SOFIA KONTOGEORGE KOSTOS: WITNESS©

Like a ghost, his silhouette hovers
tall through the street shadows of Smyrna––
until all that will be left
will be traces of its skeletal remains.
The beloved Doktor’s vision is blurred by tears
and the smothering smoke.
He’s overcome by the stench of burning flesh,
the moans of the dying, the piercing screams,
and the destruction surrounding him!
Aghast he gazes down at his empty hands
that until these days healed the sick
and held the newly born.
Now, his fingers tremble.











Picture of Smyrna, 1922, source unknown.







Not to be obvious,
he exits his home wearing his fez
and summons his courage
needing to understand the
encircling devastation:
Elisa his wife; their children,
Hatcher, Sirarpi, Krikor,
Hovhannes, Vartouhi––
their youngest is one;
Araxi their housekeeper,
and their neighbors.

Night after night,
from the end of August through September,
he ventures into the side streets,
secretively scrawling
into his journal:

Wednesday, the 13th
I see a Turk, he thinks I am one of them,
he says to me, “We did what was due; you turn back.”

The Turk, who assumed an active role
he advises me not to advance,
but to turn back. I answer, “Very well”
with the attitude of someone who understands
the situation. I stop for a moment to distance
myself from the Turk–– to avoid conversation.

At last, the Doktor finds escape from this hell.
Except for his smoke scarred journal,
nothing remains of his worldly goods.
As he embarks on the rescue ship
to unknown safe Greek shores,
he holds his wife, his five children,
and their housekeeper
with all his might, and hides his journal,
the lone witness to all he has seen
deep within his double vest.

Fifty miles far from the billowing black clouds over Smyrna––
in his home town of Akhisar,
Christians ––- ten from his and his wife’s family,
all were massacred!
Men, women, children;
butchered, hanged, machine gunned,
––the young pretty ones violated,
then dragged away to harems, and the young males
forced into slave labor battalions— were never seen again!
Their fatal mistake was to believe the empty promises of peace,
made by those who swore on the Koran.

––SOFIA KONTOGEORGE KOSTOS

WITNESS was inspired by Dr. Garabed Hatcherian’s journal. An Armenian Doctor - Garabed Hatcherian: My Smyrna Ordeal of 1922 Edited by his granddaughter, Dora Sakayan, Ph.D. Montreal: Arod Books, 1997. Translated into 9 languages––including Turkish. The Turkish publication was banned in Turkey; its publisher and translator have been repeatedly summoned to court and relentlessly fined.
Garabed Hatcherian, M.D. (1876-1952) held the position of general surgeon and gynecologist at The Armenian Saint Gregory’s National Hospital in Smyrna. (SKK)

Sofia Kontogeorge Kostos: WHEN WAS IT?

He [German Admiral Usedom] said that the Armenians were in the way, that they were an obstacle to German success, and that it had therefore been necessary to remove them, just like so much useless lumber. He spoke about them as detachedly as one would speak about removing a row of houses in order to bombard a city.
—Ambassador Morgenthau’s Story by Henry Morgenthau

            
               

When was it? 
                      that Germans and Turks,
Central Powers, too—
pulled from their uniforms,
ORDERS FROM CENTRAL HEADQUARTERS: 
 
    “Start from the East; sweep to the Black Sea; 
     continue through to Cappadosía; later—
     swing towards the Ionian West.
     There’s a shortage of bullets, 
     take as long as it takes—be thorough!  
 
 Phase I:
   “Release your lusts. 
     Rip! Rape! Plunder!
     Chop all useless lumber. (1)
     Without mercy: Stab, 
     kick, drown, burn!
     Strip trunks, roots,
     branches. Tear! Uproot! Bury!
     Clear the land—no twigs, 
     nor splinters leave.  
  
  “Sticks and stones 
    will break their bones, 
    and names will mark them.
    Call them useless lumber(1) —
    until all Armenians, Greeks, 
    Assyrians, are diminished. 
   
Phase II: 
  “Prevent Ambassador Morgenthau from  
    publishing particulars of our crimes! 
    Render him and his protests useless. 
    Confiscate all witness books,
    remain unrepentant—
   ‘Was Their Fault’ must be our motto. 
    Carry on, until the job is done!”
  For the lure of coveted minerals, 
and the Baghdad Railway Lines—
church bells toll no longer. And,
names like: 
Moskarópoulos – Papazián – Pincáro, 
cannot be not be heard either. 

When hell fell over Asia Minor,(2)
pain knew no bounds
—in the land of their mothers, 
and their mothers’ mothers 
                                              before them.

So it was for in 1914 
                               through to 1923.          
                 
                  —SOFIA KONTOGEORGE KOSTOS 

German: (1)nutzloses bauholtz  (1)English: useless lumber
Turkish: (1)faydasiz kereste   (1)English: useless lumber

(2)Asia Minor (Turkey now)

SOFIA KONTOGEORGE KOSTOS: ON THE OTHER SIDE

So imminent and ever-present was the peril, and so fresh the memory of these dire events in the minds of the non-Mussulman subjects of the sultan, that illiterate Christian mothers had fallen into the habit of dating events as so many years before or after “such and such a massacre.” —George Horton, The Blight of Asia


I stand outside a solid wall
of ancestral olive wood.
It contains gnarly wooden fruits
from the memory of what— once was
an olive branch.
Clutching my camera,
I press my eye
against a gape in the wall to see—
through to the other side.

I spy a woman—she doesn’t see me—
perhaps she’s forty.
Her face swollen red, soaked by tears—
she’s mouthing words in a whisper.
I hear the scratch of her pen
as it moves across
the back of her family icon:

Easter Sunday, 1895

Recalling the day, her body heaves!
On a sheet of plain paper
she draws a line
from up to down.
In the middle
she draws a new line from left to right—
the lines form a cross.
Beneath the cross she writes:

Eternal Their Memory

Her hand quivers—
slowly she pens her husband’s name:
Garabed
then her sons’ names:
Dickran
Armenak
Hagop
Mihran
Atom

She hands her list to the village priest
furtively waiting at her door. He tells her
he will bless their names
with the names of the other dead.

Her body falls to the floor.
She’s crying, but I hear no sound.
She curls up like a wounded bird
before it dies. Her silence
sears my soul—
as I stand – safe – on the other side.

SOFIA KONTOGEORGE KOSTOS: Price of Petroleum

P
R
I
C
E
O
F
P
E
T
R
O
L
E
U
M
Inside the bellies
of petroleum tankers
live engine room monsters
they roar
for men
$
young men
$
able men
$
boil their blood
sizzle their veins
grill their brains
fry their feet stoke their ears
broil their legs
bake their teeth
stew their tongues
sear their souls
devour them whole
all day— all night long
young men, able men, giving their all
for the engine room monsters as they roar “MORE!”


Copyright SOFIA KONTOGEORGE KOSTOS, 2005.

To secure oil interests, the price of petroleum continues to be paid through lives destroyed by war in Iraq and Genocides in Darfur. The first victims were the Armenians, the Assyrians, and the Greeks—the millions of the original Christian inhabitants of Asia Minor (now Turkey).

Forgotten Genocides of the 20th Century: A Compilation of Poetry – Editor Ara Sarafian

Sofia Kontogeorge Kostos: The Orphans of Harpoot

(Huddled in the snow.) Photo: Armin T. Wegner

Epistle: To an Armenian Girl from Harpoot

“Ruth [with 500 Armenian orphans] arrived from Harpoot last week after two years' effort to escape from the Turkish interior, and expected to sail for America next month to join relatives.” — Special Cable to The Globe and Chicago Tribune, Beyrouth, Sept. 13, 1922


Dear dearest Ruth Manogian,

I pulled out an old newspaper clipping
from inside an envelope;
it crumbled to my touch.
As parched particles of paper fell
to the floor, I eyed the vintage headlines:


Heroine Aged 14
Saves 3 Lives
Armenian Orphan Girl Rescues Boys
September 13, 1922


As flakes of words kept dropping,
I pieced the bits together.
I gasped, Great effort killed her.
Ruth collapsed on the rock.
With trembling fingers, I held the fragile news;

I learned you were the oldest orphan,
one of 500 Armenian orphans
from Harpoot. With Amazonian might
you swam into the whirlpool
to rescue three young boys. You carried

them to safety onto a rock. You, my
angel girl collapsed on the same rock.
When the lifeboat reached you,
the doctor pronounced you,
dead from exhaustion.

By an unseen fate,
the same day, far away
-as you gasped your last breath
ancient Smyrna set ablaze by kerosene,
was choking her final hours.

Did your heart give out from
inconsolable longings for
your Mayrig and your Hayrig?
Were you longing to see them,
to hear them- your heart grieving

with a gnawing knowing
that you never would see them again?
Flooded with questions. So much for me
to understand- I searched the World Atlas
to find the unfamiliar cities-




Like cross-winds,
blowing from the Middle east,
new words whirled around me:
Beyrouth, Aintyleas, Harpoot and Smyrna.
Searching the Internet

for Orphans of Harpoot,
I learned of Turkish wolves rampaging
through the streets, ranting
"Kill all the orphans!"
I read of American missionaries

who helped 500 orphans escape
from the Turkish interior.
While the orphans waited to go
to America, two years went by.
Aintyleas' safe harbor:

the ship was expected,
to deliver them to the open arms of relatives.
But, you, my dear Ruthie,
were not destined to leave. I can find
no peace. What happened to your parents?

Who assuaged your fears
in the unknown of the night?
Did they toss your little body
into the Mediterranean Sea?
My beloved Armenian orphaned child,




Since reading your story
I have grown close to you
as if you were my own.
Although you were born years before me,
you remain fourteen forever—
as I grow older.


Lovingly,

Sofia Kontogeorge Kostos

—SOFIA KONTOGEORGE KOSTOS

Mayrig and Hayrig (Armenian for Mother and Father)

Armenian southwestern plateau: Tsopk or Sophene later known as Kharpert or
Harput with close ties with Mesopotamia and Syria.

Sofia Kontogeorge Kostos: REMEMBERING (Haiku in Four Languages)

“Remembering”
Forget! Forget! Forget!
I close my eyes,
but cannot.

Mnhmosύnh ς
Ξέχασε! Ξέχασε! Ξέχασε!
Κλείνω τα μάτια μου,
mά δέν μπορώ.

—Σοφία Κοντογεώργου Κόστος

—Sofia Kontogeorge Kostos, English original and Greek translation.

Յիշում

Մոռցի՛ր Մոռցի՛ր Մոռցի՛ր
Ես կը փակեմ աչքերս,
Սակայն չեմ կարող:

Գրեց՝ Սոֆիա Քոնթոճեորճ Քոսթոս
Թարգմանեց՝ Տ. Հայր Տիրան Ա. Քհնյ. Փափազեան

— Armenian translation by Rev. Fr. Diran Papazian, Archpriest


— Sofia Kontogeorge Kostos

— Syriac translation by Fred Aprim, Author and Assyrian Historian.