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Excerpt from "Nowhere: a Story of Exile"
by Anna Astvatsaturian Turcotte
http://www.reporter.am/go/article/2012-09-28-excerpt-from--nowhere-a-story-of-exile-
Published: Friday September 28, 2012
The young Anya with her dad Norik in Baku. Courtesy image
What follows is an exceprt from "Nowhere, a story of exile":
"The demonstrations that started at the end of the summer were not the
last ones. We saw them more frequently, thousands of people rushing
and screaming. Our street was the main street that led to Lenin
Square, where the government buildings were located. The
demonstrators were Azeri who wanted us out of the country and demanded
that Armenia stops claiming Nagorno-Karabakh as historically Armenian
land.
The demonstrations worsened with time. They grew bigger and louder.
The beginning of the school year of 1988-1989 was confusing for
everyone. I was a fifth grader now but I was not thinking about school
even though I functioned, automatically memorizing poems, formulas and
English vocabulary.
Things were uncertain and unpredictable and that fall Mama didn't let
me go out of the patio to climb the olive trees on our street. The
olives were for pickling and we gathered them together with Vilya
yearly. Mama reasoned that it would attract too much attention to the
building and to me. The school didn't send the students on olive
picking field trips either. The olive trees on the street were filled
with ripe olives which we could only look at through our window and
not touch.
Through the social webs and contacts information leaked into the
households of Armenians that in November there were pogroms and
atrocities committed against Armenian citizens in Kirovabad, a distant
city, second largest in Azerbaijan. Elderly, men and women, killed,
raped, maimed. We covered our mouths in disbelief. Nothing was
reported on the news. As the day went by Mama brushed it off as a
non-story, something that would never happen in Baku, which was filled
with intellectuals and internationalists.
On a certain December 1988 afternoon, everyone was at home when I
returned from school. The events that transpired erased all
recollection of having been to school that day. That day's
demonstrations were the worst we had ever seen.
We are gathered in my Grandma's apartment, all of us, Mama, Papa,
Misha, Grandma and me. We have locked the door from inside, and sit,
waiting, with all windows closed and shuttered. We turn the lights
off. Papa tells Misha and me to speak in whispers. Papa takes all of
the knives out of the kitchen drawers and sets them in a pile in front
of him at the dining room table, prepared for the worst. He keeps
saying, repeatedly, "If they break in, I will take a few of them with
me to the other world."
We are afraid to talk aloud. We whisper if we have to, but rarely.
Mama is holding Misha on her lap on the sofa, her face buried in his
blonde curls and Grandma is sitting on the chair looking at her
wrinkly hands which rest on her old-fashioned cotton dress. Through
the unfortunate cracks in the blinds, we see people rushing down the
street with green flags. There are so many of them their shoulders
brush against the walls of our building. We see a few black flags,
which mean "death" and "vengeance," hand-made in a hurry. The
demonstrators run and rush against and past our building. There is
shouting, chanting and screaming in Azeri.
As I sneak a look in the crack in the shutters, I see a man in a black
coat. He is in front of the crowd, walking backward, shouting
something. From that distance, we cannot understand what he is
saying, though his voice is loud and he addresses the crowd in Azeri.
It seems that he is trying to stop them. But they only yell louder
and rush forth, almost as if to tell the man in black that they will
not listen to him. Sure enough, they shove him aside and a few
demonstrators enter the patio of the apartment building right next to
ours. They yell for Armenians to come out. This building is
well-known for housing Armenians who have lived there for several
generations. A few of them were mixed families - Azeri, Russian and
Armenian. Papa shoves me away from the window.
The demonstrators yell and scream. When no one lets them in, they
start hurling rocks at the windows. We hear crashing and muffled
commotion and yelling. Suddenly they appear back on the street and
rush ahead toward the Lenin Square, looking for excitement elsewhere.
They appear to miss our building. It is too close to the railroad and
is out of sight. The gates to the patio are shielded by bushes and
trees. Later, we learn that Nagorno-Karabakh Armenians are trying to
secede from Azerbaijan and rejoin Armenia."
by Anna Astvatsaturian Turcotte
http://www.reporter.am/go/article/2012-09-28-excerpt-from--nowhere-a-story-of-exile-
Published: Friday September 28, 2012
The young Anya with her dad Norik in Baku. Courtesy image
What follows is an exceprt from "Nowhere, a story of exile":
"The demonstrations that started at the end of the summer were not the
last ones. We saw them more frequently, thousands of people rushing
and screaming. Our street was the main street that led to Lenin
Square, where the government buildings were located. The
demonstrators were Azeri who wanted us out of the country and demanded
that Armenia stops claiming Nagorno-Karabakh as historically Armenian
land.
The demonstrations worsened with time. They grew bigger and louder.
The beginning of the school year of 1988-1989 was confusing for
everyone. I was a fifth grader now but I was not thinking about school
even though I functioned, automatically memorizing poems, formulas and
English vocabulary.
Things were uncertain and unpredictable and that fall Mama didn't let
me go out of the patio to climb the olive trees on our street. The
olives were for pickling and we gathered them together with Vilya
yearly. Mama reasoned that it would attract too much attention to the
building and to me. The school didn't send the students on olive
picking field trips either. The olive trees on the street were filled
with ripe olives which we could only look at through our window and
not touch.
Through the social webs and contacts information leaked into the
households of Armenians that in November there were pogroms and
atrocities committed against Armenian citizens in Kirovabad, a distant
city, second largest in Azerbaijan. Elderly, men and women, killed,
raped, maimed. We covered our mouths in disbelief. Nothing was
reported on the news. As the day went by Mama brushed it off as a
non-story, something that would never happen in Baku, which was filled
with intellectuals and internationalists.
On a certain December 1988 afternoon, everyone was at home when I
returned from school. The events that transpired erased all
recollection of having been to school that day. That day's
demonstrations were the worst we had ever seen.
We are gathered in my Grandma's apartment, all of us, Mama, Papa,
Misha, Grandma and me. We have locked the door from inside, and sit,
waiting, with all windows closed and shuttered. We turn the lights
off. Papa tells Misha and me to speak in whispers. Papa takes all of
the knives out of the kitchen drawers and sets them in a pile in front
of him at the dining room table, prepared for the worst. He keeps
saying, repeatedly, "If they break in, I will take a few of them with
me to the other world."
We are afraid to talk aloud. We whisper if we have to, but rarely.
Mama is holding Misha on her lap on the sofa, her face buried in his
blonde curls and Grandma is sitting on the chair looking at her
wrinkly hands which rest on her old-fashioned cotton dress. Through
the unfortunate cracks in the blinds, we see people rushing down the
street with green flags. There are so many of them their shoulders
brush against the walls of our building. We see a few black flags,
which mean "death" and "vengeance," hand-made in a hurry. The
demonstrators run and rush against and past our building. There is
shouting, chanting and screaming in Azeri.
As I sneak a look in the crack in the shutters, I see a man in a black
coat. He is in front of the crowd, walking backward, shouting
something. From that distance, we cannot understand what he is
saying, though his voice is loud and he addresses the crowd in Azeri.
It seems that he is trying to stop them. But they only yell louder
and rush forth, almost as if to tell the man in black that they will
not listen to him. Sure enough, they shove him aside and a few
demonstrators enter the patio of the apartment building right next to
ours. They yell for Armenians to come out. This building is
well-known for housing Armenians who have lived there for several
generations. A few of them were mixed families - Azeri, Russian and
Armenian. Papa shoves me away from the window.
The demonstrators yell and scream. When no one lets them in, they
start hurling rocks at the windows. We hear crashing and muffled
commotion and yelling. Suddenly they appear back on the street and
rush ahead toward the Lenin Square, looking for excitement elsewhere.
They appear to miss our building. It is too close to the railroad and
is out of sight. The gates to the patio are shielded by bushes and
trees. Later, we learn that Nagorno-Karabakh Armenians are trying to
secede from Azerbaijan and rejoin Armenia."