranians and Armenians. There too, according to the tradition handed down to us, they suffered at Armenian hands. Before the coming of Islam, followers of the Zoroastrian religion also lived in Hamadan⁹, but they did not help the Jews in their struggles. Eventually the Armenians were defeated and withdrew, taking Jewish captives with them and settling in Nawai Sharqiya. The Jews among them were few and became absorbed into their surroundings, but some secretly preserved their Judaism. According to our family tradition, these were our ancestors.

When they came from Hamadan, our ancestors settled in four places: Urmia, Kuhna Shahr, Başkale¹⁰, and Gever¹¹. They did not come by choice but were brought by force as captives. They too suffered as we did, and the language they spoke — Aramaic — remains our spoken language to this day.

The road to Russia was closed. We did not know what was happening in Turkey after the Russian withdrawal, how we might live there, or how we would earn a living. One day my [[person:shimon-demirel|brother Shimon]] came home and announced, “We shall escape the cruelty of the Kurds. I have found a Turkish friend who will take us to Turkey, where we can live as citizens of the state.”

“Where will he take us?” I asked. My brother replied, “He praised the place highly. The land has been freed from occupation, the people are slowly returning and gathering again, and it is easier to make a living. His name is Kapuzade Mehmet Efendi, and he has promised to help us as much as he can.”

We left Mother and my brother’s son in Dilman. I, Shaban, and his wife hired a horse and set out for Van, a journey of three days. We travelled from morning until night with scarcely a halt. We had no bread and found no food along the road; our stomachs remained empty throughout the journey. We passed many villages, but all were ruined and deserted. After a day’s travel we found a small village inhabited by three families. We stopped on a patch of grass nearby and lit a fire.

We ate a few dried raisins. We boiled water, burned three raisins, and crumbled them into it so that the water would take on colour and resemble tea. My brother went to the village to try to buy bread. The inhabitants had only barley bread. He paid one mejidiye coin¹² for a loaf, yet they said they could sell only four. When he explained that we were five people, they agreed to give him one more.

When he returned, we all reached for the bread. “Let us see it,” we begged. “Do not eat it all,” my brother warned. “We still have a long way to go.” It had been a long time since we had seen bread. We ate slowly. Each loaf was the size of a bagel, thin and hard as cardboard, with a hole in the middle; it tasted like straw. We drank our raisin water with it.

Mehmet Efendi had two horses: he rode one and loaded the other with leather soles for shoes. We too had a horse carrying a few household utensils, a blanket, and other belongings; my brother’s wife rode on it. My brother, the owner of our hired horse, and I walked. At the end of three long days, we reached Van.