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=> In Tur Abdin

Posted by Dalale (Guest) - Tuesday, September 6 2005, 14:42:27 (CEST)
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I am banned once again from bethsuryoyo. I wanted to tell the young lady who posted pictures of Tur Abdin how much I love the Mount of Worshippers, and that I hope to take a long drive one day and visit too, as she did. I want to visit Mardin where my grandmother was originally from, untill her family fled the Genocide and ended up in Lebanon. See my grandmother was 100 % Suryoyo, she was a very kind woman, she married an Assyrian man Jilwaya, my grandfather, a very kind man, but her father being very Suryoyo did not forgive her untill his deathbed, because she ran away with my grandfather to spite him. Nonetheless a great women she was, and through her actions eventually my mother was born who married a Chaldean, a ALqoshniya, and hence here I was created a Chaldean, Assyrian, Suryeyto, all in one! Other people can call themselves whatever they want, but I will not deny any part of me. In arabic they say "Man nakara aslahu la aslan lahu." I also want to visit Midyat and all the other villages. There is a poem I also love about Tur Abdin, which speaks of the Genocide, it is sad, but I always remember this poem when there are books written with blood drenched angels etc. and here it is.

In Tur Abdin
By Margaret Sangester Jr.

In a weary, frightened country,
Far across the moaning sea,
There’s a sound of weeping, praying,
That has wrung the heart of me,
There’s a sound of babies wailing:
There’s a famished cry for bread,
There’s a tortured scream of anguish
Over bodies, murdered, dead.

There are deserts, parched and breathless,
In this land across the foam,
There are tragic piles of ashes,
And each used to be a home.
There are shallow graves smoothed over,
Where a garden bloomed before,
There is fear, and hate, and anguish;
There is strife, and blood, and war!

War is not a sound of trumpets,
Or a trilling beat of drums,
Or a row of prancing chargers.
War is furtive; and it comes
Like a murderer at midnight,
With starvation in its train.
War is brutal force, not courage;
War is dirt, disease, and pain.

In the hopeless, helpless country;
They(who?) are calling us today;
They are pleading that we help them,
And we dare not turn away
For the saviour spoke and speaking,
“To the least of these” said He,
“Every crust of bread ye give them
Ye have given unto me!”

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