My Father, David

While we were in Golozan, my father was told that his sister Leah remained in Khosrova.¹ She had four sons and a daughter.² One son and the daughter had recently been killed, as had the daughter’s husband. A man called Baba added that Leah’s son Yosef had been seized and taken to the town. My father struck his head and wept: “My poor sister lost a child only last week, and now they have taken Yosef too?”

Khosrova was an hour’s walk from Golozan, and my father resolved to see his sister. Shimon was ill at the time. My other brother, who could neither hear nor speak, was a skilled craftsman and had been set to work for an Armenian shoemaker in Khosrova. Several hours later my mother sent me after Father, asking me also to visit my brother and obtain a few raisins for a hot drink for Shimon.

The village shops were empty of food. My brother searched everywhere for raisins and finally appealed to his employer. When we explained about our sick brother, the man brought a tiny packet from home containing only a few grams. In days when starving refugees gathered grass from the fields, it was a gift beyond price.

I found Father and told him that I must return to Golozan. To our relief, the Yosef who had been taken was not Leah’s son. My sister Emto urged Father to remain in Khosrova for the night, but he said the weight had been lifted from his heart and he must return with me to the ailing Shimon.

On the road we saw a group of Armenians. Father grew uneasy and turned back. We then met a woman from Golozan who knew him well. In Aramaic she asked, “David, where are you going?”³ When she heard why we had turned around, she declared: “I am Hanna of Golozan. I have a rifle and three belts of ammunition. I will give my life before I let anyone harm you.” We set out with her and passed the group after exchanging greetings.

Halfway home a man holding two horses saw Father and called, “David the merchant! We have been looking for you.” Behind him another man was assaulting an Azerbaijani woman. When she tried to stop him, he struck her with his rifle butt and knocked her down. The two men seized Father and dragged him between the horses as I clung to him.

“Si!” — “Go!” — Father told me in Aramaic.⁴ “Do not cling to me. I am going to my death.” When I insisted on following, he pleaded: “They will kill you too. Find your brother; he knows many people and may be able to save me.” I ran to Golozan without stopping and told my mother and brother that Father had been seized.

Asked what the captors looked like, I said that one was a kusa — a man whose beard did not grow.⁵ The family knew him and the terrifying stories of his cruelty. Shimon was too ill to leave. He sent me for a Nestorian named Gura, who agreed to search but demanded a companion and payment.

After bargaining, the two were promised four gold coins. They also demanded Shimon‘s cap, then payment in advance, and finally that I come to show them the way. We set out for Kuhna Shahr, but they decided first to call at Khosrova.

We entered a large house where my escorts met armed acquaintances. They told me to wait and joined their friends in a card game. I broke down in tears. I did not know that the house belonged to Surma Khanum, sister of Mar Shimun, or that the armed men were her guards. She heard me crying and sent her maid to investigate.

The maid took me to an upstairs veranda. When Surma Khanum appeared, I poured out everything that had happened. She turned angrily to the guards and said in Aramaic: “What do you want from the poor captives? Why will you not leave them in peace?”

Her order was plain: “Find the man the child described. If you find him and do not shoot him on the spot, may my head covering be upon your heads!⁶ Go and find this kusa, so the poor child can save his father.”

Then she spoke gently to me. “Do not cry, my child. They are going to bring your father.” She had water brought, washed and dried my face with her own hands, and ordered food and clothing for me. After I ate bread spread with honey, she suggested that I accompany her men so that I could identify Father. Only after we left was I told who had cared for me.

I set out for Kuhna Shahr with four Jilu men. Heavy rain began as we reached the orchards, and we sheltered until it passed. Darkness was falling when we reached the edge of town. My escorts refused to enter, saying that at night Kurds and Ajams emerged from hiding and made the streets too dangerous.

I begged them to continue and said I would go alone to our house, in case Father lay there wounded. At last one gave me a rifle and a few rounds. I was so small that the weapon dragged along the ground behind me. When they saw that I truly meant to go, they called me back and took it away. “We would not enter this town for all the world,” they said. “Go alone if you wish.” Fear overcame me and I wept.

They tried to persuade me that Father must already be home and that his captors had wanted only his possessions. At the crossroads they turned towards Khosrova, leaving me to run alone to Golozan. I was nine years old. Hope that Father was waiting at home drove me onwards, but I arrived to find everyone seated like mourners. The night passed in anxiety and broken sleep.

At dawn my brother who could neither hear nor speak woke us. Shimon summoned a Christian acquaintance, gave him five gold coins, and promised more if he found Father. My brother and I accompanied him to Kuhna Shahr. In our street my brother signalled that I should call “Father!” in case he heard my voice. I cried out all the way to our house, but there was no answer.

In the garden the family had hidden a clay jar filled with money. We found signs of digging, but the jar was gone. Father’s cigarettes and pipe lay beside the hole. We understood that his captors had forced him to reveal the hiding place.

We searched every house, in case he had been beaten and left inside, while I called until my voice failed. At last we saw a figure lying at the far end of the street. We ran to him and found Father shot through the mouth and dead.

Our world collapsed. My brother clung to the body, weeping and striking his head against the ground again and again. An Armenian passing nearby could not bear the sight and restrained him.

We wanted to carry Father to Golozan. The man lent us his horse but refused to help lift the body: “I will not lift a dead man, least of all a Jew.” My brother took the legs and I the torso, and with great effort we raised Father onto the horse.

After a terrible journey we reached Golozan. We buried our father, David, in a ruined place within the garden of the house where we lived.