We, Parev Yergir, as company and as individuals had a good year.
Family visited. Business was good, though we had a couple of rough moments with 'hargayin'.
Nigol took over a new challenge, and went into construction. Our new house, the first of Vanahovid community, will be ready in summer 2004.
On the last day of the year, I would like to share two moments that made an impact on my spiritual world.
May 2003 -
First visit of my brother-in-law and niece, Nayiri, then two and a half years old to Armenia.
A hot day, Nayiri woke up in the mini van, parked under the shade. She and I followed the steps of her parents to Dzidzernagapert. In her Pampers and underwear she ran all the distance from the museum to the fortress, like an athlete, to her father's arms. Down the stairs we all went wearing long faces, remembering but not uttering a word. For no apparent reason Nayiri went to the fortress, faced the wall, and started singing Cilicia, 'yerp vor patzvin trner huso, yev mer yergren pakh da..' stumping her right foot with the rhythm of the song, like a wail.
That moment, I believed in reincarnation, genetics and collective memory.
December 2003
Two Sundays ago we went to Yeraploor.
Aram Boghossian, the commander of infantry division of Shushi battalion, survived the war but yielded to cancer three years ago.
You can do nothing to a grieving mother. I walked away from the group and approached Antranig, a twelve year old beautiful boy.
'Is your father buried here?"
"Yes'.
He leads two teenage girls and me to his tombstone. Instead of his picture a palette has been engraved on it, a painter. I see that Antranig has already visited him, a single white carnation lies on it.
I look at the date, he lost him when he was two.
(Carnations were meant for Aram, he understands that family comes first, and he got bunches of flowers from others.)
After a couple of silent moments, one of the girls, Sona tells me that her maternal uncle is buried there too. We visit him, a guy in his twenties. Another single white carnation.
Sona has a hero for an uncle and a cad for a father. He has disappeared in Russia four years ago, leaving four kids behind.
Next we visit Anna's paternal uncle. His father is home, taking care of her and mother, mother is an invalid in bed.
On the way we meet the rest of AYF junior gang, 'Have you been to Shahen Meghrian's tomb?' they ask. We have not.
Antranig leads us. Shahen and his nephew are burried side by side. Antranig checks the dates, they've fallen in the same battle. Then he approaches and kisses the seventeen- year-old's tombstone.
Like one Armenian guy kissing another on the cheek, like one brother to another, like an oath.
I want to cry,
I want to hug this wonderful, beautiful twelve-year-old.
This orphan, this boy, this man, this soldier.
God bless him and his generation.
Family visited. Business was good, though we had a couple of rough moments with 'hargayin'.
Nigol took over a new challenge, and went into construction. Our new house, the first of Vanahovid community, will be ready in summer 2004.
On the last day of the year, I would like to share two moments that made an impact on my spiritual world.
May 2003 -
First visit of my brother-in-law and niece, Nayiri, then two and a half years old to Armenia.
A hot day, Nayiri woke up in the mini van, parked under the shade. She and I followed the steps of her parents to Dzidzernagapert. In her Pampers and underwear she ran all the distance from the museum to the fortress, like an athlete, to her father's arms. Down the stairs we all went wearing long faces, remembering but not uttering a word. For no apparent reason Nayiri went to the fortress, faced the wall, and started singing Cilicia, 'yerp vor patzvin trner huso, yev mer yergren pakh da..' stumping her right foot with the rhythm of the song, like a wail.
That moment, I believed in reincarnation, genetics and collective memory.
December 2003
Two Sundays ago we went to Yeraploor.
Aram Boghossian, the commander of infantry division of Shushi battalion, survived the war but yielded to cancer three years ago.
You can do nothing to a grieving mother. I walked away from the group and approached Antranig, a twelve year old beautiful boy.
'Is your father buried here?"
"Yes'.
He leads two teenage girls and me to his tombstone. Instead of his picture a palette has been engraved on it, a painter. I see that Antranig has already visited him, a single white carnation lies on it.
I look at the date, he lost him when he was two.
(Carnations were meant for Aram, he understands that family comes first, and he got bunches of flowers from others.)
After a couple of silent moments, one of the girls, Sona tells me that her maternal uncle is buried there too. We visit him, a guy in his twenties. Another single white carnation.
Sona has a hero for an uncle and a cad for a father. He has disappeared in Russia four years ago, leaving four kids behind.
Next we visit Anna's paternal uncle. His father is home, taking care of her and mother, mother is an invalid in bed.
On the way we meet the rest of AYF junior gang, 'Have you been to Shahen Meghrian's tomb?' they ask. We have not.
Antranig leads us. Shahen and his nephew are burried side by side. Antranig checks the dates, they've fallen in the same battle. Then he approaches and kisses the seventeen- year-old's tombstone.
Like one Armenian guy kissing another on the cheek, like one brother to another, like an oath.
I want to cry,
I want to hug this wonderful, beautiful twelve-year-old.
This orphan, this boy, this man, this soldier.
God bless him and his generation.
posted by Nigol at 12:37 AM
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