Part 1

Armenians, the ancient, true natives of the land...

The situation was dire and catastrophic for the Armenians. It was the brutal era of Sultan Abdul Hamid’s rule—a time when his own people had given him the ominous title of “the Bloody Sultan.” At the height of his tyranny, his Armenophobia was more ferocious than ever. And there was one reason for this:

"Because that nation—the Armenians, the ancient and rightful natives of the land—had awakened. They sought to reclaim their ancestral heritage; they want to live and they want to live as humans."

This excerpt from the novel Yildiz Sasun encapsulates the Armenians' struggle. In their quest for survival and dignity, they took action. There was Zeytun. There were the events of Gum Gapu. Before that, the first awakening of Vaspurakan—Khrimian Hayrik, with his sermons and publications. Karin, with its first cry of rebellion, where “A voice rang out from the Armenian mountains of Erzurum”—a cry that would echo across the earth, resonating in the hearts of Armenians everywhere.

But the most remarkable of all was the awakening of Armenian youth. A new generation was rising—educated and fearless.

"The united, prepared generation, growing stronger and more formidable each year, stood like a thorn in Hamid’s eye."

Hamid feared this generation. And so, he resorted to the only solution in his mind—and the mind of his regime—could conceive: genocide.

"The Great Crime of the End of the Century, by the hands of the New Nero of the End of the Century—Abdul Hamid, the Great Murderer himself," writes Byurat in the novel Ninety-Six—Amid the Blood.

And once again, as during the Sasun massacre, the scapegoat was the Armenian people.

The Armenians—an oasis in the Asian deserts—sought to live in the East as a child of the West, driven by the courageous ambition to ascend to the highest levels of civilization. They were criminals, yes, for being talented and for being peace-loving…"

This excerpt from Yildiz Sasun continues in Ninety-Six—Amid the Blood:

"This truth must be known; it must be spoken aloud. Let the willing blind see. Let the false deaf hear. Let all the nations of the world understand that the Armenian people had embraced a civilizing role in the East. The Armenian people—vigilant, industrious, armed with intelligence, wealth, and the strength of their hands—worked tirelessly to introduce new, life-giving, transformative ideas into minds long stagnant, where only crime had continued to flourish. The Armenian people—if not for the usurpation of the Ottoman throne by a man like Abdul Hamid—could have, within a few years, brought the West to the East, with all its scientific, engineering, mechanical, and artistic marvels, under the protection of life and dignity."

Byurat’s writings have preserved history’s unfiltered image of Hamid—not only as the archenemy of the Armenians and of civilization itself but also as a man, if he could even be called that. Suspicious and depraved, a man who spied through keyholes and eavesdropped from behind curtains. A man of unspeakable cruelty, even toward the women of his own harem—those women who, as Byurat writes, were meant to “sweeten the final light of their Lord yet only deepened his torment."

In short, this was the Turkey that ruled with an iron fist, under whose dictatorship all of Western Armenia remained.

After being imprisoned and later released under a general amnesty, Smbat Byurat found the gates of Zeytun closed to him. Forced to leave, he and his family returned to Constantinople, where he worked at the Aramyan School. However, fearing another arrest, he sought refuge in Egypt, bringing his family with him. It was 1896.

In Egypt, Byurat made significant contributions to education, literature, and society. In Cairo, he founded the Central School, launched the Pyunik periodical, and later established the tri-weekly newspaper Nor Or.

During his time in Cairo, Byurat found a kind of moral sanctuary under the protection of Lord Cromer, the British High Commissioner to Egypt.

The 19th century was drawing to a close.

The swindler who escaped from Thessaloniki

One late autumn day in 1900, a knock echoed at the door of Byurat’s home. An unknown visitor handed him a letter from one of his close friends in Alexandria, Karapet Agha Miloshyan.

The letter read: "Give every assistance to this refugee from the Young Turk Party."

Without hesitation, Byurat offered his help, even giving the man a room in his apartment. This stranger—pursued by the Hamidian regime and wanted by the Sublime Porte of Constantinople—was none other than the manager of the post and telegraph office in Thessaloniki. His name was Mehmed. His surname was Talaat.

Fifteen years later, on May 1st 1915, Byurat—now exiled in Ayash—would send a postcard home to Constantinople, with instructions for it to be delivered to Talaat.

The message read: "Pasha, I never thought you would send the one who saved your life to his death. This is not honesty."

Yevdoxia, Byurat’s wife, wasted no time. She took the letter straight to Talaat’s mansion and placed it in his hands.

Even Talaat’s wife, upon learning of the situation, pleaded with her husband to spare Byurat’s life. After all, he was the man who had once saved Talaat’s own life.

The first time.

Grigor Zohrap would save Talaat’s life a second time.

Anarchyros Pavlites, the villain in disguise

"It’s Enver’s order. I can’t do anything."

Yevdoxia Shishmanyan-Byurat stood frozen in the doorway of Talaat’s palace, struggling to comprehend the depths of a man’s cruelty. What kind of person could be so indifferent?

Without another word, the Ottoman minister retreated to his room. But in the solitude of his thoughts, he could not ignore the memory of Byurat—the man who had once saved his life from Abdul Hamid’s inevitable judgment. Perhaps he scoffed, dismissing Byurat as just another foolish Armenian.

Talaat never truly understood why, in 1900, a stranger had risked everything to help him. Why this man had trusted him without reason, without question.

Fifteen years later, as Byurat awaited his fate in Ayash, he still clung to the hope that there had been some mistake—that Talaat was unaware of what was happening. But when the truth became undeniable—that Talaat was not only aware but the chief orchestrator of the genocide—how could Smbat bear it?

Perhaps with an unbearable sense of guilt toward his own people.

Perhaps with regret and anguish over what had happened fifteen years earlier:

In 1900, Byurat—then an unknown figure— Talaat, had hidden Talaat in his home. But nothing escaped the eyes of Egyptian intelligence. The British High Commissioner to Egypt, Lord Cromer, soon discovered the fugitive’s whereabouts. Yet, out of respect and admiration for Byurat, he refrained from taking drastic action. Instead, he approached him amicably, urging caution.

Byurat, who had suffered deeply under the Hamid regime, saw in Talaat as another victim of that same oppression. He sympathized with the man he was harboring.

Lord Cromer pressed him: Turn over Talaat Bey.

Byurat’s response was unwavering: “Then hand me over to Hamid with him.”

Angered by Byurat’s naivety and unwavering honesty, Lord Cromer issued a final warning: the Turk had 24 hours to flee Cairo. The British official, too, sought to rid himself of responsibility.

Smbat Byurat acted swiftly. Under the cover of secrecy and darkness, he escorted Talaat to Alexandria, where a room was arranged for him at the Armenia Hotel, owned by a certain Blbulyan. A new identity was prepared—a passport under the name Anarkiros Pavlites, granting him Greek citizenship.

Disguised in dark glasses and a hat pulled low over his eyes, Mehmed Talaat—now Anarkiros Pavlites—boarded a ship and arrived safely in Athens. His escape was made possible by two Armenians: Karapet Miloshyan of Alexandria and Smbat Byurat of Cairo, a native of Zeytun.

That night, satisfied with their humanitarian act—proud that they had saved a man from Hamid’s bloody grasp—the two Armenians slept soundly, their conscience clear.

Days later, Athen’s newspapers carried a shocking report:

"A man named Mehmed Talaat, wanted in his homeland, had appeared at the Turkish embassy, claiming he had secretly traveled to Egypt on a patriotic mission—to gather intelligence on Armenian revolutionary activity and report it to Ottoman authorities. He swore his loyalty to the “kind” sultan and vowed to serve him faithfully from that day forward."

The response from the “kind” yet bloodstained sultan was swift. Talaat’s name was erased from Hamid’s blacklist.

The fugitive telegraph manager from a forgotten city was not only pardoned but rewarded. Soon after, Talaat was appointed General Director of the Edirne Post and Telegraphs in Adrianople.

And Byurat? What did he think—what did he feel—when he read those words?

9 years later

In April 1909, Mehmed Talaat would once again escape imminent death.

And once again, he would owe his life to an Armenian.

This time, his savior was Grigor Zohrap.

During a parliamentary session, a coup attempt erupted—the Young Turks turning against the government. Chaos engulfed the chamber, and many members of the Ittihad were killed.

Talaat, however, was spared—not by design, but by sheer luck. Instead of sitting among his party members, he had taken a seat in the section reserved for foreign correspondents.

Also present that day, was Smbat Byurat’s son, Vaghinak, who was acting as a translator for the editor of the French newspaper Le Matin.

Fate had intervened once more.

And once more, an Armenian had unknowingly saved Talaat’s life.

Zohrap, without losing his composure, acted with lightning speed.

In a split second, he snatched the hat from the head of a Arbeiter-Zeitung newspaper reporter and placed it on Talaat’s head. Then, taking Talaat by the arm, he walked confidently past the soldiers who had stormed the hall.

Facing the captain, Zohrap declared with unwavering authority:

"I am Zohrap, an Itilaf lawyer, and this gentleman is Herr Babenker, a German journalist."

The captain barely hesitated. “Go ahead,” came the order.

Talaat was safe.

But Zohrap’s role as his protector did not end there. Fully aware of Talaat’s ruthlessness and the treachery he was capable of—aware, too, of his previous betrayal of Smbat Byurat in Cairo—Zohrap nevertheless hid him in his home for days. He treated him with the hospitality of a king, knowing full well that he was sheltering a man capable of immense cruelty.

Not long after this second rescue of the Ottoman minister, the Adana massacre erupted.

The orchestrators? -Mehmed Talaat and his associates.

Byurat’s Resistance

After the horrors of Adana, Smbat Byurat did not remain silent. Through the pages of his daily newspaper, “Gaxhapar”, he published bold articles and editorials condemning the atrocities. His words were fearless:

"You committed this crime, which cost the lives of thirty thousand innocent Armenians. Criminals, enough is enough, we understand you..."

For this, his newspaper was shut down.

Undeterred, he turned to poetry, writing his now-famous lament “Atana’s Lament”:

The massacre was merciless, let the Armenians cry,
The magnificent Adana became a desert.
Fire and sword and ruthless plunder,
The Rubinians' house—oh, they destroyed it all.

His words stood as a testimony. A cry against injustice. A call never to forget.

**************************************************

After the proclamation of the Turkish Constitution, Byurat returned to Constantinople from Egypt, ready to resume his life’s work.

He not only republished Pyunik, the periodical he had originally founded in Cairo, but also launched the daily newspaper Gaxhapar and took on the editorship of Manzumeyi Efkair, a periodical written in Turkish using the Armenian alphabet.

Yet, his most significant and enduring contribution was the creation of the “Modern Series” with his son Vaghinak, a groundbreaking publication that quickly gained immense popularity within Armenian society.

Through journalism, literature, and education, Byurat continued his lifelong mission—to enlighten,  inspire, and resist.

The Modern Series was an instant success—its rather large print run quickly sold out.

Komitas Vardapet, recognizing the series as an important cultural initiative for preserving Armenian identity, repeatedly urged Byurat to relocate the publishing house to Tiflis (Tbilisi). He warned him that Turkey was an ungrateful land, a place of impending danger.

But Byurat did not listen.

Had he followed the Vardapet’s advice, he might have escaped the horrors of the 1915 Armenian Genocide.

Byurat had undertaken the Modern Series project alongside his eldest son, Vaghinak. And it was in pursuit of this work that Vaghinak found himself aboard the Titanic.

He was traveling to America—Boston, to be precise—to finalize a lucrative contract with a bookseller from Zeytun, Grigor Bostanjian, for the sale of the series’ volumes. Approximately 6,000 books had already been shipped in advance through the Hirshkovich shipping office.

At the time, a deceptive calm had settled over the Armenian community. In the years following the Adana massacre, the Turks, hoping to regain Armenian trust, had allowed a brief period of stability—one that would last no more than two or three years.

During this fragile window, Smbat Byurat immersed himself in writing, producing a series of significant historical works: Yeltze Pomba, After Sasun, The Eagle of Avarayr or Vardanank, For Freedom, The Eastern Problem and the Armenian Issue, Poems, and more, much more, over 40 volumes of books.

It was during this period of creativity, amid a false sense of security, that his son set off for distant America.

I'm leaving today at 11 a.m. on the Titanic.

On March 23, 1912, the Orient Express carried Vaghinak to the French port of Le Havre. From there, he crossed the English Channel, disembarking in Dover before continuing by rail to Manchester and finally reaching the port of Southampton.

At the White Star Line office, he purchased his ticket—one that had been pre-arranged by his English-based acquaintances.

On the morning of his departure, as he made his way from the hotel to the pier, Vaghinak stopped at the Reuters agency. There, he sent two identical telegrams—one to Boston, to the bookseller Grigor Bostanjian, and the other to his father in Constantinople, marked on demand:

"I am leaving today at 11 a.m. on the Titanic."

At 5:05 a.m., the Titanic weighed anchor, its bow cutting through the Atlantic, bound for New York.

Vaghinak was thrilled to be aboard the world’s largest and most luxurious ship. More than that, he was eager for the promising future that awaited him in America—a land of opportunity and, in his case, a highly profitable deal.

Dressed in stylish American attire, purchased from one of Manchester’s finest fashion houses, he exuded confidence. A pipe between his teeth, effortlessly gliding across the dance floor with one of the ship’s lone beautiful passengers—he felt completely at ease, like a fish in water.

Until he found himself in the water.

But that was still days away. It was April 10, and no one could have imagined what lay ahead for the Titanic.

During the voyage, Vaghinak befriended a fellow passenger, a Frenchman named Moren, who was traveling to America to claim the fortune of his dying, heirless aunt. Moren was in high spirits—who wouldn’t be, with millions awaiting him on the other side of the ocean?

Then came the night of April 14-15.

Around 1:00 a.m., a terrible sound shattered the night. Vaghinak was certain it was an explosion in the boiler room. But as panic spread, he and Moren rushed to the deck.

The chaos had begun.