[Congressional Record (Bound Edition), Volume 156 (2010), Part 12]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Page 17405]
[From the U.S. Government Publishing Office, www.gpo.gov]




               BEDROS VARTAN YESSAIAN: A SURVIVOR'S STORY

                                 ______
                                 

                          HON. ADAM B. SCHIFF

                             of california

                    in the house of representatives

                     Wednesday, September 29, 2010

  Mr. SCHIFF. Madam Speaker, I rise today to memorialize and record a 
courageous story of survival of the Armenian Genocide. The Armenian 
Genocide, perpetrated by the Ottoman Empire from 1915 to 1923, resulted 
in the death of 1.5 million Armenian men, women, and children. As the 
U.S. Ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, Henry Morgenthau, documented at 
the time, it was a campaign of ``race extermination.''
   The campaign to annihilate the Armenian people failed, as 
illustrated by the proud Armenian nation and prosperous diaspora. It is 
difficult if not impossible to find an Armenian family not touched by 
the genocide, and while there are some survivors still with us, it is 
imperative that we record their stories. Through the Armenian Genocide 
Congressional Record Project, I hope to document the harrowing stories 
of the survivors in an effort to preserve their accounts and to help 
educate the Members of Congress now and in the future of the necessity 
of recognizing the Armenian Genocide.
  This is one of those stories: (translated by the son and daughter of 
Bedros Vartan Yessaian--Hovhannes Yessaian and Dench Bedros Yessaian, 
respectively--a survivor of the Armenian Genocide.)

       This is the true story in every detail that has been told 
     to me and my sister by my father.----Hovhannes Yessaian.

               Bedros Vartan Yessaian: A Survivor's Story

       My name is Bedros Vartan Yessaian. I was born in 1904 in a 
     village called (Kinjilar), which is not far from Izmit and 
     Istanbul, and had about 2,500 inhabitants, most of which were 
     Armenians. My father is Vartan and my mother is Denchali. We 
     were four brothers, Antranig (born 1989), Ohannes (born 1901) 
     Bedros (born 1904) and Jirair (born 1907). My mother had two 
     brothers, Minas and Hagop.
       It was in the summer of 1915 that the Ottoman government 
     gave orders that all Armenian males aged 18-45 go to the 
     military service, while the rest of the family was to be 
     deported. My father went to the military but actually was 
     working as a day laborer cutting stones to pave roads.
       So I accompanied my mother and two brothers, Antranig and 
     Jirair, in deportation. My other brother, Ohannes, and two 
     uncles were at that time in Istanbul and escaped deportation. 
     In few days time we gathered what we could carry and took the 
     train to a city called Konya. From there we walked all the 
     way to Derzor, sometimes hiring horse or oxen driven carts, 
     if we could fine one.
       Later we learned a pregnant woman of our village had 
     childbirth at the departure time and was obliged to throw her 
     newborn child into the nearby Sakaria River. She was the 
     young wife of Janig Belalian.
       On our way we came across Armenian soldiers working as 
     stone cutters and paving the road for the Berlin Baghdad 
     railway project. My father was one of them, and was able to 
     escape his group and joined us in the death march.
       Somehow we managed our way until Aleppo in Syria. On the 
     way many died of starvation, thirst and hunger besides the 
     cruel treatment of the police and gendarmes. After that the 
     march was horrible in the desert, especially for who live in 
     colder climate.
       Although the Euphrates River was nearby, we were forced to 
     march far from it, as some would die of thirst and 
     exhaustion. Sometimes we march in endless circles ending in 
     the afternoon at same place we started in the morning.
       We marched on foot from Aleppo to Meskena, Rakka Derzor and 
     Shaddadiya. My younger brother, Jirair, died of starvation 
     and hunger. We continued our march without knowing our final 
     destination. On a rainy day and still under the tents, my 
     father asked my brother, Antranig, to buy a cup of tea from 
     the street vendor. My brother said he has no money. Father 
     pulled the bed sheet over his head and few hours later we 
     found him dead.
       Few weeks later my mother died. Neighbors came consoling me 
     and wishing them a peaceful death. In the morning the 
     collector came and took her body. All who had died were 
     stripped of their clothes and their bare bodies were thrown 
     into a large ditch.
       The more we marched the more the police and gendarmes grew 
     cruel. They beat, tortured, raped and killed innocent and 
     unarmed people. In a neighboring caravan two young beautiful 
     girls threw themselves into the Euphrates River preferring 
     death to rape. Raping became more regular and even pregnant 
     women were not spared. the gendarmes gambled on the gender of 
     the unborn child by cutting the woman's abdomen by sword 
     letting the woman die in her blood.
       The Arab Nomads who live in the Syrian Desert used to come 
     to our tents asking us to live with them instead of sure 
     death. Thousands of Armenians were thus saved. I saw no hope 
     and informed my brother that I was going to live with the 
     Arabs. My brother stayed with the caravan and later I learned 
     that he reached Mosul city in Iraq.
       With Arab nomads I stayed for two years and my Arab 
     (parents) treated me as if their own biological son. The Arab 
     Sheikhs (head of a tribe) even refused the invitation of the 
     Turkish authorities to participate in killing the Armenians 
     and keep any looted property.
       They treated all the saved children and women with respect 
     and dignity. While with the Arabs, I saw Turks forcing the 
     Armenians to collect dry bushes and thorns and later pushed 
     them into a cave. then they burned the bushes and all inside 
     the cave died of burns or choked to death.
       Later I left my Arab parents and fled to Istanbul where my 
     two uncles and brother Ohannes lived. After the armistice I 
     returned to my village with my brother Ohannes and Uncle 
     Hagop.
       However in 1922, Kemal Ataturk forces invaded the western 
     part of Turkey burning villages and killing the Christians. 
     My uncle Hagop and brother Ohannes were killed and the entire 
     village of Kinjilar was burnt to ashes. I fled the massacre 
     to Istanbul and from there to Greece with my uncle Minas who 
     later emigrated to Armenia.
       After leaning that my brother was in Baghdad I traveled to 
     Baghdad and formed a family. My wife Serpoohi was also a 
     genocide survivor, originally from Bilejik, a nearby village 
     to Kinjilar.
       ----Bedros Vartan Yessaian

                          ____________________