Karabakh 1988 E-Book

Ohanj Karen

• Herausgeber: Edit Print
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The book-epopee is an account of the Karabakh movement which became the starting point of the independence of Armenian and Nagorno Karabakh.
Written in belle-letters and publistic genre, the novel-epopee Karabakh 1988 describes the struggle of the Armenian nation fro reunification and historical justice.
Author Karen Ohanj (Ohanjanyan): An acclaimed writer and poet in Artsakh, a public figure, a laureate of international awards for Pease and Human Rights, Doctor of Philosophy, Professor

Leseprobe

Karen OHANJ (Ohanjanyan)

Karabakh 1 9 8 8

A Novel

1988-1989Stepanakert

Special thanks to Gurgen Melikyan Multichildren Family Foundation Of Kashatagh for financing the translation of «KARABAKH-1988» book from Russian into English

Translated by Gohar Madoyan

Karen OHANJ (Ohanjanyan)

Karabakh. A Novel / Stepanakert - (1988-1989)

An acclaimed writer and poet in Artsakh, a public figure, a laureate of international awards for Peace and Human Rights, Doctor of Philosophy, Professor.

The book-epopee is an account of the Karabakh movement which became the starting point of the independence of Armenia and Nagorno Karabakh.

Written in belle-lettres and publicistic genre, the novel-epopee Karabakh 1988 describes the struggle of the Armenian nation for reunification and historical justice.

ISBN 978-9939-75-491-8

© K. Ohanjanyan, 2020

© Edit Print, 2020

Thenovel-epopee by the famous Artsakh writer and poet, a public figure, a laureate of international awards for Peace and Human Rights, doctor of philosophical sciences, professor Karen Ohanj (Ohanjanyan) is written in belle-lettres and publicistic genre and describes the events of the 1980s known as the Kharabakh movement. The author was not only present on the grounds of the events which came to change the life of the Armenian nation radically, but was also among the leaders of the movement which proved to be the detonator of the collapse of the Soviet Union and which gave birth to a centrifugal movement for freedom and independence in the Soviet Socialist Republics.

All the events that are professionally and masterfully depicted in the novel are reality based and correspond to the history of the Karabakh movement. The heroes of the novel are the very people who made it possible to realize the century-old dream of the Armenian people – the restoration of the statehood after decades.

The events of the 80s of the past century were truly epic in nature. This could not but find its reflection in the novel. The lead hero of the novel is the nation itself which is presented as the fighter and the creator of its own future. It is the nation that faced blackmail, a genocide and political massacre, but which preserved its centuries-old Fighting Spirit even after the genocide committed against its own folks and the devastating earthquake leaving nearly half of the Soviet Armenia in ruins.

The heroes of the novel are ordinary people – teachers, doctors, workers, villagers, heads of organizations and companies. All of them were united for a common dream – reunification with Mother Armenia. The author managed to present the routine and life of ordinary residents of Artsakh in most realistic and vivid colors, thereby conveying the true feel of Karabakh to the events and scenes depicted which helped highlight the distinctive and unique nature of Karabakh.

The limits of the epopee did not make it possible for the author to mention all the participants of the truly national movement in the novel and therefore, he included only the key actors of the movement turning them into collective figures. That’s why the leading heroes of the Karabakh movement do not appear with their real names.

The novel-epopee Karabakh -1988 abounds in national folklore, exquisite descriptions of the amazing Karabakh nature and realistic images of the Soviet reality at the crack of epochs…

Karabakh-1988 is both a piece of literature and DOCUMENTATION OF TIME. Many generations will be raised on it since it includes not only documentary, but also psychological, social and emotional features of the Karabakh movement. It portrays the life on the background of the great historical rebirth.

The novel-epopee Karabakh-1988 is a wonderful example of prosaic art, which, to my mind, will provoke a genuine interest among readers.

Literature expert and literary critic

Gayane Beglaryan

This is no time for any nation to have any trace of the mentality of the bully.

It is no time for any nation to become hated….

It is no time for any nation to be anything but just.

Ernest Hemingway

A Yataghan in the Sky

Arin looked up at the night sky and sank into deep thoughts. The mysteriously beautiful sky over his homeland - Artsakh lit with countless stars sprang to his memory… His gaze stopped at the Moon which had placed itself like a yataghan over the ancient monastery. “What is it?”, he thought. “A perpetual ordeal? Anyway, it is not possible to break us! Our Gandzasar – proud, ancient, impregnable, majestic and at the same time mysterious like the night sky itself may be the witness”. Then his eyes searched for the cracks covering nearly all of the surface of the grand monastery and he thought. “How could we make this happen? How could we stand it and still continue doing it? How long are the self-proclaimed owners of this land going to humiliate us? Of the land which is drenched in the sweat and blood of our ancestors, the creators of this wonder-monastery – a true masterpiece of architecture where the grass on the path leading to the altar never overgrew in old days! How impoverished we have grown in spirit that are frightened to say out loud to the whole world that we are Armenians. Stop taking us for the descendants of non-native tribes! We are Christians who have built a dream-church and are like all other pious people who believe in God and have the right to pray. We are not faithless as they want to portray us, ruining all what is human and sacred in us. This monastery is perhaps the only witness of the rise and fall of my mountainous homeland”.

“Sing, please, dear maestro”, Arin turned to the man squatting just like him near the fire which was lit not far from the imposing monastery.

The huge old man with a pleasant face was called Gourgen. He willingly agreed to do the request of the young fellow writer and suggested taking a torch and entering the monastery. Arin followed Gourgen. Right at the entrance Gourgen started singing the famous song of Gandzasar the lyrics of which he had written himself, with his penetrating baritone… Arin, infatuated with the singing of his friend long stood speechless in the silence that enveloped them. All this time he watched Gourgen and saw the latter, who shook the vaults of the church with his powerful singing, fall on his knees before the altar and start kissing the cold stone intermittently and uttering the famililar words under the influence of some gripping power, “Oh, my consolation…, my hope…, my dream”.

After a long silence Arin went up the maestro and putting his hand on his shoulder, said in a low voice that nearly grew into a whisper, “Wonderful, I have never heard anything like that…”. Then, slowly, with the burning torch in his hand, headed for the door leaving his friend kneeling at the alter.

When Arin went out of the monastery he again found himself in the arms of the night mist and again saw the flash of the moon sparkling with a cold yataghan. It seemed to him that the moon was bleeding and suddenly the picture of hundreds of thousands of exhausted and mutilated Armenians driven into the steppe to a definite death sprang before his eyes and he, all in rage and fury, shouted at the top of his voice, “Sparkle, Sparkle as much as you wish! You cannot eliminate us! You are no longer a revengeful fate for us. You hear me?... ”

“What has happened?, the alarmed voice of Gourgen was heard from behind.

“Emotions took over me”, Arin answered trying to justify himself, then, hugging his friend, added, “You sang really wonderfully today. It is even hard to explain it in words”…

“It was the first time I had sang like that” Gourgen confessed. It seemed it was not me who was singing, but was someone else hiding behind the vaults. It’s a mystery…”.

“No mystery at all” Arin objected. “It was the singing of a poet who had witnessed and experienced the grief of his own nation, all the sufferings that had accumulated long in his soul and had just found a release”.

“I guess you are right” the maestro said after a short pause.

“From this day on our life will get better. It will be very hard but will bring us happiness”…

“Have you planned anything?”, Gourgen asked worried.

“Not me, others have and I have joined them. It will shake the whole world and will sanctify our nation”, Arin exclaimed pathetically.

“You are keeping something back, but I understand what you mean…You will tell me about it, won’t you?, Gourgen asked his young friend hopefully”

“You have already done it yourself…”.

The Secret Meeting

The secret apartment where four young men and an elderly gathered was located on the outskirts of the city of Stepanakert. To get there one had to pass several back streets. The choice of this place was not accidental. It was practically unknown to many people in the city. A run-down building which looked as if it was going to crumble, had temporarily turned into a headquarters, bringing together these five men who were principally different both in character and in worldview. There was one thing they all agreed upon, though, and they came here to make out the root causes of the changes that were observed in the mood of the people.

The man who was the oldest among them but looked much younger his age impressively glanced at his expensive watch and invited everyone to the table.

“Shall we elect a president?”, he asked. “Temporarily”, he clarified noticing the surprised faces of the people present.

“To my mind, we cannot find a better candidate than you”, Arin started the conversation. “Who should lead the movement if not you? You have both experience of struggle and reputation among the nation. I am sure you must be the president”.

“He is right”, Arayik a dark-skinned handsome guy supported Arin. We all want to see you at the head of the movement.

The people present nodded.

“Well, we can consider that we are through with one of the formalities” Levon Teryan stated without hiding his contentment. “Thanks for your trust. We are going to face huge work together. It is going to be difficult and is full of numerous dangers and threats up to imprisonment and accidental, fabricated deaths. But this is not the most terrible. The most terrible is the fact that by turning the dissatisfaction of the nation to open speeches we risk exposing it to unprecedented persecutions and pressure by the Soviet authorities. The movement will hardly have grown when it will be suppressed from above. Terrible repressions will entail. That’s why, our main task is to always think about people. We ought to protect those who already call the people to come to streets. It is a suicide. Our duty is to save what has not been lost yet. First of all, it is necessary to raise the self-consciousness of the people, open their eyes so that we can turn our dream into a reality after a while. Haste has no place in our work. We must not run ahead of the events, but we should, in no way, fall behind it, either. It is a sure suicide, too. Don’t you agree with me? Levon Teryan asked the supporters in search of encouragement.

“We do” Arin answered. The participants nodded. Arin went on, “I think, now we need to divide the work into sections and attract new people to join in”.

“True, I have also thought about that”, Teryan noted. “But you did not let me finish my thoughts. Let us think of some ways to divide the responsibility and the work”.

“You are a quite well-known public figure”, Arin broke in again turning to Teryan, “That’s why we shall take care of the whole of the routine work ourselves. You had better take care of coordination and representation. I suggest that each of us should be in charge of one or two districts of the area. We all know people whom we trust who can help disseminate our ideas. Besides, we should be the ones to control the situation under force-major, if, God forbid, it happens”.

“I want to add” Arayik joined the conversation. “Our aim is to unite Artsakh with Armenia and following this, it is highly important that we should establish very close contacts with Armenia, with those sharing our ideas, with the movement which has started there, too. That’s why, one of us must become the link between us and Armenia”.

“So, you will be our link”, Levon Teryan was quick to respond.

“I don’t mind, if, of course, nobody has objections” Arayik answered.

“We all agree. You have been communicating with the national-patriotic organizations in Armenia for many years already” Arin supported the candidacy of Arayik.

Maksim and Rolles also favored Arayik’s candidacy with Arin.

As soon as the distribution of the duties had been completed, the participants of the meeting agreed to meet at the same place upon need at least once a week. Everything settled, they left the house one by one. Arayik was the last to leave after having carefully removed all the traces of their presence in this secret house…

Children’s House – Uncovering the Truth

“The House of Guests”, or as has been locally called “The House of Bitches” was a luxurious mansion on the outskirts of Stepanakert, specially built by the order of Heydar Aliev, the First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party (CCCP) of Azerbaijanian SSR to serve as a house of reception of high-ranking guests, which proved to be the first reason of the political clash early in the 80s in Nagorno Karabakh. Situated on one of the picturesque hills at the entrance of Stepanakert, this mansion was in the center of attention. Surrounded by a thick forest, the white marbles of its walls that overlooked the green of the forest with contempt, delighted one’s eyes from the side of the opposite hill, as well, where the barbeque house Dashushen was comfortably placed. But not everyone was privileged to enjoy the view from the pavilion of Dashushen since only people with thick wallets had a chance to appear there…

The House of Guests was surrounded with secrecy. His regular customer was Boris Kevorkov, the First Secretary of the Regional Committee of the Communist Party and his underlings and they took precautions so that information of their doings would not leave the walls of the house. And it is not accidental that the serving personnel as well as the security were selected with utmost care. The so-called staff were always on pins and needles. God forbid if the bosses were not pleased. Their lives were a step from prison bars.

However, despite all the precautions, every secret, especially if several people are involved in it, sooner or later comes to the surface. Rumors of the secret side of the life of the leaders of the region increased at a tremendous speed. The city, more precisely the whole region, lived on talks about them only. The customers of the House of Guests took additional precautions. All the servants were changed, the security was tightened. Meanwhile, rumors and talks did not fade away. For the first time in ten years of the tyranny of Kevorkov, people openly discussed Him himself without fearing imprisonment.

It seemed reasonable, under circumstances, to cancel the ill-famed parties. However, it did not happen. Perversion and all-permissiveness had turned them blind since behind the group of scoundrels, bribers, inhumans corrupt to the bone who called themselves servants of the nation stood Heydar Ailev himself…

On a December day, Albert Ghazaryan, a most vivid personality and a popular personality in the city, who at that moment was holding quite a nice position in the hierarchy of the city authorities, offended by the bosses and with a photo camera in his hand penetrated into the “Sacred House of the Saints”. Hiding in the attic and with no help from his accomplice, he started to wait for the first visitors to come.

Meanwhile the servant was moving back and forth busy with the preparation of the food. A man cried to the woman to turn on the oven in time. The voices coming from the kitchen on the first floor made it clear that the ones, or rather, the one for whom the whole staff was put in motion, would soon arrive.

It got brighter when a Volga stopped in the yard.

“Is everything ready?”the regional prosecutor asked the man hurrying to the car.

“Almost” the man answered guiltily.

“What do you mean by almost, asshole? They will be here in no time and you dare tell me almost?”

“Everything will be ready by their arrival”.

“This is already better. Well, hurry up! They will be soon”.

The car drove off at a tremendous speed. The man stood petrified for a moment and then as if remembering something literally flew to the kitchen and yelling. “Hurry up, assholes! I told you they will be here in no time”. He wanted to cry out something else but did not manage. Volgas drove in one after another.

There is no need to describe in detail how our hero, seizing the moment, noiselessly came down the attic and started to shoot mind-blowing scenes as a result of which this suspicious house was closed down and was equipped as a children’s resort…

The population of the autonomous region was long shocked and puzzled… The creators of the den got away with minor remarks from the Central Committee of the Communist Party and the House of Bitches turned into a House of Children and this story ended here. The small hope of the people that they would get rid of the dictator soon and would be able to breathe freely burst like a bubble. The Kremlin Commission killed the conviction that there is some justice in the CCCP. Sustaining a fiasco the people of Artsakh, seemed, to have fallen into Depression.

Love in the Small Town

Stepanakert looks brighter in the evenings than in the daytime. The pretty electrical lamps produced by the local electrical-technical factory make the city especially beautiful. The movement of the cars along the narrow streets considerably reduces towards the evening. But it does not least mean that life in the city dies away with the twilight. On the contrary, having returned home from work, many people go out for everyday walk after a short rest and by eight o’clock the wide pavements get filled with people gently exchanging the recent news with each other. Life in a small town has both its advantages and serious disadvantages. Here one can never experience the feeling of loneliness or indifference like in a big city. Here, as nowhere else, one can feel the sense of community, companionship and understanding. However, such towns are full of curious people who stick their noses in the personal life of each person publicly discussing each action of the person concerned. The residents of Stepanakert like to make fun of themselves. The accidental exchange of a word between spouses in bed may become a public property the very next day. Few people are able to survive, save his/ her “own self”, remain faithful to their principles. And the one who ignores the public opinion, soon finds himself/herself on the “black list” and earns the label “a snob”, “weird”, “crazy” or simply a “prostitute”…

Half of the people called Arayik a snob, the others simply thought he was weird. That day, when he was walking along the alley of the upper park deep in thoughts where hundred-year-old lindens grew, in the shade of which the great Russian poet Mikhail Lermontov rested on his way to Shushi in old days, a woman called out to him.

“Oh, Anna”, Arayik got surprised turning around. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?” Arayik asked confusedly, with his mind still somewhere there.

“People are right when they say that you are weird” she noted trying to hurt his ego.

“I don’t care what people say about me. You do not share that opinion, do you?” he asked changing the look in his eyes.

“Who knows?... You have stopped visiting me recently. Have you got another one?

“No, absolutely no. Simply I don’t have time”, he tried to justify himself.

“You look unwell. Are you sick?” Anna asked flirtatiously and with some delicate irony.

“Don’t worry, I am quite healthy” Arayik replied catching the double nature of the question.

“I would not say so” Anna went on flirting.

“And why is that?”

“Because I am standing before you and you are absolutely indifferent to me”.

“What do you think I should do? Do you think I should undress you right here and now to prove you I am ok?”Arayik answered sarcastically.

“Well, we might do it in another place, if, of course, you do not mind”

“On the contrary, I was thinking about it myself”. Arayik confessed. I often think about you. Shall we go to your place?

“But it is not 10 yet” Anna protested, though being happy at the surprise offer.

“So what?” Arayik was amazed at her worry.

“It does not mean anything for me. I am worrying about you. It seemed you always objected to early visits to avoid gossip”.

“I am not afraid of anything now”.

“What a brave boy you are! Even if tomorrow everyone will be telling that you have visited a prostitute?” she was playing with Arayik’s feelings.

“Stop it, Anna. You are not like that. I don’t care what they say…

“In fact, it is the same to me. This is how they call all divorced women… So, shall we go?” she asked Arayik.

“Yes”…

Without any haste, they headed for Anna’s place discussing different things. For the first time during the three years since they got acquainted they acted very naturally in the street despite the curious glances which followed them till they reached the flat. The last one to see them was a neighbor who met them as if accidentally, right in the yard. Closing the door behind they found themselves in the embrace of darkness.

“Where is the switch?”Arayik asked feeling uncomfortable.

In reply, Anna said, “Why do you need it? Lovers detest light…”

“But is it pitch dark in here”

“Then kiss me and your eyes will see better themselves”.

“I guess you are right”, he agreed and took her in his strong arms.

“So, is it still dark? Anna asked slyly”.

“Not a bit” he admitted feeling the heat of her kisses.

Anna’s apartment was not big, with only two rooms, but was very comfortable, furnished with delicate taste. Compared to the bedroom in modernist style, the living-room was designed in the style of Louis XIV. Everybody who entered the apartment soon experienced the gentle feeling of tranquility.

“Coffee or tea?”she asked covering her naked body in a dressing gown which revealed her stiff breasts.

“I would rather have what’s under the dressing gown” he honestly stated his wish.

“That’ll come much later, as a dessert” Anna joked.

“Nope, I want it now”, he said and getting out of the armchair went up to her and took her to the bedroom without allowing her to do up the dressing gown…

Elza’s Case or the Beginning of the End

Who could think that the beautiful Elza, the mighty owner of the store in the city of Martakert, would be sent to prison? The scandal around her became the beginning of the end of the leader of Karabakh – Kevorkov. The mixed store, i.e. the store selling diverse goods in the provincial town with the yearly turnover of 25000 roubles entered the history of the corporate property theft of the Soviet Union as one of the biggest ones. The checking carried out by one of the meticulous audits of the consumer society revealed that Elza had stolen around half a million roubles. Taking into consideration that at the time of the arrest Elza was 50 and according to the plan such an amount of goods could have been accumulated only during 6o years, a reasonable question arose, “Who supplied her goods at such an enormous sum and how could she realize such a volume of goods in this small provincial town”.

It was evident that she was backed by some influential personality, a really influential one. As soon as it became known that the checking might entail a huge scandal, they attempted to dismiss the case. The audit was made to rewrite the act. The option of setting the store on fire was also considered. However, this was prevented by the publicity of the case. The case was paid close attention to not only the USSR Prosecutor’s Office, but also by mass media…

Despite the efforts of the patrons to prevent Elza’s prosecution by justice, she was arrested. During the interrogation Elza more and more frequently gave the names of famous people and her life was seriously at risk. The secret of the theft of half a million roubles could vanish with her. The population of the oblast was genuinely concerned about her fate and hence, called for objective and impartial investigation. As was expected, the Soviet practice showed that it was always minor offenders who appeared in court, while the big shots remained in freedom. So, Elza’s demands to question the Secretary of Karabakh Boris Kevorkov and Heydar Aliyev, one of the leaders of the Soviet Union, proved futile. Her conviction that the money was stolen by them did not find any support among the high-ranking officials.

Being one of Kevorkov’s lovers, Elza had always foreseen an unfortunate ending. She knew there would come a time when she, a “milk cow”, would be asked where she got so much “milk” from and she would have to explain, justify herself, present some alibi. So, it occurred to her to collect compromising evidence against the leaders of Karabakh, Azerbaijan and the Soviet Union… She soon had a “black list” which contained the names of those who made use of her favors. Being sly and cautious Elza even decided to hire photographers during her travels who secretly, whether it was on the beach or at a hotel room, captured her with the leader of the Communists of Karabakh. Both the investigators and those who had even once made use of the services of Elza knew about the existence of these photos. Not handing them to the prosecutor she managed to hold the bull by its both horns. First, she did not let Aliyev and Kevorkov do away with her like an unpleasant witness to the numerous scams of high-ranking officials. Second, they made it possible for her to get out of the claws of the Prosecutor’s Office since knowing about the existence of these photos, the villains who were at large would do everything for her immediate release…

The authorities of Nagorno Karabakh and not only they were in agony. Everyone expected someone to be arrested and sent to prison soon since apart from Elza’s case, the unfair arrest of Levon Aghamyan, the ad of the Head of the Regional Consumer Society was also being investigated. The latter revealed the dark side of the leadership of the oblast.

The society waited for the ending of the protracted investigation impatiently. This time the people of Artsakh hoped for justice. The country was living through the era of openness and Perestroika. However, the investigation bypassed the really guilty ones who continued holding their positions and robbing their own people. The only thing that was out of their power was closing the mouths of the people. Dissatisfaction about the work of the authorities of the oblast kept growing and distrust towards Kevorkov reached its highest. And, perhaps, the saddest moment in the life of Kevorkov was the release of Levon Aghamyan who was sentenced to eleven years of imprisonment on the charge of bribery. His release increased the moral spirit of the nation to the highest level in the last 50 years. Kevorkov’s fate was already determined and there was a solid ground for the start of the nationalist-liberation movement of the people of Artsakh for their freedom. The nation threw off the chains believing in the ideas of openness and Perestroika…

I shall get married, but only after reuniting with Armenia

One bright day Arin came up to the secret house that had become so dear to him. He was in high spirits. He had just returned from the region of Hadrut. The campaign to collect signatures for submitting to the CCCP had surpassed his expectations. There was no need to explain the situation to the people, they understood without words and themselves became preachers and agitators of nationalist ideas. There, in the region, Arin watched people wake up from a “lethargic” dream which had been lasting for 65 years.

The years of rejection of all national values out an end to the faceless past of the nation. The newly born movement was so much needed that everyone he had met, had expressed their readiness to have their contribution to go to the end without stopping before anything even if repressions were to follow. Arin was enormously happy and was proud of the unbroken spirit of his own nation. The movement grew on. Thanks to his own personal charisma and sociability, he was able to make friends with various people. And each time, whether his interlocutor was an elderly man or a young woman, when parting he would hear words of compassion and love coming from the deepest corners of their hearts.

“Be happy! May we not meet misfortunes on our way”, “May God be with you, the last word will be ours…”.

He was not going to his friends feeling depressed or brooding as before, but rather with an extraordinary feeling of gratitude to them for having trusted him this great mission. It was the first time he had seen the real result of his activity and great result it was! “They will certainly yield fruits”, he thought, “Because they feed on small steams starting from biblical mountains. Isn’t it the reason why the nation, which quenches its thirst by dew beads that turn into streams flowing into the biblical garden has preserved its initial mind, genuine frankness, innocence and understands the problem it confronts so wisely? Truly, Artsakh is a country of biblical wise men. What spirit dwells in these old men waddling along the country roads of deserted villages? They, too, were born in the Soviet epoch which devastated the Armenian statehood and even their tiny world, but never their spirit”.

Arin was about to lift the latch of the house, when he remembered the words of the hundred-year-old man and stood startled, “Don’t worry about us, son, if need be, we will take the gun. What happiness it is to die for Armenia…”. He entered the room. His friends were already waiting for him.

-Here comes Arin”, Teryan cried out happily seeing him. “Let’s see how well he carried out the task and what he has come back with, with happy or not so news”

Arin told them about his journey in detail. He did not fail to mention about his meeting with the hundred-year-old man. Everyone was touched…

The plan of the future actions was carefully discussed at the meeting. Since the movement was enlarging its scope and involved more and more people and five members of the unofficial body of the whole movement did not have the right to talk in the name of the whole nation, it seemed necessary to expand the structure of the leadership. It was decided that each member of the group could invite two activists who were completely devoted to the nationalist movement to the next meeting…

As usual, Arin left the meeting deep in thoughts. He liked staying alone with his own self. Then he would continue arguing with his friends in his mind trying to understand their motives of disagreement with this or that suggestion he had made. At moments like this, he would picture the future of his nation. With each day he grew more and more convinced that Armenians would win back their independence and restore the glory of the past. His visit to the region of Hadrut dispelled all doubts in him. One could hold the whole universe in his fist with such a nation.

“Are you offended by us?”, Teryan asked Arin catching up with him on the last curve of the slope.

“Not a bit. What made you think so?”, Arin was surprised.

“Arin” Teryan uttered taking him by his shoulder like a father, “It has been a long time since we devoted ourselves to this sacred mission by the call of our conscience and our ancestors. I have noticed that after each meeting you strive to be alone, you avoid us. I am worried about you. Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I am quite all right”, Arin replied a little taken aback. Obviously, he did not expect a question like that.

“May I ask you a tactless question?”

“Sure, you may”, Arin answered.

“Aren’t you going to marry?”, Teryan asked.

“I knew you would ask me that”, Arin said and then, after a short pause added, “I would like to get married, have a son, pass him all the knowledge I possess, bring him up in the spirit of our times and nationalist traditions so that he would grow up to be a great Armenian”.

“Very commendable”, Teryan noted tapping on his shoulder.

“But I can’t marry yet and there are objective reasons for that”, Arin went on and bent his head down.

“Sorry for being so pushy” Teryan apologized, “but can I know the reasons?”

“Of course. This is my sick father. When I see him in this state my heart sinks and I feel hatred towards the one who was the cause of his heart attack. This is my sad story”…

“How is he now?”, Teryan asked sympathetically.

“He is Ok, thanks. His health is stable but he thinks like a schoolboy in the first class”, Arin answered with pain in his voice.

“I cannot look at your father without feeling sorry, either”, Teryan confessed.

“You are not a family member. Can you imagine how I feel?. He turned from a mighty intellectual into a handicapped wreck unable to understand what is happening around. Each movement he makes, each action he does causes pain to me and arouses protest against injustice. He is not to blame but I lose control with each his caprice. Why doesn’t the one who is really guilty of his illness bear any moral responsibility?

“Do you offend your Father?”

“Sometimes, when my nerves fail me”, he confessed.

“He does not deserve such treatment”

“Easy said than done. It is hell’s torture to watch the degradation of a close person and live with that since you have another image of his in your sub consciousness, so different from the one you see now. It is really painful. That is the reason I do not marry…”.

Arin went on after a short pause, “The second reason is that I am a one-woman man”.

“A one-woman man?” Teryan was taken by surprise. “Would never have guessed it. You fly from one flower to another like a moth”.

“That’s a fact. I love a girl. Her name is Polina”, he confessed to his friend in embarrassment. “Things have not been easy with us. She got married, had a daughter and then got divorced. Our feelings are still there, but marriage does not work…”

“Your story reminded me of something”, Levon Teryan uttered after listening to Arin attentively. “Life is not easy. At times it seems just a small effort is needed to achieve happiness, but is so difficult to make it”.

Teryan talked and looked into Arin’s eyes. The latter had become a unique revelation for him. Under the gloomy behavior he found a most delicate, emotional and decent man who suffered deeply and still remained open to the world.

“If only that effort could change anything!”, Arin replied with a sigh and went on, “Our tragedy lies in the fact that we perfectly realize that this effort will not change a thing…”

“You are right”, Teryan agreed, “But still, my advice is – get married. When a child is born, you will forget everything, you will be caught in the whirlpool of life and things will get easier”.

“I will surely do as you say, but only after reuniting with Armenia”…

The Past Revives

May is usually abundant in rain in Artsakh. This one proved no exception. The bright and warm days which had set in seemed ready to break this tradition of the nature. However, the rain poured and everything repeated itself as in previous years. The landslides created a real chaos in community services and mixed feelings among the infamous leaders incapable of resisting the vagaries of nature. The inhabitants of the mountainous region treated such days differently. Some enjoyed life in the warm company of the family, others considering their hopeless state and taking out all their rage on the bad weather got overdrunk. Still others, few in number, but the most sensitive part of the population sank into deep gloom and withdrew into themselves finding consolation in hope for speedy recovery.

Arin belonged to the third group. Such weather arose apathy towards everything, but mostly towards himself. Alone in his room, he started criticizing all his life, reproaching himself for the years he had lived aimlessly…He was mostly depressed by the fact that in his thirties he was still hopelessly alone. His friends had long created their own families, had kids who ran after them gently calling them “father”. Will he never be a father? Won’t he be able to fight fear in himself and go beyond circumstances no matter how objective and justified they were? “Love was there, in the air a short while ago”, he thought, “It could not have disappeared without a trace, could it? On the one hand, in the deepest corner of my soul I still cherish the memory of the precious past. On the other hand, day by day life mercilessly separates me from the time when the world was filled with flowers and there was nobody around but her…And still, feelings do not die. They respond, as before, with a tingle inside and that means that not everything is lost. Even life is no longer as gloomy and grey as this weather”,Arin consoled himself.

Where are you now, Poly? You entered my life and my soul like a typhoon leaving me thinking and suffering till now. Every move, glance, breath…. everything connected with you made everything around more colorful. The trees we passed by got slimmer as if stretching to match your beautiful body. Your hair waving to the wind stated your presence all around. At times all this seems to have been a dream. And maybe it was a dream. Nothing like that had ever existed. If only one could turn back the time…!

It was pouring cats and dogs. There was no sign of its stopping. It seemed to Arin that the rain had trapped him. The small room or the cell, as he liked to call his bedroom, had always had a calming effect on him but now it enhanced the hopelessness of the situation. In the end, he lost temper because of a green fly moving around the room with some terrible buzzing. As soon as it finally chose a place on the wall, Arin, devastated, got out of the couch and rolling the newspaper lying next to him, hit the fly with all his strength. Taking out the anger on the fly he started walking aimlessly about the room. After standing in uncertainty for a minute, he came up to the telephone and dialed a number. “I am so nervous as if I am 16”, he chuckled. A woman’s voice was heard on the other side. “Hello, Speak up. Why are you keeping silent?. Hello, are you going to speak or not?”.

“Yes, I am”Arin blurted out as if woken up from a dream.

“Hello, who is it?”

He felt her voice trembling and overcoming the growing excitement with difficulty and feeling the mad pulsation in the temples, he asked.

“Don’t you recognize me?”

“So close and so dear… Of course, it is his voice” Polina went on thinking on the other side of the phone. “It’s my Arnie’s voice”, she cried out.

“Always yours”, he replied.

“What a surprise!” he heard the excited voice of Polina.

“I grew hard inside and so I remembered you. I remembered how you used to heal my emotional wounds at moments like this and how good I always felt with you”, he confessed to his beloved woman.

“How long haven’t we met?”Polie asked.

“Two years”.

“A whole lifetime”, she noted. “What are you doing? Come to see me, I live at my mother’s again”.

“I will when I come to Yerevan”.

“Aren’t you calling from Yervan?”

“No, from Stepanakert”.

“What a pity!... I would love to see you”.

“Do you really mean it?” Arin asked with a delicate hope.

“Absolutely”, she confessed.

“Then, I will be there right tomorrow…”

An Unexpected Trip to Yerevan

The night seemed painfully long in anticipation of the morning. Arin pictured the meeting with his beloved all night imagining what he was going to tell her and how she would behave herself...

With the first sunrays he shaved, took a shower and started to get ready for the trip. A little more than two hours were left before the flight of the first plane and he had not yet asked permission from his grumpy boss. The latter would, most probably, turn him down and would not allow him to leave. “In that case I will leave at my own cost” he thought to himself. “Ultimately, my personal life is more important than work…What if I just take and leave without saying anything to anybody? Or shall I call the doctor to ask for a sick leave?” he thought. “No, I had better be honest and ask for permission…”

To his surprise, his boss gave him permission immediately. Now, he only had to get a taxi. “What about a ticket? How am I going to fly without a ticket? It took people 20 days to get one. I guess I am lucky today. I will go to the airport and will see what to do there” he thought. Saying good-bye to his parents and telling them that he would be missing for some indefinite time he headed for the airport. Truly, he was lucky again. He got the ticket from a familiar cashier with no difficulty and flew to Yerevan.

Still at the airport he called Polina but there was on reply. “She is at work” he thought. “I will go straight to my uncle’s house, will have some rest and will go to meet her after work”. He took a taxi and went to his uncle’s house in Nork Massiv where he had spent the last years of his student life.

“Where are you from?”, the driver asked him.

“ I am from Artsakh”, Arin answered.

“A fake Armenian”, chuckled the driver.

“Why so?. A true Armenian I am” he retorted.

“Ah” the driver waved his hand. You are all fake Armenians. You sure walk under the thumb of Turks.

“What a genius you are at definitions! Have you ever been to Artsakh and what do you know about the people in Artsakh?”, Arin asked losing his temper.

“No, I have not” the driver asked immediately in panic.

“Now listen. YOU are the fake ones. You, the ones living in Yerevan have spoilt Azeris so much that breeding like rats and occupying a region after another they are on their way to take up the heart of Armenia – Yerevan. Our life in Artsakh is a struggle for survival and preservation of the Armenian land. Maybe you want me to remind you thanks to whom you are living here now and have a republic called Armenia? It is due to my ancestors from Artsakh who liberated you from Turkish invaders – this is a historical fact. Now, tell me which of us is fake?”.

“All right, all right, don’t be offended” the driver started to justify himself. “It is just accepted to call people from Karabakh like that”

“Only uncouth and illiterate chumps like you do”, Arin was furious. “Stop the car at the corner!”.

He was so agitated that missed several cars going in the direction of his uncle’s house. He even did not feel like going there any more. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come here at all” he thought and got so busy thinking that did not notice that someone was waving to him from a Zhiguli.

“Arin” he heard a familiar voice, “Get into the car quickly! The light has turned green already…”

It was David, his classmate, one of the most famous people in Armenia. He was the first in the Soviet Union to enter a higher educational institution at the age of 12. All world famous mass media had made reports about the phenomenon of the Armenian wunderkind.

“When did you arrive, Arin jan?” asked good-natured David who in his twenty-four looked like 12 years ago. The same childish face, smart brown eyes and thick hair…

“I have just flown. I got angry with the driver, stopped the car on my halfway to my uncle’s house”, Arin said.

“Anything serious happened?”

“No, nothing serious” Arin answered short wishing to forget the unpleasant impression of the quarrel with the driver.

“Let’s go to my house!” David suggested.

“I really don’t know what to answer you”, Arin got confused at the unexpected offer. The thing is I have planned to meet Polima after work” he confessed and went on, “I had decided to have a rest at my uncle’s by that time, I have not slept the whole night”.

“Let’s go to my house. You will have dinner, will take a nap and I will take you to meet Polina at 4. Is it Ok?”, David insisted.

“Quite OK, if only it does not bother you”, Arin said.

“You should be ashamed of saying that”, David hugged Arin with an offended look.

“I am, my little friend” Arin said hugging back David in return.

“Little? You have forgotten that I am no longer 12. I am a lecturer at the institute, a lawyer, a PhD, a married man…”.

“It does not matter. You are the same 12-year-old guy for me”.

“An over-advertised advertisement?” David asked slyly.

“You are so mean”, Arin rebuked his friend. “I simply stated what was happening around your name then. Why, on earth, don’t you like the phrase?”

“Actually, I don’t mind the phrase itself. I remember it quite often and I remember you with that, as well”…

David and Arin managed to cover a lot of topics in the car…At home David, his wife Nara being absent, quickly fried some potatoes and made okroshka1, took a bottle of dry Portuguese wine out of the fridge and invited Arin to the table. The dinner was accompanied with questions and answers as is the usual case at the meetings of close friends who have not seen each other for a long time. After dinner, under the influence of the wine, Arin wished to sleep and he immediately did so. He slept like dead until David woke him up. He got dressed quickly, tided himself and went down where the car was waiting for him.

David drove quite fast along the wide streets of Yerevan and at ten to 4 p.m. they arrived at the Institute of the Mathematical Machines more known as the Institute after Mergelyan.

“I hope, you will still visit us” David said when they parted. “Nara and I will be waiting for you”.

“I don’t know how things will develop. I will call you”, Arin thanked David and said good-bye to his best university friend.

“You’d better wait for her at the stairs of the first entrance”, David advised him in the end…

Some Emotions Behind the Struggle

Another five minutes was left before the end of the working day but it seemed a whole eternity to him. Finally, the employees of the enormous scientific-manufacturing institute under the auspices of the Ministry of Defense started leaving the building one by one. Though the productions of the institute were behind the progress recorded in international companies, they dominated in the USSR…

Polie was one of the first to leave the building and she immediately noticed Arin. Her loud “Arin” quickly echoed in the hall of the institute. She literally flew to Arin and hugged him ignoring the glances of the passers-by. Arin confessed putting her on the ground.

“I saw you and forgot about everything”.

Holding Polina’s hand tightly he caught himself at the idea that he did not believe sh\e was next to him.

“Why were you silent so long? Why didn’t you leave any messages” Polina babbled on.

“I thought you would have changed. One of our friends wrote it and I, like a fool, believed him. Now I see he was wrong. Your eyes are the best proof of it”.

Polie was taken aback by these words, but then, coming to senses, she asked in a low voice, “Who wrote it?”

“Knowing you, I cannot tell you his name…”

“Haven’t you married all this time?”, she asked Arine with a change in his mood.

“No” was his answer.

“And you don’t live with anyone?”, she asked in surprise.

“From time to time”, Arin admitted.

They were so open and trusting towards each other that they never concealed the truth from one another. Moreover, each confided his/her personal affairs in the other.

“What about you?” he asked in return.

“I don’t have anyone now”, she admitted.

Arin knew that she was telling the truth. Though, had she a lover, he would certainly be jealous despite the fact that he always referred to the life of a divorced woman with understanding. There was even a time when leaving for good, he himself suggested she should find a partner being sure that a physical betrayal could never be equal to the spiritual one since love is, first of all, a matter of soul…

“Where are we going?”, Polie asked.

“Let’s have a little walk in the park, sit in our favorite cafe”, Arin suggested.

“We’ll still manage to go to the café”, Polina said, “Let’s go to my house. We’ll have dinner, you will have a rest”, she chatted on and on, “I have invited our friends in the evening. We’ll have fun, call a spirit, you will tell our fortunes. I hope you have not forgotten how to do it. We’ll remember our student years”, Polie shared her plans for the evening putting her head on Arin’s shoulder.