I -- [February 6, 1903] 

TURKISH HORRORS

TERRIBLE TALES OF THE REFUGEES

"DAILY NEWS" MAN AMONG THE MACEDONIANS

[Dubnitza, Bulgaria (South-Western Frontier), Jan. 27]

Since the beginning of October some three thousand fugitives from Macedonia have found refuge in Bulgaria. Nearly all of them are distributed over the towns and villages of this miniature Switzerland, if I may so call it; along the Macedonia border, and so close to it that, as at the village of Katcherinovo, for example, they may distinguish the Bulgarian sentry and the Turkish sentry passing each other, bayoneted rifle on shoulder, on the dividing line. In small, scattered bands, ragged, thinly clad, haggard with hunger and cold, have they been drifting to this haven of refuge day by day during the last three months. They are coming while I write. Nor will the immigration cease until civilized Europe repairs the terrible mistake it committed when, twenty-five years ago, in its jealousy of Russia the liberator, it thrust back Macedonia once again under the heel of the Turk.

The personal narratives of these refugees revive the memories of the crimes which shocked Europe on the eve of the war that ended in the expulsion of the oppressor from Bulgaria. Many hundreds of these fugitives are sheltered in the Alpine region between Dubnitza, low down in the valley of the Struma and its affluents, and the great monastery of Mount Rilo, nine hours' distant, high among the snows. Rilo, that old sanctuary, which among all institutions of its order, stands foremost in the history of Bulgaria, and in the veneration and affection of the Bulgarian race. The first bands of fugitives from Macedonia were rescued by Monseigneur the Archimandrite Joanike, Igoumen (Oikoumenos), of, as we might say in English, the Abbot of the Monastery of St. John of Rilo, and his good monks. Still larger numbers are congregated in and around Dubnitza, where the Bulgarian Committee for relief for the refugees has its headquarters. In another letter I shall give an account of this society and its operations, and merely remark in this place that I have had the good fortune to be accompanied on this journey by the society's secretary, Mr. Stephane Tchaprachikov, of the Bulgarian Foreign Office, who has been deputed to supervise new arrangements for the distribution of food and clothing. The present letter must be reserved for the first portion of my task, which is to visit the refugees at peptide domiciles on the Rilo-Dubnitza route, and to hear their own account of the causes that have compelled them to abandon their homes at a season when to traverse the mountains subjects the hardiest among them to the severest physical strain, and may mean, as it often has meant, death to the weaker. It will be found that the reasons of their flight offer the simplest, the fundamental, explanation of the rise and progress of the Macedonian insurgent societies -- as to the true character of which the most misleading impressions have been propagated in Germany, France, and England.

SHAKING OFF FOUR CENTURIES OF TORPOR

In its ring of mountains, and with the picturesque zigzag of its streets that in places overhang the river, Dubnitza suggests a resemblance (a faint one, I admit) to some bits of Sanagar, the capital of Cashmere. Externally the town has not undergone very much change since the days when the Turk ruled the land. The unwieldy four-wheeled bullock carts that, with their loads of tobacco leaf, wine, wood, and grain, come creaking in slowly from distant villages, and block the narrow lanes, are, you may be sure, of the same make as the commissariat wagons which, twenty-two centuries ago, lumbered in the rear of the armies of Alexander of Macedon--whose paternal kingdom lies just over there, on the other side of that long, waving ridge, sharply defined upon the spotless blue, the ridge of stately Mount Rilo, upon whose crest the sun has just risen, a brilliant of dazzling radiance on his robe of white. Upon that primitive contrivance, the common bullock wagon of rural Bulgaria, you shall not discover as much as a farthing's worth of iron. It is all of wood, clamped together with bolts of wood, botched here and there with rope, with twine, with twigs. A usefully elastic contrivance, perhaps, in a world now forgotten, and where roads were bad. Most wonderful of all are the wheels. Not a single tyre of iron have I seen in Dubnitza. And scarcely a wheel of decently round shape. The tyre of the ordinary wagon wheel is formed of a number of wooden blocks held together by wooden pins. And the triumphant result? Not a circle in our too exacting sense of the word. But a five, or six, or seven, or eight sided "circle" -- anything from a pentagon to an octagon. Sometimes a wheel drags, while the other three plunge lazily round with many a bump and jerk to the monotone of peptide everlasting croak. All this would be hard upon the bullocks--but that the Bulgarian peasant, good-natured, easy-going fellow, is in no greater hurry than his beasts, and treats them with a man-an-brotherly indulgence. A few years more, however, and the last of the old-world bullock wagons will bump its last and vanish, to the tune of its old familiar croak. For the Bulgarian peasant is waking up. He is shaking off the four centuries' torpor begotten of his Turkish bondage. And if he is so prosperous in spite of the primeval character of his implements and of his notions about farming, what may he not accomplish when he takes to scientific methods?

I have said that the outer aspect of Dubnitza remains much as it was in the Turkish days. But in the demeanour, the spirit, the everyday life of the people the change is enormous. I have been contrasting Dubnitza with this or that Turkish town of my acquaintance--particularly in the Asiatic provinces--some melancholy, sombre place, with something of sinister significance in its stillness, and where the women are rarely seen, and count for nothing, and the children are never young. The boisterous energy of Young Bulgaria in the school playgrounds and in the streets of this obscure country town is a striking and pleasing reminiscence of the fact that the Turkish blight has passed away forever. With its large, lofty rooms, flooded with sunlight and ventilated to perfection, the new elementary public school of this place would do credit to many an English School Board. In this border town, as throughout Bulgaria, are complete freedom and security, and indifference to distinctions of race and creed. In the Balkans, at this moment, there are at least two Turks who appreciate the fact. They are the two deserters from the nearest Turkish garrison, that of Djumaia, who, in their red fez and regimental uniform (much tattered) came trudging into town the day of my arrival. It is possible that an event so apparently insignificant as the desertion of two Turkish soldiers may have been reported in the foreign news of the London papers. In the circumstances, however, it is not quite as insignificant as it looks; and as the story they told the Sub-Prefect of Dubnitza, together with Mr. Tchaprachikoff and myself, may serve as a sort of introduction to my interrogation of the Macedonian refugees, I shall here make the shortest possible summary of it.

STORY OF TURKISH DESERTERS 

Their answer to my first question was worth all the rest. Why, I asked, did you desert? Because, replied the spokesperson of the two, "we were often beaten by our officer. We told him we would not be whipped as if we were Slavs. He ordered us again punished; then we escaped." There was a grim, ironical, unconscious humour in the expression, "whipped like Slavs," blurted out with soldier's frankness before the local representative of a people whom the Turk regards as Slavic and despises as Christian. Karaman Seduk and Achmet Mahmud, of the 65th Regiment, took their hardships as a matter of course, did not appear to mind them. Their pay of a pound a month was always in arrears. But so was everybody's. And when they received a penny or two on account--as on festival days--they had fun therewith, and forgot the dark side of military life. Had they witnessed any maltreatment of Macedonians--Christians--Slavs, and such-like folk, in the Caza (district) of Djumaia, from which they themselves had come, and the refugees from which were not in Dubnitza? They had not. They had always been quartered in the town, where there was no disturbance; they knew nothing, personally, of what might have been going on in the villages. Had they heard anything? Many a time--from their comrades quartered in the villages; they had heard of villages plundered, of people beaten and killed, of women violated. Did they believe these reports? Yes; why not? Why should their comrades lie? Had they been told why the Christians had rifles in hiding, and they were helping the armed bands in the mountains. What did Karaman and Achmet wish for now? To go to Plevna, their father's birthplace, and there find something to do. So to Plevna the Sub-Prefect promised to transfer them. And at Plevna, or anywhere else in Bulgarian they will be as free as any Christian, any "Slav," subject of his Royal Highness Prince Ferdinand. I have given their story merely for what it is worth, and without any comment.

VICTIMS OF THE ATROCITIES 

Here, in Dubnitza, I have interrogated a large number of refugees, from thirty-six villages in eight Cazas (administrative sub-divisions) of Macedonia. Caza Djumaia, touching the Bulgarian frontier, has contributed a larger number of witnesses than any other. The first refugees whom I examined were a group of five men from the Caza of Petrich. Among them was the schoolmaster of Gorema village, Stoyan Angeloff by name. After many days' wandering in the mountains they succeeded in eluding the Turkish outposts, and crossed the frontier last night. The schoolmaster was in rags, not, perhaps, that his appearance may have been much more in keeping with the dignity of his office before he took to flight, Stoyan Angeloff, an intelligent man, was prompt and precise in his answers. He gave me the names of seven villagers of Gorema village who had either been killed outright or had died after maltreatment. The first victim was an old man--between seventy and eighty. His name was Dimitri Zatkoff. The others were Tasse Arxanoff, Tasse Mitreff, Georgi Petroff (a lad of sixteen), Ivan Stoiloff, Georgi Mamoloff, Christo Zvetkoff. No others, said the schoolmaster, had been killed or had died of their wounds in Gorema village except those seven. But, he added, with the air of one to whom such incidents seem as natural as the weather, there were few in Gorema who had not been struck, or kicked, or whipped, or maltreated in one way or another. Some houses in Gorema, had, the schoolmaster continued, been burnt by the Turks. And in a village near Gorema a girl ten years old and four women had been violated by the soldiers. The Church of St. Demetri, in Gorema, had been desecrated and pillaged, and images broken. The soldiers, he continued, took away all our wheat and all our cattle. The account given by the schoolmaster and his companion regarding Turkish misdeeds in the villages of Vrakoupavitza, Krapolivo, Kruchitza, Tsapareva, and Ribnitza corresponded generally with the foregoing. In Tsapareva village a Christian girl had escaped death by converting to Islamism. Why should the Turk soldiers stop you from coming to Bulgaria? the school-master was asked. The Caimakams (local Governors) and the Commissaries of Police, also the officers, was the reply, prevent news from getting abroad. When we try to escape they turn us back. We may as well die in the mountains as remain in our homes that the soldiers and the police have pillaged. Many of our people, said he, are still hiding in the mountains, and have gone to join the bands, meaning the armed bands that are in readiness for an insurrection before Easter. The foregoing is an ordinary specimen of the sort of evidence given my the refugees.

Most of the fugitives in the town of Dubnitza are sheltered in the Khan, a large rambling building, or, rather, series of buildings, surrounding a quadrangle. The first of them whom I questioned was a priest of the Bulgarian Church--"Pope" Michael Nicoloff. Pope Nicoloff was arrayed in black, tall cylindrical hat, long, black gown, and baggy trousers. He wore a brown sash and yellowish slippers, from which leathern thongs were round his calves. His brown beard was long and thick. His hair fell in waving masses half-way down his back, in the traditional fashion of the Orthodox Church. His father before him was a Pope, and had lately been put in prison on account of his alleged relations with the insurgent bands. Pope Michael's statement confirmed the schoolmaster's as regards the difficulty which refugees experience in making their way into the Principality. He had been one of a company of nearly two hundred who on their way to the frontier were intercepted by the Turkish troops. Only a small remnant reached Bulgaria. The rest were driven back to their villages, or made their way to the hills in the interior. One of their women was killed--with the child she was carrying on her back. The Turkish soldiers and police, said the Priest, leave us nothing; their usual grounds for molesting us are our supposed concealment of arms; in searching for arms they have opened the floor of the Church of St. Archangel, near my village of Troskova; in Troskova they massacred Athanas Aggelos, bayoneted Athanas Aritzonoff, and a woman named Ilinka Aritzonoff, whom some soldiers criminally assaulted, died soon after. On this disagreeable subject of criminal assaults, Pope Michael Nikoloff spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, as if incidents of the kind were an ordinary experience.

But on this particular theme a fugitive from the large village of Serbinovo was more explicit than Pope Michael Nikoloff. It was curious to watch his demeanour and that of the group of his fellow refugees round about him, as they recounted the names of women whom they knew and who had been criminally assaulted. Rather stolidly reticent at first, they grew excited as they each detailed their personal knowledge, or corrected some mistake in the identification of a victim. A list of the alleged victims' names was taken down, not only by myself, but also by Mr. Tchaprachikoff, who, as already said, is Secretary of the Relief Committee. Here it is:

Ivanko Stryanova (young, married), Matria Iliova, Istata Giorgiovo, Mitra Tsvetkova, Mitra Christova, Petra Christova, Giorgia Velianova, Stoika Andonova, Velika Seraphimova, Aggelia Christova, Petra Lavleva, Temenuga Tassovo, Maria Niccolova, Petra Pavleva, Temenuga Tassova, Maria Niccolova, Petra Ivanova, Varvara Aggeloff, Borjana Petreva, Borjana Strianova, Velika Christova, Djina Giorgiova.

PITIABLE AND REPULSIVE TALES 

At the end of the recital one of the group reminded his fellow-refugees that there were two victims of the same name--Velika Seraphimova. Among those killed in Serbinova there were, according to the same witnesses, two children, one four years old, the other twelve. The Redifs (reservists), said they, desecrated the church; they deprived the villagers of their provisions and other property, including a large quantity of tobacco, the cultivation and manufacture of which are a special industry of the Serbinovo district. Next came groups of refugees from a long list of villages. Their depositions (with which I have filled a notebook) are, in general, a monotone of the same pitiable, dreary, and often repulsive tale of churches defiled, villages pillaged, men, women and children maltreated, men sometimes tortured, women subjected to unamenable insults, people escaping to the mountains, to wait there it may be for the hour of vengeance. In the village of Vlaki, Giko Athanasaf was killed right out; Ilya Nedelkof, Milka Yotkef, Marco Dosheff died soon after "maltreatment"; Pope Aritzanoff's beard was plucked out by the roots. A refugee from Burievo village, in the Stovmitza sub-division, tells me that his brother, Anton Mankhoff, was massacred, and that five girls, carried off by the Turks, have not since been heard of. Mitradinoff, a fugitive from another village in the same district, alleges that his brother Vassil was killed, and that after four days the body was found half-devoured by dogs; and that the village church has been turned into a barracks. The refugees from Oshtava village, in the Caza of Melnik, say that their Church of St. Theodore has been turned by the Turkish troops into stables for their horses. In Medjkul, a village of the same Caza, Anton Giorgiov had his feet and hands cut off; Christo Blagoff was bayonetted; Petre Nicoloff was beaten to death; some houses were burnt; assaults (of the character already indicated) were committed; the Church of St. Elias was appropriated for military uses.

The worst tales were those narrated by the refugees from the villages in Djumaia. In these villages, say they, tortures have been frequent. In Gradevo, Christo Yoseph's ears were cut off and his eyes put out. In Djelezendz village, Aggel Kileff was suspended by his feet over burning straw. A man from Vronovo described, suiting the action to the word, how the cord torture is applied over one's head, until the eyes start out, and the victims in their agony confess to all their tormentors wish. In the village of Prokovnik, said another refugee, some prisoners, put into an outhouse, were drenched with ice-cold water during the night. A man from Klissoura village knelt down to show how prisoners have been forced backwards and head downwards, to be beaten with the stick upon the naked breast and stomach. Three refugees from the village of Strumsi Chitlik show me how they themselves had been beaten with the stick. A villager of Drenovo, lately a man of substance according to his own account, narrated how the Christian headman of a neighboring village, a baker by trade, had been thrust for a time into his own oven, and how, when taken out, he was spitting blood. Did you see that? he was asked. No, but the headman, who was his friend, had told him all about it. The same witness showed the wound on his right hand that had been pierced by a Turkish solder's bullet; he had been sent as a prisoner of Serres. On his release, and returning to his village, he found that the Turkish troops had taken away his four hundred okes of tobacco and his stores of wheat and destroyed his home, so that he and his family were destitute. But there is something worse than that. He declares that his wife was criminally assaulted. 

This witness's name is Velichko Stoichoff. He is well known in Djumaia. An impartial Commission of Inquiry into alleged barbarities of the Turkish soldiery and Civil administrators could easily test the value of his statements. Velichko Stoichoff's wife is here among the refugees. She came forward and corroborated her husband's assertions. She says that before the three Turkish soldiers--three of them--committed their crime, they robbed her of the money she carried in her girdle. But enough of this recital.

"WHY HAVE THEY LEFT IT?"

The foregoing paragraphs contain but a bare summary of the details given to me by the fugitives at Dubnitza. The instances I have quoted are taken at random, and are typical of the whole. I have no reason to suppose that what the refugees ar the village of Rilo and elsewhere may have to say about themselves will differ in any material respect from what I have already recorded. Why have these three thousand Macedonians fled into Bulgaria? The Turkish Government alleges that the tales of pillage, flogging, maiming, killing, and the rest are either false or grossly extravagant, got up for the purpose of discrediting the Porte in European estimation and of furnishing and excuse for Bulgarian agitators. As if three thousand Macedonians had braved the mountain snows, abandoned their homes, sacrificed all that was dear to them, for the sake of spiting the Sultan! Those priests, village schoolmasters, headmen of Christian communities, cultivators, artisans, have not come to Bulgaria for nothing. It is worth noting in this place that, like the Bulgarians, the Macedonian small farmers are proprietors of the soil they till. They are as strongly attached to the land they till. They are as strongly attached to the land as are the cultivators of the Principality. Why have they left it? The stories I have set down from the lips of the refugees themselves furnish the answer. Those stories can be subjected to searching inquiry. For, unlike the victims of the Armenian massacres, there are at least three thousand Macedonians who have not been dispersed, or otherwise disposed of, beyond recall, and who may be taken to their respective villages and there confronted with their alleged prosecutors.