It was a night in the desolate, cold and lonely mountains of the east, where the brutal storms flying.
Dawn was approaching.
They were walking for a long time. The Tall Apraham, who was walking forth of the community, corrected his moustache, and firmly wrapped his sable fur on his body. He shouldn’t have shown that he was cold because his children were leaning on their fathers to withstand the cold.
The crowded tribe was miserable. Their eyes were as lonely and dark as the night, and people were surrounded by this eyes.
A pair of oxen, two horses, a donkey, three sacks of dry wood and a rifle tied to their backs… They were sent out of their homeland without taking anything except a bundle of food.
In the belly of at least one knee, the scream of a dwarf child echoed.
“Apraham!” one more scream, “The child is dying, unscrupulous man!”
“Then bury him,” answered Apraham.
If they stopped, they’d all be dead. In this survival battle, they were so anxious and angry that they would be hostile to each other and draw weapons.
Alisan, who had a trembling body and the cheeks like a pomegranate because of the cold, sprang up, split the crowd, took aim to Apraham.
A bullet pierced the air.
If the Mama Hayganush was late, one of them would be the killer before the cold winds.
In a crowd that was restless, started to shout at each other, re-silenced again, whispered in the crowds that moved again, the words mixed together, the tongues jumped like an arrow to take the life of each other.
They’ve been walking for days, with no resting. The crowd wanted to stop, they wanted to sleep, they wanted to warm up and eat something.
Apraham was aware of the danger. Time was against them. They had to find themselves a new home. The war was running to Anatolia, accelerating its steps. Their escape was the condition of the liberation of Anatolia.
He lowered the sack on his back. He poured a few drops of water from the soil test into his eyes and lips. He lowered his eyes to his wet boots. He took a few deep breaths. Then he hugged his axe.
A round of applause has risen from the crowd.
It was a sign that they persuaded the leader, Apraham.
In spite of all the suffering and the cold weather under the chest of high mountains, the Armenians were ready to prepare the tents they stretched from the primrose and put on fire. They were so joyed…
The wood was shattered, the fires were burnt, the tents stretched, the rice was heavily boiled in a water, the spoons attacked the plates.
It was time for bed.
Oh, if it weren’t for those kagali heads, they’d be sitting in their warm nest.
“We had to talk to young people in time but we could not,” whispered Apraham.
But the bill of land they’ve been dwelling on for centuries should be paid with the death of innocent children?
The virginity of teenage girls who didn’t know what Russian was, the mothers ‘ tears, war’s balance?
Would small bodies of innocent children fit into eternal land?
How many lives equalize one death?
“The sun that is not born,” he thought Apraham. “The sun will not rise to us.”
A virgin full moon has moved into the sky. Now, only the howling of the Hungry wolves wandering in the mountains just beyond Erzurum echoed. Sleep, the little brother of death, was gently covered on this unfortunate nation.
Then a scream pressed the silence.
They have the mitralytic, the cynical smiles on their faces.
They had black pants and black hides, and they collapsed like a death angel to mountain.
A group of Turks, and they were all young men.
Time flowed. The sparks have spread. The night divided into two parts. The horror gushs from the sound of the throats. Apraham understood more and more.
He understood that the sun was a lie.
Just because a handful of Armenian teenagers attacked Muslims, they were moving on their way, not knowing where they were going. But the Turks knew very well where they would go.
They took a fresh young woman to the age of marriage and wrapped her head in a sack.
No one’s ever been close.
They were like an animal.
The rhythmic movements and growls of young men were piercing the air, and the girl’s screams were fading in the sack. The exquisite hands that fought to not be victims, the body that remained naked from the waist down in the cold, then remained motionless.
Harun was a delight.
The young woman who was raped in front of the Armenians was stripped of her sack.
This was Gul, Harun’s sister who was married to an old, Armenian man who is a rich landowner.