From May onward, the Ottoman Government had instinctively begun cutting back relief rations. Bread that had already been mixed with leaves and sand could no longer be guaranteed.
A stomach could not be deceived. Discontent among the refugees swelled. News of the food shortage spread through the camps without wings, and all sorts of rumors filled the air, leaving everyone panic-stricken.
In a refugee camp on the Persian border, Akyol walked out unhappily after receiving his day's food.
A potato the size of a fist was all he had to eat that day. It was not enough even for five- or six-year-old children, let alone adults.
Oh, there were no young children left in the refugee camps. The youngest were already boys of ten or so. In the years of fleeing famine, the very first to die were always the young and the old.
The Ottoman Empire had always been poor. Eating one's fill had long been the hope of the vast majority of its people. After becoming refugees, it was even less worth mentioning.
After receiving their food, Akyol immediately left with several relatives and friends traveling together. The camp was not safe either. Without sticking together, one might become someone else's food at any moment.
Before hunger, human nature was not worth mentioning at all. Along the way, Akyol had seen too many scenes of people exchanging children to eat, and now he did not dare fully trust anyone.
One of his companions asked anxiously, "Akyol, you've seen more of the world than we have. There's less and less food now—what are we supposed to do later?"
They could be considered refugees who still had a bottom line. Even while enduring hunger, they had not followed others into eating human flesh.
Of course, that bottom line only held