1915 and Adıyaman

By Muzaffer İris | Writer and academic

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The word Sayfo, meaning “sword” in Syriac, is rarely heard in and around the city of Adiyaman, Turkey. The events of Sayfo are not widely known here, largely because the Syriac language is scarcely used in the towns and villages where Syriacs reside. In fact, the number of Syriac speakers in Adiyaman is so small they can be counted on one hand. Those who do speak the language either live in the city center or are families who relocated from Mardin and Midyat. 

The vast majority of Syriacs living in Adiyaman and its environs speak Kurdish—also known as Zaza (or Dımılki), a dialect of Kurdish. In Adiyaman, instead of the Syriac term Sayfo, local expressions such as Ferman-ı Gavura, Prodayışı Gavura, Vahti Kalfi, and Kuştuna Gavura are used. Though different in form, all refer to the same tragic reality: the massacre of Christians in this region—those who were “put to the sword.” 

For over a century, Sayfo has been remembered and discussed across various platforms and media. It has been the subject of films, documentaries, and thousands of books and articles—with more emerging every year. These works continue to shed light on the scale and cruelty of the genocide. Sayfo will remain a subject of public consciousness, research, and remembrance for generations to come. 

Yet no amount of documentation or recognition can fully capture the depth of the pain it left behind. Even if the perpetrators were to apologize or offer compensation, the loss cannot be undone. This massacre—this genocide—has left an indelible mark, etched into the hearts and minds of those who remember. Thousands were exterminated. Entire communities were annihilated. Their homes and properties were confiscated. Survivors were left destitute; their wealth stolen and dignity stripped. This is a wound that is still open—and one that is not easily healed. 

Despite ongoing denial and disregard in official Turkish political discourse, the international community increasingly acknowledges that this genocide occurred. Those who refrain from recognizing it often do so out of political or economic self-interest, not out of ignorance. 

The Sayfo began with the roundup of Armenian intellectuals on April 24, 1915, and soon extended to the systematic extermination of all Christian peoples living within the Ottoman Empire. The impact of this atrocity is unmistakable when we look at today’s demographics. While debates and disputes over documentation persist, the truth lives on in the memories of the survivors and their descendants—those who were spared thanks to the courage of a few righteous individuals. 

In reality, no state documents the atrocities it commits against its own people. Genocide does not leave a paper trail in state archives. However, unlike the Turkish authorities of that time, others did keep records—meticulously. The British, Russian, and French official archives are filled with documents detailing the events of that era. The debate today is no longer about whether the genocide happened. We have long moved past that. The question has now become: who committed it? 

This, too, has become a deflection. The Turkish state blames the Kurds, while the Kurds claim they were not a state and therefore cannot be held responsible. In truth, it is now well established that both parties—state forces and local Kurdish groups—collaborated in the execution of the genocide. Arguing over who was more responsible only obscures the historical reality: the genocide was a shared enterprise and shifting blame back and forth no longer serves the pursuit of truth. 

Adıyaman experienced Sayfo in one of the most brutal and devastating ways. It was a blind spot—isolated and cut off from the outside world. The Syriacs living in its mountainous villages had no means of communication beyond their immediate surroundings. Situated deep within the interior of Ottoman Turkey and far from any borders, there was no way for them to make their cries for help heard. 

Unlike other cities and regions, the number of foreign missionaries in Adıyaman was very limited, and those who were present remained mostly within the city itself, leaving the rural villages without support or witnesses. 

The Syriacs in villages such as Holbiş, Traksu, Vank, and especially Kahta and Narince were among the most severely massacred. Some Syriac craftsmen—weavers, blacksmiths, farriers—survived only through the protection of former customers who had once relied on their skills. Many were forced to convert to Islam to save their lives. In the aftermath, several of them eventually returned to Christianity, having survived the unimaginable. 

One of the main sites of the largest massacres was the village of Vank, in Gerger. In a 1992 audio interview, an elderly Muslim woman known as Imma Nine (Nanny Imma) recounted what transpired in Vank during those tragic days: 

         “In order to prevent theft, seizure of property, and raids by the villages surrounding Vank, they brought people from the Kurdish Kırvar tribe in Siverek to the village of Vank. But over time, they grew more powerful and took control of the village. They became the local representatives of the government in the village—they became the state. Whatever they said, had to be done. Their word was law. The Kırvar spoke Zaza. This tribe, who came to protect the village from pressures and attacks from surrounding villages, began to rule the village over time. 

“We were the village chiefs. No bird could fly over the village without our permission. If we had tasks to assign, the villagers had to carry them out—they could not refuse. There was a police station in Temsiyas (today’s Eskikent village), and whenever the gendarmerie stationed there went on patrol, they would always pass by our house. Our house had a long, wide balcony that, in summer, was shaded by a large mulberry tree. Whenever the gendarmeries came into sight, Tahsin would immediately call Usi Griyi. The late Ima would then shout, ‘It’s the grays. The grays are coming. Come quickly!’ and Gır would come running right away. On hot days, guests were offered cold water and ayran, and meals were prepared for them. Before the massacre, the gendarmerie made regular visits—they would sit, eat, drink alcohol, and then leave. Buk was the village priest’s daughter-in-law. After the priest was killed in the massacre, Tahsin took Buk, claiming they needed a knowledgeable and experienced person. Buk was very beautiful and well-groomed; her face was like that of a baby and an angel. 

“I don’t know how old I was. But I guess I am 100 years old now, so I was 6 or 7 years old when the massacre took place. I remember all the events very well. I have forgotten nothing and no one. It’s like they’re all alive before my eyes. It’s like it’s completely engraved in my brain—impossible to forget. 

“Not many Muslims lived in the village. Apparently, we came to live in the village later. The village had always been Christian. The Christians were very hardworking people. We had no land, no house, no possessions. They gave us everything. When the first group was rounded up, I went with them to Temsiyas. One baby from the group thrown into the Euphrates survived. The baby stayed afloat, and the Euphrates River had thrown the baby back onto the riverbank. The baby clung to the grass and stayed lying there. The shepherds of Taraksu village used to bring their animals there to graze. A goat came grazing where the child lied. While the goat was grazing, the infant clung to the goat’s udders and sucked the milk. 

“When the shepherd brought the goats back to the village and started milking them in the evening, he noticed that one of them was not giving milk. The owner of the flock questioned the shepherd and began to accuse him, thinking the shepherd had milked the goat for himself. The shepherd protested and denied, but this went on for three to four days. The herd owner did not accept the situation and decided, along with the shepherd, to follow the goat. The goats dispersed and grazed on the banks of the Euphrates. The goat they were following, immediately went to where the grass heap was. When the goat keeper and the shepherd stood right next to the goat, they were very surprised to see the goat suckling a child. They immediately took the child to the village. The daughter of the owner of the herd fed and raised the child. The child began to play with the children in the street. 

“As time went by, surrounding villages heard about the incident. Things had now calmed down. The news reached our village that there is such a child. Ömer-i Beyrosi and some of his relatives who escaped and survived the massacres went to Taraksu village. As soon as he saw the boy, he said it is his sibling. The family gave the child to Ömer-i Beyrosi. Beyrosi took his sibling and returned to the village. But his mother disappeared in the Euphrates. 

“The order to kill these people came entirely from the state. They went from house to house and gathered everyone they found in the village square. From there they took them to death. No one ever came back. Our relatives hid a few of them, but the villagers found some of them and killed them anyway. When the people in hiding later emerged, they were not taken to the Euphrates River but were gathered and killed here nearby. 

“I saw all of them in a place called the Kalibag plain. I saw it with my own eyes. I went to graze lambs with my friends. I will never forget that moment. They killed all of them: women, men, children, and young people. Brides, women, and children who seemed to be sleeping in their dresses. They never even buried them. They just killed them and left them as they were. I still don’t understand how they killed so many people. We were walking among them, being careful not to step on them. Then my friends and I started collecting beads, silver jewelry, bracelets, pennies, necklaces, earrings, and bracelets from their necks and ears. We wore the jewelry we took. Some of them still had their eyes open and seemed to be smiling. While we were looking for jewelry among, we used to try to close the eyes of some of them and say, ‘Oh look, this one is laughing’ and rubbed our hands on their faces. For about a year, the corpses just laid there, with no animals eating them. No one acted. No one protested. Nobody had a gun anyway. Nobody expected such a disaster. Vank village was mountainous and far from the city center. There was no transportation, no roads, no missionaries. There was no radio, telephone, or telegraph. It was completely isolated from the world. No one thought such a massacre could happen. An order to stop the massacres came much later, but it was too late, everything was over.”

The order to stop the killings was made, but fear had gripped so many Syriac people that no one had believed it. They continued to hide in the caves and burrows. Tahsin hid Usı Gri in the mill. My uncle hid a few in a place called Dolan. There were also people who hid in the rocks in the oak of Keki Mistifa, in the place of Golbostan. These caves, where some gavurlars (infidels) hid, were turned into houses. At night they went to their houses in the village and took the flour and goods they needed and carried them there to the caves. They cooked and ate in those caves. Me and my friends went to those dens and visited them all. 

You could only reach the caves after three gates, and it was very dark there in the back. There were wooden beds, stoves, rugs, pillows, mattresses, spoons, pots, beds, and quilts…everything. They had secretly moved their village house there at night and started to live there. It was meticulously organized. They did not go out during the day. It was called the Cave of the Gavurs, the lair. They blocked the entrance with a large flat and round stone. 

The perpetrators who came to the village for the massacres did not destroy the houses. They never did damage to the houses. I myself have witnessed two groups who were round up. They gathered one group in the square in front of the current mosque in front of our house and took them to the Euphrates. Except for a child who was washed ashore by the Euphrates, no one escaped, and no one returned. They gathered the second group in a place called Kalıbağ and killed them there. 

When they gathered the first group—the big kafle (death convoy)—in the square, I went to the porch. They were beautifully dressed and impeccable. It was like going to a wedding. Young people, old people, women, girls, children… they took them all. I followed them to a place called Cüvinekan. Then I came back. They took them to the Euphrates in front of the Temsiyas Police Station. They never returned. They filled another kafle in my uncle Mustafa’s porch. It was as if they had put the animals in a corral. I have not seen anyone separate the young and beautiful girls from the caravan. At least, I didn’t see it 

Now, the situation is very good. By God, those days were cruel. There was once a church in this village. The priest was interrogated three times and brutally tortured. They wanted him to reveal where the church’s gold was hidden. Because he refused, they took him to Pütürge multiple times. Each time, they tortured him there. He would plead, “Take me back—I’ll tell you this time.” But when they brought him back, he still wouldn’t speak. Eventually, realizing he would never reveal the secret, they took him to the Syriac cemetery. From the surrounding fields, they gathered pre-cut, dried thorn bushes, piled them high, placed him on top, and set it all ablaze. We watched it happen. The priest had four children. They killed the two eldest there too. The remaining two were murdered later. The village chief took the priest’s wife as his own. They later also killed the two children of the priest’s wife, whom she had brought with her. 

All of their houses were left behind, slowly falling into ruin. No one touched their belongings—there was no looting. Everything they owned remained just as they had left it, inside their homes. This is the way of the world, my child. It was the government that did this—through the hands of the military. They gathered the Syriacs in Mistik’s garden, in the village square. We all stepped out onto the porch and watched. They gathered them in the evening. When I looked out from the porch, they were calm—serene, even. The Syriacs knew exactly what was coming. They knew they had no chance of survival. Some had already fled. Others hid in the caves around the village. At night, they would sneak down to the fields and gardens, gather what food they could, and return to their hiding places. They were shattered. The world is very comfortable now.

Tahsin would sometimes get very angry—his reactions were so harsh that he would hurl curses. He’d shout, ‘To hell with the monk and with Zorika!’ One night, Tahsin came home and came across some people searching for gold jars. He forcefully took one of the jars that someone had found and brought it home. We—my mother, my sister Buk, and I—were all asleep. 

The next night, we were boiling soup in a cauldron when I saw he had a bundle of muslin cloth in his hand. When my mother asked what it was, he started shouting and cursing at us. Then he took the gold to a place called Pangos and washed it there. Someone passing by saw him washing the gold and, when they returned to the village, called on others to go and see the pieces of treasure. But no one dared say anything. When he died, people said he had buried the gold in our house, but we never found it. 

We were the real Muslims of the village. Most others only became Muslim later, out of fear. They thought the massacres would start again. The Syriacs did all the work for the Muslims. They couldn’t object. They did everything—cutting leaves, harvesting grain, carrying straw, plowing fields, cutting grass, watering fields. They couldn’t say no to the Agha’s forced labor. 

The Syriacs living here had no weapons. They didn’t resist, they didn’t retaliate, and they didn’t kill anyone. After these events, the Christians in the village began dressing poorly, as if they were in mourning. Before the massacre, they dressed very well and were in good economic condition. 

Some of the survivors hid in haylofts, others among dry brush, and some in caves and dens. I remember everything like it was yesterday. Many events also took place in the village of Temsiyas. The Muslims there constantly fought and burned each other’s homes. During and after the massacre, everyone knew their own relatives and the people they were protecting very well. Before the massacre, the village had 800–1,000 households. Some were killed, some fled. Only these few remained. 

I knew all the people who were killed. I was especially saddened by the children and women who were killed in Kalıbağ. We were close with them—they were our neighbors. That’s why we knew them better and grieved more, but we couldn’t do anything. It wasn’t possible for us to save them all. 

There were three families under our protection, including the Mazmana, Surık, and Vısı Gri families. No one could interfere with them. We also didn’t consider the Haçıkan family as outsiders—we saw them as our own. They would gather barley. The Muslim women didn’t kill or harm anyone because we knew and loved all of them. How could we kill them? 

The gendarmerie came on horseback. We couldn’t tell them not to kill as if we were masters. We had no authority. If we had, we wouldn’t have let the priest and his children be killed. The priest was very smart and knowledgeable—he would guide people. Everyone consulted him. He was like a scholar. They killed him and his children to get him to reveal the location of the treasure, but even after searching, they found no gold or money. 

I also remember that strangers would come to the village for plunder. One day, Şeyho Bey caught two strangers fleeing with a pot. When he opened the lid and saw gold, he seized it. He brought the pot to our house and hid it there. From time to time, he would take out the gold and spend it elsewhere. Later, a fire broke out in our home and the pot was lost. 

Years later, I went to a religious scholar (or fortune teller) to ask where the gold was. He came to the house, walked through the rooms and walls, and then whispered the location to me, asking that no one else hear. But we never dug where he said—it just remained there. 

None of the people who are Muslims now became Muslim willingly. They all converted out of fear. They had to do our work—there was no way around it. Those we hid and saved always called us Agha, meaning master. They showed us great respect. The purpose of rescuers was to have the rescued serve them and take care of their work. All the rescued people did everything for those who saved them—they had no right to object. 

The survivors of the massacre lived in caves for up to six years. The Muslims knew they were living there, but they didn’t report them. God willing, those days never return. 

My uncle Bekir saved Yusuf-ı İbram in Dolan. After a command came from behind, the massacres stopped. Those who had fled began to slowly come out of the caves. They took on Muslim godfathers (kirves) and converted to Islam. In this way, each family came under the protection of a Muslim. Some, however, refused to convert and continued as Christians. 

Most Syriacs were economically well off. Though some were poor, they generally lived well. They were very hardworking. They dressed cleanly. It bothered us Muslim men that their women dressed well. They never coveted anyone’s property, life, or wife. I never witnessed any of them killing someone or abducting a Muslim girl or woman. It was always the Muslims who harmed them. 

Everyone wants me to tell these stories, because there are very few of us left who saw and lived through these events. Wherever I go, people ask me to tell them these things—so I do. These aren’t pleasant stories, but my conscience is not at ease. I’ve grown old. So many innocent people were destroyed—why shouldn’t I speak? 

Finally, I should say that in Temsiyas village, there were many Armenians. They, too, were thrown into the Euphrates. That village also had Muslim Kurdish tribes. They often fought with each other. Most of the fights were over who would ‘own’ the Christians they had rescued. A person protected by one tribe would not do the work of another. That’s everything I know or can remember.” 

According to the law enacted in 1915, it was a serious crime to shelter or help any Syriac, Armenian, or other Christian groups. Those who helped or hid them were denounced. Yet despite this fear and heavy punishment, there were still people who risked their lives to hide their Syriac neighbors. 

Zeynel Yılmaz tells how his ancestors saved Syriacs: 

“I was born in Melho, now called Kesertaş. Our village is about 1–2 hours from Gerger, a bit crowded. I studied primary school in the village, then continued my education in Malatya. Now I’m a trader. You know the families my grandfather saved—one of them is even your grandfather. 

“My grandfather wasn’t very rich, but he was a respected man in the village. He didn’t own much land, but he was generous. He had five fields—one was called ‘Siya Gâvura’ (Infidel’s Field). This field got its name because in 1915 he gave it to two Syriac families who had fled from Vank village to ours so they could survive. They had previously worked in his weaving business, so they knew him and trusted him. One of them was Barsom Efe; the other was the father of R. Katlav from today’s Katlav family. 

“Barsom fled to the village and took refuge with my grandfather, even though it was a crime to hide anyone back then. My grandfather took the risk. He even changed Barsom’s name to Bekir and had him circumcised. He lived in my grandfather’s house for three years as a full Muslim—helping in the fields, the vineyard, with the animals. After three years, once everything calmed down, he asked to return to his village. My grandfather allowed it. 

“When Barsom returned, he changed his name back and returned to Christianity. He got married. Thanks to my grandfather, he survived. His children later made us their godfathers. His family became very large; they work as blacksmiths in Gerger. I know İbrahim and Afo well. Some of the children are still Christian, while others live as devout Muslims. 

“Another family that took refuge with my grandfather from Vank became known as the Katlavs. Their story is linked to a tobacco box. When they left, my grandfather gave them a tobacco box as a memento. I later went looking for that box. One day while walking in the Gerger market, an old man sitting in front of a carpenter’s shop called me. He knew who I was. We talked. He pulled out a tobacco box and offered me a cigarette—though I didn’t smoke. When I saw the box, I asked about it. He said his grandfather had given it to his father in 1915. I introduced myself and explained I’d been looking for that very box. Despite offering a large sum of money, the old man wouldn’t give it to me. It was too valuable to him as a keepsake of his father.” 

The Sayfo of 1915 marked the end for Syriac, Armenian, and Greek communities in this region. Millions were killed. Most were forced to flee to other countries. Their homes, property, and beautiful women were seized. The number of truly good people from that time still hasn’t increased. Those who were good back then still try to do good; those who were evil still continue to do harm. 

Today, new terms have been added to the language of genocide—the genocide of thought and the genocide of democracy—and these are becoming realities around the world. 

I honor all those who lost their lives in the 1915 Genocide. I pray for the good-hearted people who risked their lives to save others, who offered food, shelter, and clothing. May God have mercy on them.

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Muzaffer İris is the writer of three books: Adiyaman Süryanilerinin Tarihi – Magdasi Barsom ve Evlatlarinin Yedi Gubaga (Kusaga) Olan Tarihi ve Sogan Kabuklari, Bütün Yönleriyle Süryaniler, and Süryani Mutfak Kültürü ve Yemekleri

This article was published in Turkish by Gazete Sabro. You can find the original here.

The views expressed in this op-ed are solely those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of SyriacPress.