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Watertown MA 02472 USA
(617) 926-3974
[email protected]
http://www.ar menianweekly.com
The Armenian Weekly; Volume 73, No. 40; Oct. 6, 2007
Literature and Arts:
The Search: From Tigran Mets to Sayat Nova (Part VII)
By Knarik O. Meneshian
September, 2007
After leaving Blblan Zham (Shimmering Chapel), Murad and I continued on our
walk, at times quietly reflecting, at times chatting as we strolled down the
street. The elderly woman we had seen minutes before sitting on the stool
behind the chapel had reminded me of another woman I had visited a few years
earlier in Yerevan. She too was seated with her hands folded, but instead of
looking up at the sky and then down at the ground she was looking at the
ceiling and then at the worn wooden floor of the house she shared with
relatives-the home of her youth. "Bala jan (Child dear)," she whispered as
she raised her head, "Please tell them I cannot chew the food they give me;
I have no teeth." Tearfully, she opened her mouth and pointed to her gums.
"I tell them and tell them, but still every day the food is the same." Tears
rolled down her soft, wrinkled cheeks as she pointed to the cracked and
chipped plate on the wide window sill. On the plate were four slices of
potatoes and a small piece of meat-all too dry and hard for anyone to eat.
As I recalled her plea, my thoughts turned to yet another elderly woman I
saw not long ago on Sayat Nova Street holding a plastic bag with a loaf of
bread sticking out of it. She was trying to cross the street. "Aghcheek jan
(Girl dear), please help me!" she called out as she reached for my hand.
"Help me, I have been standing here for so long, but the cars will not stop
and people just rush by." Taking hold of her hand for a second and then
releasing it to put my arm around her stooped shoulders, I held her tightly
as we waited for the light to turn green. When it did, we stepped down onto
the street and began walking, stopping every few steps for honking and
speeding vehicles ignoring both traffic lights and pedestrians. As we
approached the curb we were nearly struck by a car. I will never forget the
fright on the poor woman's face or my anger at the fellow who gave us a
dirty look as he came to a screeching halt and then sped by. As I helped her
up onto the sidewalk she took hold of my hand and squeezing it, repeatedly
thanked me. "Maireek jan (Mother dear), it was nothing; it was my pleasure,"
I said.
I remembered thinking, as I watched her make her way slowly down the street,
every once in a while stopping to rest, how difficult it must be for those
who have no one who care about them-their only solace a prayer, their only
hope a plea. As I watched the woman disappear into the distance, I could not
help but think of our life back home and the various types of services
offered the elderly. In Gyumri-in Armenia-every time I'd see an elderly
woman or man, and the handicapped too, with their hands meekly, barely
extended, and their heads hanging low, I would think, They are not beggars,
they are people earning their daily bread the only way they can.
In front of us, just before the road curved, a father and his two young sons
were playing ball in the street while the mother stood nearby watching. In
front of their house, the dadeek (grandmother) was sitting on a chair
watching them all. Across the street, a young woman was sweeping the steps
leading to her house; to the right of the door big and little shoes were
lined in a neat row. We stopped for a moment to watch the children and the
father playing, and then continued on our way. As we were about to turn the
corner, we heard barking and a large black dog came darting towards us.
Someone whistled and the dog turned around and disappeared down the street.
We looked at each other with relief as we turned onto a short street. There
were no quaint old homes or embellished black tuff houses and buildings of
long ago-the work of skillful stone cutters. There were just shacks and a
few destroyed buildings with piles of debris dumped in and around them.
Behind the buildings was a sports stadium. Bending in the wind alongside the
cracked and crumbling sidewalks were overgrown weeds riddled with debris.
Nearby, a couple of sickly dogs sniffed the ground. We walked cautiously and
quickly past them and made our way to a street called Kars, once the road to
Kars. Traveling on this road to Gyumri in 1829 and 1830 were Armenians from
Kars and Erzerum fleeing oppression. They were traders, craftsmen and
peasants; they had come to this ancient city filled with new hopes and
dreams. We walked south and after a while came to a domeek standing at the
edge of the pavement. A whiskered man in tattered clothes was sitting on a
chair in front of it smoking a cigarette. He stared at us, and we greeted
him with a barev dzez (greetings to you). He nodded and blew puffs of smoke
into the air as we walked past him. In the near distance we saw dilapidated
houses and a large, round, empty shallow pool. In it were several rusted
fountains. A boy about nine years old appeared out of the tall weeds and
said with a big smile, "Barev dzez!" We in turn greeted him and asked if he
lived nearby. He replied as he pointed, "Just down there! See, that is my
dadeek there hanging clothes on the line!" The house was a shack.
After telling us his name, we asked, "Do you have any brothers and sisters?"
He shook his head and said, "I only have my dadeek. My father died a long
time ago and my mother works somewhere far away. We do not see her often."
The boy then got closer to us and said, "I am a very good guide. If you
would like, I can show you around here. See that pool over there?" We
nodded. "The fountains in it used to work and all the area kids would come
here in the summertime to cool off, but the pool has been dry for years.
Come this way," said the boy, and we followed him to a tree-lined walk.
Weeds were growing in between the cracks, and scattered on the walk were
used condoms, some old and disintegrating, others not yet. We looked up and
there before us stood Mayr Hayastan (Mother Armenia)! Two couples sitting on
the steps leading up to the statue were passionately embracing and kissing
one another. When they saw us approaching they stopped. They glanced at each
other, then giggled as they raised their bottles of beer in the air and
called out, "Egek (Come), join us for some drinks!"
"Shnorhagal enk (We are thankful), but another time!" we said, smiling as we
passed them on the steps.
"Come this way," said the boy. Just above, to the right of where we stood,
was Sev Ghul (Black Fortress), the fortress built in 1837 by Czar Nicholas
I. In that same year, Gyumri, a town at the time, was renamed Alexandropol.
Soon, one of the oldest towns in Armenia (dating back to 401 B.C.) known
first as Kumayri, then Gyumri, and then Alexandropol, would grow and develop
into a trade and handicraft center as well as a strategic military location.
In 1924, during Soviet rule, it would be renamed Leninakan and flourish as a
cultural, industrial and scientific center. Evolving from a town to Armenia's
second largest city-now once again called Gyumri.
With our eyes fixed on Sev Ghul, we asked the boy, "Are we allowed to go up
there, to climb it?"
"Ha (Yeah), follow me!"
We walked up the hill and into the fortress where puddles and mounds of cow
dung dotted the ground. We stepped carefully as we made our way to stairs
leading up to the top of the fortress. What a breathtaking view it was!
Facing West, the province of Kars was before us. Down below, close to the
Akhuryan River, was the Russian military base. We could hear bugle calls,
singing and marching, voices shouting out as one-soldiers were performing
military exercises. In the near distance looking north was Garmeer Ghul (Red
Fortress), Sev Ghul's smaller brother. We turned around, and there she
was-Gyumri-glimmering in the sunlight! Visible in the distance was the
steeple of a church, one of several Armenian churches in the city. Once,
there were also Greek and Russian churches.
"Son, you have been a very fine guide!" we said to him as we prepared to
leave.
"Would you like to come to our house for a while?" he asked.
"We would love to, but it is getting late and we have a long walk back home.
Here, though, is a gift for you."
He smiled as he put the bill, without looking at it, in his pocket, and
began skipping then running through the weeds towards home, every so often
looking back and waving to us, and we to him.
We began walking at a quicker pace. Before too long it would be evening and
time for the street dogs to form their packs. "Shall we go through the
park?" asked Murad as we reached the end of the street. I nodded and we
climbed the stairs leading up to it. We followed the tree-lined, meandering
path all the way to the other end of the park, near Freedom Square, where
the churches and fountains and shuga were. We passed a small side street and
remembered the married couple, Peace Corps workers, who had lived in one of
the old houses on that street before returning home around Christmas time.
"Remember the day we went to visit them?" I asked Murad. They were people
one could not forget. The man and woman had greeted us warmly at the door as
they showed us into their living room. We stopped for a moment to look at
the latched, metal door jutting out from one wall of the living room. It was
a Russian-era heating system. "Would you like some homemade apple pie and
tea?" asked the woman, her kind eyes sparkling.
"Oh, that sounds wonderful! We haven't had homemade apple pie in ages." we
said as we sat down on the sofa. As we chatted with them about Armenia,
about life in Gyumri, we could not help but marvel at the couple's spirit
and courage. They were both in their 70s. Not knowing the language or the
customs of Armenia, they had left behind the comforts and security of home
and family to offer their help to a people and a country they knew only of
as "somewhere in the Caucuses."
Approaching the square, I looked at Yot Verk (Seven Wounds) or Soorp
Astvatsatsin Arakelagan Yegeghetsee (Holy Mother of God Apostolic Church,
built in the 17th century), and said to Murad, "Let's go in for a few
minutes." It was cool, dim and quiet inside. A young woman, carrying a
child, was purchasing candles, and another was lighting some. How different
was this scene from the day I first entered the church in 1990. The
square-the entire city-was in shambles. It was a cloudy, gray afternoon and
the church was packed with people of all ages. Some were standing, some were
kneeling; with hands together some were looking up, while others were
looking down. They were praying, they were whispering the words "tsavut
danem (let me take your pain)"-words rarely heard anymore. Again and again
they whispered the two words. The church was aglow with flickering candles
yet gloomy with the pain of loss. Now, as we stood here together, the church
was almost empty. Murad and I lit candles and said prayers before we left.
One was for Gyumri, one was for Armenia, and one was for Armenians
everywhere.
Back in the square, we walked towards the little eatery known simply by the
sign above it-Dak Lahmajo (Hot Lahmajo) -where the owners, a husband and
wife, made lahmehjune, or as they called them in Armenia, lahmajo. "Barev
dzez!" we said as we sat at a table. The husband stepped out from behind the
open curtain where they were preparing the Middle Eastern specialty.
"How many would you like?" asked the man as he began setting our table.
"Two for my wife, three for me, and two Fantas," said Murad.
"And we would like a dozen to take home," I added.
He called out the order to his wife.
When he finished setting the table, I asked, "May we watch you make the
lahmajo?"
"Eeharge (Of course), egek (come)!" said the man and motioned for us to come
with him.
We followed him to the back of the eatery, just a few feet from our table.
>From the window we could see the end of Rishkov Street where it met the
square. The husband began rolling out formed mounds of dough on a small
table until each mound became as thin and round as plates, and then spread
spicy meat filling on each of them. His wife, standing next to him in front
of a hotplate with a frying pan on top of it, reached for an uncooked
lahmajo, placed it in the frying pan and covered it with a cover. Before we
knew it she lifted the cover and presto-a perfectly cooked lahmajo! And so,
one after another, each lahmajo, cooked to perfection, was made. In this
eatery adorned with geraniums growing in metal cans, sparkling-clean
windows, oil-cloth covered tables, rickety chairs and a staff of two who did
everything, including greeting customers with a smile, we experienced dining
at its finest!
"Before we go home, Murad, we have to stop at the grocery store for a few
things. I'm going to make Karine's father chocolate pudding." Dr. Amatuni's
father was a World War II war veteran. When he learned that I was born in
Austria, he told me that when he was in Austria during the war he had eaten
chocolate pudding there for the "first and only time" and had always
remembered its "delicious flavor and smooth texture." He also mentioned that
he liked Austria because of its "neatness and orderliness." The doctor's
father, a gentle and soft-spoken man, reminded me of another World War II
war veteran, a physician, I had spoken to in Yerevan. He had said that
during the war he, too, had been in Austria and had admired the country for
its neatness and orderliness.
"Since we're running out of tea, let's stop at Tartu (one of three grocery
stores in the vicinity)," said Murad as we prepared to leave. After saying
goodbye to the owners of the eatery we stepped out into the street where we
heard singing. "Let's see where it's coming from," I said, and we walked
towards the sound. In the square, a few feet from where the shuga began, a
thin old man, wearing frayed clothes too large for him, was standing with
his eyes closed and his head tilted toward heaven singing a folk song put to
music by Gomidas. It was a song of lament. In his deep, sweet, soulful voice
he was singing-"Dle yaman. Mer doon (Our home), dzer doon (your home), vai
(oh), dle yaman." Near him on the ground was a small jar with a couple of
coins in it. ".Vai, dle yaman."
I had seen the man a number of times before during my trips to the shuga. He
was always in the same area, always had his eyes closed, and always, whether
he was standing or sitting on the concrete slab used as a bench, had a small
jar and a walking cane near him on the ground. Sometimes he would sit or
stand silently, and sometimes he would sing one song after another. Never
before, though, had he sung this song, and never with such deep passion. I
often wondered what he was seeing with his closed eyes, and especially now
as he sang Dle Yaman.
At the grocery store we purchased a quart of milk (in a jar), a few
chocolate bars, corn starch, sugar, lavash, a box of tea, some yersheeg
(sausage) and dzver (eggs)-six of them. The clerk put the eggs in a plastic
bag, twisted the top of the bag and tied it. I was always amazed at how the
eggs never broke. As we approached Sayat Nova Street, Murad and I began
talking about the young female Peace Corps worker, a graduate student, who
lived near our apartment building. We would meet her from time to time at
Yegheeshe's shop. There were others Peace Corps workers in the city too. Day
in and day out they lived alongside the locals-some in cities, some in
towns, some in remote villages. They learned the language and the customs of
the country. They experienced and shared in the joys, sorrows and hardships
of the local people, accepting the good moments along with the bad. They had
come to make a difference, and each did in his and her own way.
We were on Sayat Nova Street and almost home. As usual, the street vendor
was on the corner selling his produce, but today without his young son.
"Would you like to buy some cabbage?" he asked as he held one up for us to
inspect.
"Vaghuh (Tomorrow)!" I said as we waved goodbye to him. Tomorrow I would buy
one and make a pot of borsch. As we walked up the stairs to our apartment, I
thought about the street vendor below selling his cabbage. He and the
cabbage reminded me of the autumn day I had accompanied the female Peace
Corps worker (the one in her 70s) on a shopping trip to the part of the
shuga where there were shops. "I'll meet you at the fountains!" she had said
on the phone. When we met at the designated spot, she explained, "I saw
something I'd like to buy in one of the shops down there, but I'm not able
to ask the clerk how much it costs."
"Barev dzez!" I said as we walked into the shop filled with household items
and specialty gifts. A clerk was busy with a customer, while the owner was
arranging items in the display case. He looked up and nodded at us. "My
friend would like to purchase that," I said pointing to the item and then
asked, "How much is it?" He looked at me and then at her and said, "Kooyreek
jan (Sister dear), for you, 4,000 drams, but for her, 5,000!" My heart sank
because of what he said and how he said it, and I was ashamed for him. I
said nothing to him, and turned to the Peace Corps worker and told her the
price he had quoted for her. With a smile as warm as the sun she handed him
the money. Stepping out of the store, I knew that I would never go in there
again. After walking around and exploring a few new shops, we stopped at a
cabbage and onion stand. The middle-aged vendor was arranging his produce.
The Peace Corps worker picked up a head of cabbage and asked me to ask him
the price.
The man, a humble farmer from one of the nearby villages, whom I saw
standing on the street corner in good weather and bad selling his meager
produce every time I went to the shuga, shook his head and said, "Kyooreek
jan, she is our guest. Tell her the cabbage is my gift to her, a 'Thank You'
for coming here to help us." When I told the Peace Corps worker what the man
had said, her eyes grew misty. She handed him some drams for the cabbage and
insisted that he take them, but he shook his head. With gratitude, she
accepted his gift.
Home at last, and time to make dinner! We were having yersheek with dzoo
(egg) along with cheese, lavash, green onions and parsley. "I'll cook the
sausage and eggs, while you take care of the rest," said Murad. I sliced the
cheese, sprinkled water on the lavash and wrapped it in a towel to soften,
washed the onions and parsley, took out some raspberry jam, and set the
table. The tea kettle was on and soon the tea would be ready, just in time
for us to begin our meal. After dinner, while Murad watched television, I
gathered my ingredients to make chocolate pudding. As I poured the freshly
bought milk into the pot, I remembered Karine's warning to make certain to
boil the milk before using it." As I waited for it to boil and rise, I mixed
the cornstarch with cool drinking water. (We always boiled our drinking
water because of the occasional warnings on television instructing people to
boil their water because of contamination due to the aged plumbing system.)
I then broke the chocolate bars into small pieces, and measured the sugar in
a bowl. Then I poured, added and stirred until the ingredients in the pot
bubbled dark and smooth and sweet. The pudding was ready to be poured into
glass jars where they cooled.
I called Karine, but no one answered the phone. Just as I finished cleaning
the kitchen, there was a knock at the door. "I'll get it!" I said and went
to open it. It was Karine. "The pudding is ready for your father!" I said
excitedly as I took her to the kitchen. I hoped that her father would like
it, but then wondered, How could a food flavored with fond memories ever be
duplicated? Karine smiled as I showed her the jars. In the living room, as
on other evenings, the three of us sat and chatted as we sipped tea and ate
chocolate biscuits. It was another delightful evening. Then, saying our
goodnights, I made arrangements with Karine to visit her one day at
Samaritair (Samaritan) Hospital, the place where patients affectionately
called her Bshgoohee (shortened version of bzheeshgoohee, or lady doctor),
the place where doctors worked under the most spartan of conditions,
intermittent power outages and frequent lack of water.
It was late and I had finished collecting water for tomorrow. While Murad
finished reading the local newspapers, I went to the bedroom to look out the
window for a while. As I pulled back the curtains and looked into the
darkness, a feeling of sadness came over me. School was coming to an end and
with the ringing of the vercheen zang (last bell) it would be time for us to
leave this apartment that had been not only our home but a place of
discovery and learning, adventure and joy. Oh, how I missed "our Gyumri
home" already! Tomorrow we would have to tell Gamo that we were leaving
soon. Because the school year was coming to an end, and thus our work at the
public school, we were moving to the Ani District to live at the Our Lady of
Armenia Convent and Center/Orphanage, where the bulk of our work would then
be. During the week, we would travel to the AMA Center to continue with our
classes there until their classes, too, came to an end, thus marking the
beginning of summer for the students.
It was moving day. Karine, Melkon and Hovik had come to say goodbye. Sitting
in the living room with them was the new tenant we had found for Gamo-a
young female Peace Corps worker. He had accepted half the rent we paid him.
While we chatted with one another, Gamo walked into the apartment with his
little granddaughter. His face was glum as he looked at our suitcases lined
against the foyer wall. "Shall we walk through the apartment together?" I
asked him.
"Oh, it is not necessary. I know everything is in order," he said with a
hint of sadness both in his eyes and voice.
"No, let us go through the apartment anyway," I replied. "Since we did it
when we rented the apartment, we should do it now as well," and led him to
the kitchen.
Gamo did not look around the room. Instead, he leaned against the counter,
stared at me for a moment and then almost in a whisper asked, "You are not
really leaving, are you?"
"Yes, Gamo, we are leaving," I replied and gently handed him the keys.
He nodded, then said softly, "There is no need for me to look at the other
rooms; I know everything is in order," and holding his granddaughter's hand
walked out of the kitchen.
As Murad and I walked down the stairs for the very last time, with our
friends in front of us, and Gamo and his granddaughter behind us, I thought
about the various people that had knocked on our door-the man from the
electric company; the neighbor who sometimes stopped by with our mail; the
matzoon lady; the AMA staff members; some of our students; the man who asked
us to help him build a home for his family; the woman who asked if we could
invest in her business idea-a massage therapy center for disabled children;
the grandmother who pleaded for help for her family; the young woman who
wanted to know how to go to America. And I thought about the friends we had
made, as well as our landlord and his family.
Arriving at our third home in Gyumri, I wondered what life was going to be
like in a convent and orphanage. No doubt, it would be quite different from
living in a house with a family and living in an apartment on our own. As
the Center gates shut behind us, and we were greeted by Sister Arousiag, the
Superior and a couple of other nuns, with our suitcases in hand, we entered
the world of prayer and meditation, the world of orphaned, poor and
abandoned children, the place where abused women and the impoverished came
knocking on the door.
"This is your room," announced the Sisters warmly, and then said before they
left, "If you need anything, please let us know." Lining our suitcases
against the wall, I stepped over to the window, just a couple of feet away,
and pulled back the curtains. The window to the bedroom we would now call
home for the remainder of our stay in this city had bars on it. From this
window I could not see the outside world anymore, only a wall and a pretty
garden.
To be continued.
80 Bigelow Avenue
Watertown MA 02472 USA
(617) 926-3974
[email protected]
http://www.ar menianweekly.com
The Armenian Weekly; Volume 73, No. 40; Oct. 6, 2007
Literature and Arts:
The Search: From Tigran Mets to Sayat Nova (Part VII)
By Knarik O. Meneshian
September, 2007
After leaving Blblan Zham (Shimmering Chapel), Murad and I continued on our
walk, at times quietly reflecting, at times chatting as we strolled down the
street. The elderly woman we had seen minutes before sitting on the stool
behind the chapel had reminded me of another woman I had visited a few years
earlier in Yerevan. She too was seated with her hands folded, but instead of
looking up at the sky and then down at the ground she was looking at the
ceiling and then at the worn wooden floor of the house she shared with
relatives-the home of her youth. "Bala jan (Child dear)," she whispered as
she raised her head, "Please tell them I cannot chew the food they give me;
I have no teeth." Tearfully, she opened her mouth and pointed to her gums.
"I tell them and tell them, but still every day the food is the same." Tears
rolled down her soft, wrinkled cheeks as she pointed to the cracked and
chipped plate on the wide window sill. On the plate were four slices of
potatoes and a small piece of meat-all too dry and hard for anyone to eat.
As I recalled her plea, my thoughts turned to yet another elderly woman I
saw not long ago on Sayat Nova Street holding a plastic bag with a loaf of
bread sticking out of it. She was trying to cross the street. "Aghcheek jan
(Girl dear), please help me!" she called out as she reached for my hand.
"Help me, I have been standing here for so long, but the cars will not stop
and people just rush by." Taking hold of her hand for a second and then
releasing it to put my arm around her stooped shoulders, I held her tightly
as we waited for the light to turn green. When it did, we stepped down onto
the street and began walking, stopping every few steps for honking and
speeding vehicles ignoring both traffic lights and pedestrians. As we
approached the curb we were nearly struck by a car. I will never forget the
fright on the poor woman's face or my anger at the fellow who gave us a
dirty look as he came to a screeching halt and then sped by. As I helped her
up onto the sidewalk she took hold of my hand and squeezing it, repeatedly
thanked me. "Maireek jan (Mother dear), it was nothing; it was my pleasure,"
I said.
I remembered thinking, as I watched her make her way slowly down the street,
every once in a while stopping to rest, how difficult it must be for those
who have no one who care about them-their only solace a prayer, their only
hope a plea. As I watched the woman disappear into the distance, I could not
help but think of our life back home and the various types of services
offered the elderly. In Gyumri-in Armenia-every time I'd see an elderly
woman or man, and the handicapped too, with their hands meekly, barely
extended, and their heads hanging low, I would think, They are not beggars,
they are people earning their daily bread the only way they can.
In front of us, just before the road curved, a father and his two young sons
were playing ball in the street while the mother stood nearby watching. In
front of their house, the dadeek (grandmother) was sitting on a chair
watching them all. Across the street, a young woman was sweeping the steps
leading to her house; to the right of the door big and little shoes were
lined in a neat row. We stopped for a moment to watch the children and the
father playing, and then continued on our way. As we were about to turn the
corner, we heard barking and a large black dog came darting towards us.
Someone whistled and the dog turned around and disappeared down the street.
We looked at each other with relief as we turned onto a short street. There
were no quaint old homes or embellished black tuff houses and buildings of
long ago-the work of skillful stone cutters. There were just shacks and a
few destroyed buildings with piles of debris dumped in and around them.
Behind the buildings was a sports stadium. Bending in the wind alongside the
cracked and crumbling sidewalks were overgrown weeds riddled with debris.
Nearby, a couple of sickly dogs sniffed the ground. We walked cautiously and
quickly past them and made our way to a street called Kars, once the road to
Kars. Traveling on this road to Gyumri in 1829 and 1830 were Armenians from
Kars and Erzerum fleeing oppression. They were traders, craftsmen and
peasants; they had come to this ancient city filled with new hopes and
dreams. We walked south and after a while came to a domeek standing at the
edge of the pavement. A whiskered man in tattered clothes was sitting on a
chair in front of it smoking a cigarette. He stared at us, and we greeted
him with a barev dzez (greetings to you). He nodded and blew puffs of smoke
into the air as we walked past him. In the near distance we saw dilapidated
houses and a large, round, empty shallow pool. In it were several rusted
fountains. A boy about nine years old appeared out of the tall weeds and
said with a big smile, "Barev dzez!" We in turn greeted him and asked if he
lived nearby. He replied as he pointed, "Just down there! See, that is my
dadeek there hanging clothes on the line!" The house was a shack.
After telling us his name, we asked, "Do you have any brothers and sisters?"
He shook his head and said, "I only have my dadeek. My father died a long
time ago and my mother works somewhere far away. We do not see her often."
The boy then got closer to us and said, "I am a very good guide. If you
would like, I can show you around here. See that pool over there?" We
nodded. "The fountains in it used to work and all the area kids would come
here in the summertime to cool off, but the pool has been dry for years.
Come this way," said the boy, and we followed him to a tree-lined walk.
Weeds were growing in between the cracks, and scattered on the walk were
used condoms, some old and disintegrating, others not yet. We looked up and
there before us stood Mayr Hayastan (Mother Armenia)! Two couples sitting on
the steps leading up to the statue were passionately embracing and kissing
one another. When they saw us approaching they stopped. They glanced at each
other, then giggled as they raised their bottles of beer in the air and
called out, "Egek (Come), join us for some drinks!"
"Shnorhagal enk (We are thankful), but another time!" we said, smiling as we
passed them on the steps.
"Come this way," said the boy. Just above, to the right of where we stood,
was Sev Ghul (Black Fortress), the fortress built in 1837 by Czar Nicholas
I. In that same year, Gyumri, a town at the time, was renamed Alexandropol.
Soon, one of the oldest towns in Armenia (dating back to 401 B.C.) known
first as Kumayri, then Gyumri, and then Alexandropol, would grow and develop
into a trade and handicraft center as well as a strategic military location.
In 1924, during Soviet rule, it would be renamed Leninakan and flourish as a
cultural, industrial and scientific center. Evolving from a town to Armenia's
second largest city-now once again called Gyumri.
With our eyes fixed on Sev Ghul, we asked the boy, "Are we allowed to go up
there, to climb it?"
"Ha (Yeah), follow me!"
We walked up the hill and into the fortress where puddles and mounds of cow
dung dotted the ground. We stepped carefully as we made our way to stairs
leading up to the top of the fortress. What a breathtaking view it was!
Facing West, the province of Kars was before us. Down below, close to the
Akhuryan River, was the Russian military base. We could hear bugle calls,
singing and marching, voices shouting out as one-soldiers were performing
military exercises. In the near distance looking north was Garmeer Ghul (Red
Fortress), Sev Ghul's smaller brother. We turned around, and there she
was-Gyumri-glimmering in the sunlight! Visible in the distance was the
steeple of a church, one of several Armenian churches in the city. Once,
there were also Greek and Russian churches.
"Son, you have been a very fine guide!" we said to him as we prepared to
leave.
"Would you like to come to our house for a while?" he asked.
"We would love to, but it is getting late and we have a long walk back home.
Here, though, is a gift for you."
He smiled as he put the bill, without looking at it, in his pocket, and
began skipping then running through the weeds towards home, every so often
looking back and waving to us, and we to him.
We began walking at a quicker pace. Before too long it would be evening and
time for the street dogs to form their packs. "Shall we go through the
park?" asked Murad as we reached the end of the street. I nodded and we
climbed the stairs leading up to it. We followed the tree-lined, meandering
path all the way to the other end of the park, near Freedom Square, where
the churches and fountains and shuga were. We passed a small side street and
remembered the married couple, Peace Corps workers, who had lived in one of
the old houses on that street before returning home around Christmas time.
"Remember the day we went to visit them?" I asked Murad. They were people
one could not forget. The man and woman had greeted us warmly at the door as
they showed us into their living room. We stopped for a moment to look at
the latched, metal door jutting out from one wall of the living room. It was
a Russian-era heating system. "Would you like some homemade apple pie and
tea?" asked the woman, her kind eyes sparkling.
"Oh, that sounds wonderful! We haven't had homemade apple pie in ages." we
said as we sat down on the sofa. As we chatted with them about Armenia,
about life in Gyumri, we could not help but marvel at the couple's spirit
and courage. They were both in their 70s. Not knowing the language or the
customs of Armenia, they had left behind the comforts and security of home
and family to offer their help to a people and a country they knew only of
as "somewhere in the Caucuses."
Approaching the square, I looked at Yot Verk (Seven Wounds) or Soorp
Astvatsatsin Arakelagan Yegeghetsee (Holy Mother of God Apostolic Church,
built in the 17th century), and said to Murad, "Let's go in for a few
minutes." It was cool, dim and quiet inside. A young woman, carrying a
child, was purchasing candles, and another was lighting some. How different
was this scene from the day I first entered the church in 1990. The
square-the entire city-was in shambles. It was a cloudy, gray afternoon and
the church was packed with people of all ages. Some were standing, some were
kneeling; with hands together some were looking up, while others were
looking down. They were praying, they were whispering the words "tsavut
danem (let me take your pain)"-words rarely heard anymore. Again and again
they whispered the two words. The church was aglow with flickering candles
yet gloomy with the pain of loss. Now, as we stood here together, the church
was almost empty. Murad and I lit candles and said prayers before we left.
One was for Gyumri, one was for Armenia, and one was for Armenians
everywhere.
Back in the square, we walked towards the little eatery known simply by the
sign above it-Dak Lahmajo (Hot Lahmajo) -where the owners, a husband and
wife, made lahmehjune, or as they called them in Armenia, lahmajo. "Barev
dzez!" we said as we sat at a table. The husband stepped out from behind the
open curtain where they were preparing the Middle Eastern specialty.
"How many would you like?" asked the man as he began setting our table.
"Two for my wife, three for me, and two Fantas," said Murad.
"And we would like a dozen to take home," I added.
He called out the order to his wife.
When he finished setting the table, I asked, "May we watch you make the
lahmajo?"
"Eeharge (Of course), egek (come)!" said the man and motioned for us to come
with him.
We followed him to the back of the eatery, just a few feet from our table.
>From the window we could see the end of Rishkov Street where it met the
square. The husband began rolling out formed mounds of dough on a small
table until each mound became as thin and round as plates, and then spread
spicy meat filling on each of them. His wife, standing next to him in front
of a hotplate with a frying pan on top of it, reached for an uncooked
lahmajo, placed it in the frying pan and covered it with a cover. Before we
knew it she lifted the cover and presto-a perfectly cooked lahmajo! And so,
one after another, each lahmajo, cooked to perfection, was made. In this
eatery adorned with geraniums growing in metal cans, sparkling-clean
windows, oil-cloth covered tables, rickety chairs and a staff of two who did
everything, including greeting customers with a smile, we experienced dining
at its finest!
"Before we go home, Murad, we have to stop at the grocery store for a few
things. I'm going to make Karine's father chocolate pudding." Dr. Amatuni's
father was a World War II war veteran. When he learned that I was born in
Austria, he told me that when he was in Austria during the war he had eaten
chocolate pudding there for the "first and only time" and had always
remembered its "delicious flavor and smooth texture." He also mentioned that
he liked Austria because of its "neatness and orderliness." The doctor's
father, a gentle and soft-spoken man, reminded me of another World War II
war veteran, a physician, I had spoken to in Yerevan. He had said that
during the war he, too, had been in Austria and had admired the country for
its neatness and orderliness.
"Since we're running out of tea, let's stop at Tartu (one of three grocery
stores in the vicinity)," said Murad as we prepared to leave. After saying
goodbye to the owners of the eatery we stepped out into the street where we
heard singing. "Let's see where it's coming from," I said, and we walked
towards the sound. In the square, a few feet from where the shuga began, a
thin old man, wearing frayed clothes too large for him, was standing with
his eyes closed and his head tilted toward heaven singing a folk song put to
music by Gomidas. It was a song of lament. In his deep, sweet, soulful voice
he was singing-"Dle yaman. Mer doon (Our home), dzer doon (your home), vai
(oh), dle yaman." Near him on the ground was a small jar with a couple of
coins in it. ".Vai, dle yaman."
I had seen the man a number of times before during my trips to the shuga. He
was always in the same area, always had his eyes closed, and always, whether
he was standing or sitting on the concrete slab used as a bench, had a small
jar and a walking cane near him on the ground. Sometimes he would sit or
stand silently, and sometimes he would sing one song after another. Never
before, though, had he sung this song, and never with such deep passion. I
often wondered what he was seeing with his closed eyes, and especially now
as he sang Dle Yaman.
At the grocery store we purchased a quart of milk (in a jar), a few
chocolate bars, corn starch, sugar, lavash, a box of tea, some yersheeg
(sausage) and dzver (eggs)-six of them. The clerk put the eggs in a plastic
bag, twisted the top of the bag and tied it. I was always amazed at how the
eggs never broke. As we approached Sayat Nova Street, Murad and I began
talking about the young female Peace Corps worker, a graduate student, who
lived near our apartment building. We would meet her from time to time at
Yegheeshe's shop. There were others Peace Corps workers in the city too. Day
in and day out they lived alongside the locals-some in cities, some in
towns, some in remote villages. They learned the language and the customs of
the country. They experienced and shared in the joys, sorrows and hardships
of the local people, accepting the good moments along with the bad. They had
come to make a difference, and each did in his and her own way.
We were on Sayat Nova Street and almost home. As usual, the street vendor
was on the corner selling his produce, but today without his young son.
"Would you like to buy some cabbage?" he asked as he held one up for us to
inspect.
"Vaghuh (Tomorrow)!" I said as we waved goodbye to him. Tomorrow I would buy
one and make a pot of borsch. As we walked up the stairs to our apartment, I
thought about the street vendor below selling his cabbage. He and the
cabbage reminded me of the autumn day I had accompanied the female Peace
Corps worker (the one in her 70s) on a shopping trip to the part of the
shuga where there were shops. "I'll meet you at the fountains!" she had said
on the phone. When we met at the designated spot, she explained, "I saw
something I'd like to buy in one of the shops down there, but I'm not able
to ask the clerk how much it costs."
"Barev dzez!" I said as we walked into the shop filled with household items
and specialty gifts. A clerk was busy with a customer, while the owner was
arranging items in the display case. He looked up and nodded at us. "My
friend would like to purchase that," I said pointing to the item and then
asked, "How much is it?" He looked at me and then at her and said, "Kooyreek
jan (Sister dear), for you, 4,000 drams, but for her, 5,000!" My heart sank
because of what he said and how he said it, and I was ashamed for him. I
said nothing to him, and turned to the Peace Corps worker and told her the
price he had quoted for her. With a smile as warm as the sun she handed him
the money. Stepping out of the store, I knew that I would never go in there
again. After walking around and exploring a few new shops, we stopped at a
cabbage and onion stand. The middle-aged vendor was arranging his produce.
The Peace Corps worker picked up a head of cabbage and asked me to ask him
the price.
The man, a humble farmer from one of the nearby villages, whom I saw
standing on the street corner in good weather and bad selling his meager
produce every time I went to the shuga, shook his head and said, "Kyooreek
jan, she is our guest. Tell her the cabbage is my gift to her, a 'Thank You'
for coming here to help us." When I told the Peace Corps worker what the man
had said, her eyes grew misty. She handed him some drams for the cabbage and
insisted that he take them, but he shook his head. With gratitude, she
accepted his gift.
Home at last, and time to make dinner! We were having yersheek with dzoo
(egg) along with cheese, lavash, green onions and parsley. "I'll cook the
sausage and eggs, while you take care of the rest," said Murad. I sliced the
cheese, sprinkled water on the lavash and wrapped it in a towel to soften,
washed the onions and parsley, took out some raspberry jam, and set the
table. The tea kettle was on and soon the tea would be ready, just in time
for us to begin our meal. After dinner, while Murad watched television, I
gathered my ingredients to make chocolate pudding. As I poured the freshly
bought milk into the pot, I remembered Karine's warning to make certain to
boil the milk before using it." As I waited for it to boil and rise, I mixed
the cornstarch with cool drinking water. (We always boiled our drinking
water because of the occasional warnings on television instructing people to
boil their water because of contamination due to the aged plumbing system.)
I then broke the chocolate bars into small pieces, and measured the sugar in
a bowl. Then I poured, added and stirred until the ingredients in the pot
bubbled dark and smooth and sweet. The pudding was ready to be poured into
glass jars where they cooled.
I called Karine, but no one answered the phone. Just as I finished cleaning
the kitchen, there was a knock at the door. "I'll get it!" I said and went
to open it. It was Karine. "The pudding is ready for your father!" I said
excitedly as I took her to the kitchen. I hoped that her father would like
it, but then wondered, How could a food flavored with fond memories ever be
duplicated? Karine smiled as I showed her the jars. In the living room, as
on other evenings, the three of us sat and chatted as we sipped tea and ate
chocolate biscuits. It was another delightful evening. Then, saying our
goodnights, I made arrangements with Karine to visit her one day at
Samaritair (Samaritan) Hospital, the place where patients affectionately
called her Bshgoohee (shortened version of bzheeshgoohee, or lady doctor),
the place where doctors worked under the most spartan of conditions,
intermittent power outages and frequent lack of water.
It was late and I had finished collecting water for tomorrow. While Murad
finished reading the local newspapers, I went to the bedroom to look out the
window for a while. As I pulled back the curtains and looked into the
darkness, a feeling of sadness came over me. School was coming to an end and
with the ringing of the vercheen zang (last bell) it would be time for us to
leave this apartment that had been not only our home but a place of
discovery and learning, adventure and joy. Oh, how I missed "our Gyumri
home" already! Tomorrow we would have to tell Gamo that we were leaving
soon. Because the school year was coming to an end, and thus our work at the
public school, we were moving to the Ani District to live at the Our Lady of
Armenia Convent and Center/Orphanage, where the bulk of our work would then
be. During the week, we would travel to the AMA Center to continue with our
classes there until their classes, too, came to an end, thus marking the
beginning of summer for the students.
It was moving day. Karine, Melkon and Hovik had come to say goodbye. Sitting
in the living room with them was the new tenant we had found for Gamo-a
young female Peace Corps worker. He had accepted half the rent we paid him.
While we chatted with one another, Gamo walked into the apartment with his
little granddaughter. His face was glum as he looked at our suitcases lined
against the foyer wall. "Shall we walk through the apartment together?" I
asked him.
"Oh, it is not necessary. I know everything is in order," he said with a
hint of sadness both in his eyes and voice.
"No, let us go through the apartment anyway," I replied. "Since we did it
when we rented the apartment, we should do it now as well," and led him to
the kitchen.
Gamo did not look around the room. Instead, he leaned against the counter,
stared at me for a moment and then almost in a whisper asked, "You are not
really leaving, are you?"
"Yes, Gamo, we are leaving," I replied and gently handed him the keys.
He nodded, then said softly, "There is no need for me to look at the other
rooms; I know everything is in order," and holding his granddaughter's hand
walked out of the kitchen.
As Murad and I walked down the stairs for the very last time, with our
friends in front of us, and Gamo and his granddaughter behind us, I thought
about the various people that had knocked on our door-the man from the
electric company; the neighbor who sometimes stopped by with our mail; the
matzoon lady; the AMA staff members; some of our students; the man who asked
us to help him build a home for his family; the woman who asked if we could
invest in her business idea-a massage therapy center for disabled children;
the grandmother who pleaded for help for her family; the young woman who
wanted to know how to go to America. And I thought about the friends we had
made, as well as our landlord and his family.
Arriving at our third home in Gyumri, I wondered what life was going to be
like in a convent and orphanage. No doubt, it would be quite different from
living in a house with a family and living in an apartment on our own. As
the Center gates shut behind us, and we were greeted by Sister Arousiag, the
Superior and a couple of other nuns, with our suitcases in hand, we entered
the world of prayer and meditation, the world of orphaned, poor and
abandoned children, the place where abused women and the impoverished came
knocking on the door.
"This is your room," announced the Sisters warmly, and then said before they
left, "If you need anything, please let us know." Lining our suitcases
against the wall, I stepped over to the window, just a couple of feet away,
and pulled back the curtains. The window to the bedroom we would now call
home for the remainder of our stay in this city had bars on it. From this
window I could not see the outside world anymore, only a wall and a pretty
garden.
To be continued.