Summary

Helen Davenport Gibbons The Red Rugs of Tarsus: A Woman's Record of the Armenian Massacre of 1909

I can never think of the Armenians without a stirring of the heart in affection and admiration. How can Americans resist the call to help people who have the courage to die for their faith? One has to be brought to their level of suffering, to be put into the situation in which they have lived during centuries of Turkish oppression, to understand them. Mother, they are heroes—these Armenians, children and grand-children of heroes. It is nothing spectacular that they have done, except in periods of massacre like this.
Source: Gutenberg

Helen Davenport Gibbons The Red Rugs of Tarsus: A Woman's Record of the Armenian Massacre of 1909

West of the bridge the Adana-Mersina road enters the great Cilician Plain once more after the long break of Tarsus and its suburbs. Half a dozen broken places in this bridge are a constant menace to horse and camel. It keeps getting worse and worse. An enormous traffic passes over it: but does any one think of mending it? They will wait until it falls down. The motto of this country is every man for himself. There is no public spirit—no idea of the common weal. One is moved only by what affects him directly, and acts only for what he believes is his interest.
Source: Gutenberg

Helen Davenport Gibbons The Red Rugs of Tarsus: A Woman's Record of the Armenian Massacre of 1909

I cheered up by looking at the American flag waving from the stern of the launch. Only a year ago, and that was the natural sight. I did not know that Tarsus and Mersina existed. Turkey was something I thought would forever be vague. And now—it has become a part of my life. All right to talk about banishing memories. But could we? The sunshine of the East they say casts its spell forever over those who have lived in it. Would we ever come back?
We steamed for a mile straight out to sea. The officers told me I was in command, and jollied along as if I were not a matron with a baby.
Source: Gutenberg

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