InternationalSongs, water, fish, and faith
Published: Thursday December 18, 2008 in Living in Armenia
Yerevan - Last weekend we went to the village of Abaka on the outskirts of Etchmiadzin. As we were driving along the desolate stretch of highway, I was thinking how Abaka (which means future in Armenian) is a strange name for a village. But then again, so is naming your daughter after the ancient capital city of an Armenian kingdom that no longer exists. Or giving your son the name of an Armenian province now on Turkish territory.
We have songs written and composed for Yerevan. Can you imagine a song written for Washington or Ottawa or Helsinki? When I asked a composer friend how many songs there were in honor of Yerevan, he said, "Countless."
He also said that we technically could be in the Guinness Book of World Records for having so many songs devoted to our capital city. The most famous of these and the one that has become the unofficial anthem of the city is "Yerevan-Erebuni," composed by Edgar Hovanessian. And then there is, of course, "Im Yerevan" (My Yerevan), "Kaghakamayr Yerevan" (Capital Yerevan), "Sirun Yerevan" (Beautiful Yerevan), "Karun Yerevan" (Spring Yerevan), and so on.
As we turned into the village of Abaka, there were several plots of land with greenhouses; the homes seemed to be relatively well maintained and the streets, although not fully paved, appeared to be in decent condition.
I told my husband that it looked like the villagers of Abaka weren't doing too badly. He said they were one of the few lucky villages in Armenia that had water. You can dig down about 100-150 meters and you'll hit water, he said. That helps, of course, but when agricultural lands were being privatized after the collapse of the Soviet Union, each household received an average of one hectare of property (10,000 sq m), some not even that much. To eke out an existence on one hectare of land, which sometimes isn't even arable, with no irrigation, is backbreaking work, especially when agricultural work in Armenia is almost entirely manual - due to the lack of small-scale mechanization. And especially when people can't always afford seed or fertilizer and oftentimes don't have access to water for irrigation. To be profitable in farming, one hectare of land won't get you very far.
We finally come to Samvel and Sirun's house in the village of Abaka. They have three beautiful young children, Grigor, Hrayr and Maryamik, two dogs with a whole new litter for the New Year, and Samvel's parents, who seem to have walked out of the 19th century.
They have a large home, very simple, which has natural gas and an Iranian-made gas heater. That means they don't have to burn wood to keep warm anymore. They don't have a real kitchen or a bathroom; they have a makeshift outhouse, which they know is temporary, and a dream for a kitchen, complete with wooden cupboards, a countertop, a sink with running water, and some basic appliances.
Samvel fought in the liberation of Artsakh. He fought for three years. He made friendships that you know will last a lifetime and beyond. He also lost friends whose memories still torture him. He named his firstborn son, Grigor, after his best friend who was killed during the armed conflict. He still can't talk about him, Sirun tells me. Tears well up in his eyes when he tries to tell stories about Grigor.
Samvel's father, who is almost 80 years old, with his white whiskers and rosy cheeks, wrapped up in woolen scarves his wife must have knit fifty years ago, putters around the property helping out his son. The mother, her one eye blind, but the other, good one bright and fiery, with long hair tied in a bun, wears striped woolen socks and homemade shoes and stays in the makeshift kitchen while Sirun attends to the guests. When I arrive she grasps my face with both hands and plants a solid kiss on my cheek and welcomes me like a daughter. My eyes tear up involuntarily.
Samvel's forefathers are from Sasun. He talks about Sasun as if he were raised there. He talks about how they all had homes there. My friend pokes fun at him and says that Sasun is a rocky, barren place worse than Talin, where most Sasuntsis have settled in present-day Armenia. Samvel is not fazed. I know that's where I belong, he maintains. I say that even if Sasun were to be liberated, he, Samvel, would never go there. His dark eyes turn to fire. That is where my heart and soul are, he says. That is where I would be. And somehow, I believe him.
Sirun - well the only thing one can say about Sirun is that she looks like she could belong anywhere and everywhere. Her eyes are sky blue and her pale skin is almost translucent. She has long, light brown hair and is so strikingly beautiful you can't help but stare at her. I tell my girlfriend on the way to their house that it seems strange that a young woman like Sirun, so beautiful, would be stuck in a village in a remote corner of the world. I'm not exaggerating: she is that beautiful. It's a ridiculous notion of course. Does that mean that people who are less beautiful should live in villages and the more beautiful ones deserve to be more privileged?
I am wrong about Sirun, as I often am about many things. Because the village is where Sirun belongs. Abaka is where she wants to be, where her heart is and where her future is. I know, because after I spend a Sunday afternoon with her, I realize that she has a mission here. Every week she gathers all the children of the village and tells them stories of their proud past, of the Sasuntsis and Zeituntsis and of Musa Ler. She tells them about Artsakh and how all the brave, valiant men fought in that war. She tells them to be proud of their village and of their nation. She believes that the country will get better. She really believes it. It's unbelievable to see so much optimism in her eyes when most people are so negative. Truly, this is a country of extremes.
She takes me to a room in the house that has yet to be renovated. There is no heating there, and it's freezing. There are a few broken pieces of furniture, some shoes, and a china cabinet that has seen better days. She tells me the plans for this room. When I am able to heat this room, then I will have another baby, she says. That's the problem with us Armenians, we don't have enough children, she tells me.
