A snippet of Movses Shakarian’s origin story was written by a friend of Movses’ father and appeared in the Armenian language Hairenik Monthly in May 1966. The title was “Last Day in Mezire.” Following is a translation of the original, with additional information provided by Movses’ daughter, exclusively for the Armenian Weekly.
There were grim days, grim nights, and out of endurance, a miracle happened.
Sarah and her husband Shahbaz were blessed with a beautiful daughter, and life was blissfully abundant in their town of rich agriculture, educational institutions, textile factories and cattle raising, just to name a few, where their ancestors would flourish for thousands of years.
The government, on the other hand, had other plans for the local people. War broke out, and chaos and displacement took over the peaceful existence of its residents. Families were separated from each other. Men and young boys were rounded up and sent ahead with the promise that they would return — not to be seen again. Women and children were snatched from their homes and sent on forced marches towards the desert, with no food or water, where they perished in unknown mass graves.
This was at the turn of the 20th century, when technology was not what we now have in current times. No one was a witness to these atrocities, but those numbered lucky survivors would recount the horrors of their nightmarish experiences in later years.
Sarah went to impossible lengths to keep her family of three protected from the ensuing evil. She missed her trips to the Misakin Chureh, the water spring, where she would meet her friends. Most of the stores were closed, so she had to rely on her own crop for garden vegetables and fruits. Shahbaz would arrive home before nightfall to recount tales of unimaginable events of slaughter, rape and hangings in and around town. There was daily news of relatives missing, friends disappearing, and eerie nights when not a leaf would move in the deserted roads, leaving the family in utter disbelief and horror. Hooligans and gendarmes roaming the streets had the town in total lawlessness. There was no one they could turn to for protection. With such fear and shock, they were hopeless and desolate.
Her heart full of prayer and faith, she kept her spirit engaged with her belief in a miracle. “Oor es Asdvadz” she would whisper over and over. She believed in miracles. Shabaz would leave in the morning, sometimes not to be seen for days, but the knock on the door would announce his return, standing tall and strong as she remembered him from the first day they met. He loved her blue eyes and happy face, and throughout their years together, love never ceased between them. He was helping volunteers; people needed him, able and strong, and that was the least he could do. Her patient smile would reassure him she would be waiting for him to come home.
The town crier’s government orders to gather and march was incessant. Sarah kept herself busy with her chores and locked herself in her house most of the days, not to be seen in fear of being picked up, not knowing what would befall her and her family. “Oor es Asdvadz” she would mutter. Home was safe, at least for the time being. Word would travel fast. Her sister and her sister’s family were all displaced. No one knew where they were. She felt helpless not knowing what to do.
It was a fateful day. On that particular evening, upon returning home, Shahbaz showed up at the door with an infant in his arms, as he stretched toward her, saying, “Sarah, you always wanted a son. Here, for you, now you have a son.” She thought she was dreaming. Who was this baby? Whose baby did her husband bring home? What kind of surprise joke was her husband playing on her? She didn’t know what to say.
On that day, the gendarmes on horseback were ordering groups of soldiers in front of them to do their rounds around town and clean the streets, paths and open fields of fallen people, their mutilated bodies scattered, left to rot. Shahbaz was with his group of men being ordered to clean and rid the streets of the dead. It was unimaginable to witness his people going through what they had gone through, dying worthless deaths.
He heard a baby’s cry. He poked the bush nearby and saw a baby lying next to a bayoneted dead woman’s body. He went to pick up the baby. It was a boy, just out of the womb. He was ordered to kill the baby and move on. For a moment, as he was accustomed to following orders, he hesitated. He could not. How could he kill a baby? He begged the gendarme, “God gave him life. I will take him home.”
They named him Movses. Like the little infant in Egypt, Moses was found in a basket in the waters of the Nile; Movses was found and rescued in the paths of slaughter, rape, killings and evil. Where books were read, fields were toiled, hymns were sung, where now Satan ruled and savages roamed; where swords were sharpened on the flesh of innocents. Sarah couldn’t be happier. Her faith did not fail her, as this was proof from her God that miracles happen, and her miracle had arrived at her door. Out of the misery, a boy was born in Mezire, Kharpert. A boy lucky to have lived. A boy who sang the sweetest tunes, unaware of the misery around him. She loved him like her own flesh. Never once did she tell him about his beginnings. Life was enough. When she passed away at the age of 103, he was heartbroken for the mother who gave him her all.
From Mezire to Kesirig and Kharpert, the Armenians were gone from their ancestral land, emptied of its inhabitants, as the government was swift in renaming the province with its present day Elazig, Turkey, where whispers remained, where ghosts roamed and where time stood still in its sorrow of emptiness.
Movses was long gone from the cursed lands, yet he never forgot where he came from. He would always wonder who his parents were. Who were his family members; did he have brothers, sisters, cousins? Family name? Did any of them survive? Where are the survivors now? If he could only find them. This would haunt him the rest of his life.
He was a gorgeous, generous, studious, hard-working, hard-playing, fun loving, backgammon playing (and he won tournaments), car loving (and a fast driver he was), warm and loving man. He built his empire of a loving family. He married my mom and had four children, seven grandchildren. He lived a prosperous life filled with great memories, surrounded with family and friends until the ripe age of 89.
Movses was my dad.
Seta Mergeanian
Latest posts by Seta Mergeanian (see all)
- No paperwork needed for his adoption - August 6, 2024
Beautiful story!
Thank you!
What an awesome and heartfelt story! I was captivated reading about your father, Seta. Our friendship goes years back and I did not know all this. Now we wait for your story!
Coming from an author friend, that’s huge!!
Well written, Seta. My goodness, I now have pictures in my head of the suffering and the love and honor of your family. I cannot wait to talk to you and hear more. I am so glad to know you and hear the history of the Armenian people and your family.
This means a lot to me, thank you, as I share your sentiment dear friend. We definitely will dig into the story of the Armenian people when we meet next.