Searching for Camelot

by Maria Titizian

Published: Saturday October 13, 2007 in Living in Armenia

A Yerevan traffic jam last week. Photolure

Camelot, located nowhere in particular, can be anywhere....

My apartment is - or was - approximately a five minute drive to work. After negotiating potholes, pedestrians, narrow roads, maniacal drivers, and two U-turns, I turn down a ramp, the gates to CS Media City open, I park my car and walk into the office for a day's work. The return is usually by the same route, the only difference being that I might stop to buy fresh bread for dinner.

A few nights ago, the usual drive home took me well over an hour. I don't think I want to get into the details of why or how it happened. I know it's not uncommon to get stuck in traffic, but everything is relative. Here the intersections get so mangled up by cars, creating a situation from which it is impossible to disentangle yourself. I was thinking I had two alternatives: abandon my car and start walking or abandon my car, walk out into the middle of the intersection, and start disentangling the cars from one another and direct traffic.

I understand that there will be the occasional traffic jam, even in a city like Yerevan.It's the reason for the chaotic traffic that is driving me over the brink.

Enlightened Yerevan City officials decided to embark upon extensive roadwork, the building of bridges, and construction of underground passes all at the same time, across all major arteries, creating havoc, pandemonium, ultimately paralyzing the city and causing yelling matches, fist fights, and the waving of certain fingers accompanied by full bodily gesticulations.

I can't blame the drivers of this city, although I might be inclined to wallop a few of them next time they come whizzing past me, or cut me off, or decide to drive in the opposite direction, just to try and get ahead of the rest of us "sheep" who are patiently stuck in gridlock. (Sheep is a term my father uses to denote people who he thinks don't know how to stand up for themselves. For example, if my father walks into a bank and there's a long line up of people and only two tellers working, after waiting the customary three minutes, he'll start yelling at the top of his lungs, "You people are all sheep! Why don't you complain? You pay so much money in interest charges and they only have two tellers servicing 45 people in line!" Get my drift?)

When I finally got home, my son's tutor Therese was waiting for me. I looked at her and all my anger and tension from the ride home dissipated. I was home. That was the important thing. After spending a few minutes with Therese, I realized that there is so much I take for granted. Being behind the wheel of a car and getting stuck in traffic is something Therese can only dream about.

Therese has been a member of our family for the past five years, diligently helping us deal with the excessive amount of homework that my son gets every night. She has fretted over, cajoled, and assisted my son through the maze of complex mathematical problems and the nuances of the Armenian language. I don't know what we would have done without her. She has at every step been a Godsend and we all love her dearly.

I first saw Therese the very first day my children began school back in 2001, standing in the auditorium with all the other teachers. For some reason she caught my attention. Little did I know back then how intertwined our lives would become. She isn't what one would consider a classic beauty, but there was something about her features, the expression in her eyes and the way she carried herself. Now after five years of seeing her on an almost-daily basis, it was the day that I got stuck in the traffic jam that it finally hit me: She's a modern day hero.
She's Mother Armenia.

Battered, tortured, ill yet determined, strong, proud, battling daily against adversity that would have broken a stronger human being. I would like to tell you the story of my friend, Therese.

Her parents repatriated to Armenia in the 1940s from Greece. Like all repatriates, regardless of the fact that she was born on Armenian soil, she was always considered an aghbar. As her parents adapted to their new country, Therese went on to university receiving a degree in mechanical engineering and began working when she met her future husband. Falling in love was one thing; reality was something else. They got married and went on to have two children.

And then came the moot darinere (the dark years). Therese would walk for miles to get to work. There was no public transportation. And then winter came, and there was no electricity or gas or water. No milk for the children, no bread, no heating. Only the stillness of the dark, dark nights.

But Therese had added burdens. She lived in a rundown single dwelling in a suburb of Yerevan. She lived with her husband and children, but also with her mother- and father-in-law, sister-in-law, and a mentally disabled brother-in-law.

This is how she continues to live.

Relatives of mine who were visiting us in Yerevan a few weeks ago were complaining that people in Armenia had become obsessed with earning money. "What a business­-­oriented culture it has become," one of them said while shaking her head.

What do you say to someone like that?

This is a woman who lives in a 6,000 sq ft home, in a very posh neighborhood, goes on holidays several times a year, and thankfully hasn't seen much heartache in her life. She lives in Camelot.

While she was going on about her analysis of the people's mindset here in Armenia, I was thinking of Therese and what she would say to this relative of mine. Would she be able to find the words to describe her despair? Could she tell my relative that because she had an operation that cost the family $1,000 she is having difficulty sleeping at night even though it was an operation she needed to have and if she didn't it could have permanently impacted her life? Could she tell her what it's like to live in a house which has cracks that let in the wind and the rain and the snow? Could she begin to describe how it feels to have eight people sharing a single bathroom which has running water only two times a day for limited periods? Would she be able to describe what it feels like not to have an extra 100 dram coin to give to her son who goes to university, so that he can have at least a cup of coffee?