07.12.2024


The article titled "Genocide Memorial: The Indian's Gift" was published in the July 13/26, 1919 issue of the newspaper Voice of the People (Zhoghovurdy Dzayn), which was printed in Constantinople. It told the truly moving story of an Armenian orphan boy whom an Indian soldier had rescued from Turks and delivered to the director of an Armenian school.

Genocide Memorial: The Indian's Gift

Suddenly, a tall, dark-skinned Indian soldier entered my room. He clearly had a tired appearance and the distinct appearance of someone returning from a journey. In one hand was a paper envelope, in the other he was holding the hand of a barely five-year-old boy who was as tired and worn out as he was, his fearful eyes fixed downward, his head bowed, with a vague sense of anxiety, waiting to see what this Indian soldier from the far corners of India would do, who was now standing in front of me, holding his hand.

I lifted my eyes; I interrupted the reading of a letter that came to me from the world of the desert, a cry that erupted from the boundless sands of the desert, a phantom, a storm, a letter that asked for help for the Armenian orphans waiting on the desert sands, suffering under tents, for the sacred remains of the martyrs.

- What do you want? I asked.
- Are you the inspector of Armenian schools? He asked.
- Yes.
- Take him, Mr. Inspector, take this Armenian orphan whom we rescued from the hands of a Turkish officer near Kerjuk. He speaks Turkish and we thought he was the officer's son or relative. We were only convinced that he was Armenian when, one day, standing near the POW camp with the Armenian translator, we heard the cries of this little boy, the choking sobs, and the call of “Mother, mother” in Armenian. The calls “mother…mother” have denounced the little boy, whom we took from the hands of the criminal benefactor, and now I am handing him over to you, because I heard that you are searching for the remnants of your people, these sacred remnants. Take this little white man, and let it be a gift from a black man who fought against violence in the name of civilization and freedom, in these distant deserts.

I remained silent. I could say nothing to him. I was unable to even express my gratitude. Only with unblinking attention could I hear the words of this kind Indian soldier that continued to ring in my ears even when he was silent and not speaking in his fluent, Indianized English.

He waited for a long time like this in front of me, on his feet, until I came to my senses and returned from the worlds of pain to the moment I am living. I was shocked. I apologized to the soldier, who was looking at me confused, holding the hand of the little Armenian.

- I am very grateful for your immortal and heartwarming gift. I would like to have your name, I said, in order to always remember the donor.
- My name is not a problem. I don't want you to understand, replied the black man, let your donor be a Christian Indian.
- But, at least, one day this Armenian orphan will know his liberator and not forget him, I replied. Please, let me know so I can record your name.
- There is no need for that, he repeated, just remember and teach him how the Christian Indian soldier found the Armenian orphan in the desert and gave him to his own people... That’s enough...

And one last time, he hugged the Armenian boy, pressed him to his chest with parental tenderness, kissed his eyes, and left the room. The Armenian orphan remained all alone in front of me, in my room. He looked at me as I was watching him with unparalleled storminess. I was shocked with my whole being, I was trembling and I felt hot drops running down my cheeks.

That weak fragment; the Armenian orphan, also suddenly collapsed. What has transmitted to our souls, no one can know. He only cried for a long, long time, and two hours later, when he was hungry, he could barely raise his suffering little head for a piece of bread given to him.

Today, after a month now, the gift from the Indian soldier is a child in the American Orphanage and a student at the National School of Baghdad. During this one month, he has learned his native language quite a bit and has an unusual jealousy. He always sings and sings, as if he wants to forget his childhood troubles in the waves of song. He sings without understanding the words. It seems like he understands a lot from the melody. Surely it is the spirit of the nation that is transmitted through those seasons into his soul and moves his lips with longing vibrations...

He even has a name today. I gave him the name Hrach Hndkazatyan [Liberated by an Indian]. All the little ones in the kindergarten, all those who share his fate, call him by this name. Unknowingly, he feels pleasure in this calling.

Hrach Hndkazatyan…

And to think that one dark-skinned child from India would come to Mesopotamia, find the Armenian orphan with the Turkish criminal, and, freeing him, would return him to us, repeating.-

“Take him and let it be a gift from the Indian soldier…”
Dear Indian, may your gift be blessed…

Sahak Mesrop
Baghdad

About this interesting story, see also https://mirrorspectator.com/2018/01/11/long-lost-story-indian-rescue-armenian-genocide/.