I Am Not A Ghost

by , under Fiction Prompts, Historical Fiction, What Pegman Saw

He is like the landscape, ancient, fissured, desiccated. He is the last one left who saw it with his own eyes.

His voice scrapes like wind through dry branches as he tells the story he repeated all his life.

“When the Turks came, all of us ran to the mountain. We rolled stones down the hill onto them while the smoke from our burning houses followed us like a curse. I was small and hid in the rocks. They made my mother and sisters kneel as they cut off the men’s heads.”

His brown eyes cloud and he does not tell the rest.

Instead he speaks of the Capital City of Ani and its thousand churches, the silk road wealth that flowed like a river.

“My grandfather’s fig trees were ten meters high, each fig as large as your hand. Oh, how I would love to taste one again.”

What Pegman Saw: Armenia

 

In 1915, the world descended into war. Ottoman leaders decided to resolve their “Armenian problem” through extermination and deportation. Soldiers and local Kurdish militias shot Armenian men. There were mass rapes of women. Armenian villages and city neighborhoods were looted, appropriated. The dead clogged the rivers and wells. 

By the end of 1915, the Armenian population in the Ottoman Empire fell from about two million to fewer than 500,000. Most historians consider this the to be the modern world’s first genocide.

Ani was the medieval capital of a powerful, ethnically Armenian kingdom centered in eastern Anatolia, the sprawling Asiatic peninsula that today makes up most of Turkey. A rich metropolis, its bazaars overflowed with furs, with spices, with precious metals.

Today it is a scattering of shattered cathedrals and rubble atop a desolate plateau. The Turkish government has erected no markers explaining what happened there, or why.

  1. Alicia Jamtaas

    Your last sentence is so serene compared to his horrific memories. I’m glad you left him with that thought, and not that of death.

    Reply
  2. MythRider

    My favorite line, “His voice scrapes like wind through dry branches.” Sounds like a an old dried voice, sad and tired.
    Well written.

    Reply
  3. rochellewisoff

    Dear Josh,

    It seems we were on the same trail this week. Why do certain ethnic groups feel that another is a ‘problem’? I don’t get it…I don’t WANT to get it. What can I say? I like the sweet note you ended on. Well done.

    Shalom,

    Rochelle

    Reply
  4. Lynn Love

    Horribly clear and descriptive writing. You can feel the old man’s horror and pain, the recoiling from his own past though he feels indebted to repeat it to anyone who will listen. Top notch writing

    Reply
  5. Joy Pixley

    A heartbreaking view of the horrors of that genocide. Choosing a young boy as the point of view makes it even more touching. I can only imagine the pain of having to live with that memory.

    Reply
  6. Woman walking Max

    Telling this event through the voice of a childhood experience remembered, hits you in the guts with the events of this genocide hits straight to the heart. Love the first line. Good story.

    Reply

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