|There are grieves that paralyze people. Cheekbones and nodules are jutting and coming out; splash of the wild and unbearable pain appears in dry and irritated eyes. Nails painfully dug in palms, all muscles ache, head clamped in a vise, blood flows through veins with clearly felt jerks. When, you, adult and strong man, turns in helpless baby. When, your hands that before could twist thick metal rod in a knot, now helplessly hang along the trunk.
I’ve experienced this terrible weakness, when from Agdam was released the Giatsint’s shell got in impromptu kindergarten for refugee children from Mardakert. I've rushed among the torn children's bodies and severed limbs. I felt it before, on October 17th, 1991 in Tog village of Hadrut region, when quasi humans in the form of Azeri OMON cut out Danielyan's family. Earlier, in Maraga village of NKR’s Mardakert region, when I saw more than 50 dismembered bodies of Armenian children, old men and women. In Khramort village of Askeran region, where were found raped, brutally murdered and dismembered Armenian old women. In Martuni region of NKR, at sight of ripped open stomach of young Angela that never arrived to the maternity hospital. For her, her husband’s and their not-born baby’s misfortune, the road to the hospital passed through the Azeri Khojavend village… Earlier than that were: Getashen, Gandzak, Baku, Sumgait. Ten years old Nelson first raped and then killed by school director who hammered in child's head more than ten nails.
For many centuries each generation of Armenians became witness and victim of Turkish, inhuman cruelty against Armenians. But the most terrible ordeal befell on generation that had the misfortune to live at the junction of XIXth and XXth centuries.. Only few of them survived to describe their children fallen misery. But there were even fewer able to believe it. Human mind refused to accept it.
It all so wild, so savagely wild,
This medieval darkness around,
Brain became unbearably painful,
And world had lost its mind!
Poets and writers attempted to describe the horrors of Armenian Genocide. But even illuminated by the divine genius: Metsarents and Teryan, Shiraz and Sevak were unable to cope with this task. In fact, was it possible to look for a rhyme next to the baby sucking breast of exhausted and dead of hunger and thirst mother? Was it possible to think about the beauty of style next to the killed by rusty scimitar sister?
Even today, 95 years later, we intently look at the documentary footage of those years and unwittingly seek for familiar faces. And we find them! We find them, since we see relatives, since all of us lost in those terrible decades relatives and acquaintances. That hell is as never-ending grief in our hearts.
"Everyone was killed in our family. Only my grand-dad was rescued” today these bitter words could say thousands, ten and hundreds of thousands of Armenians. Only grandfather was saved. Only grandmother was rescued.
It is so very natural for us that our grandparents were saved. Otherwise, there wouldn't be us. However, how many potential grandparents found painful death in Der Zor desert, how many of them they were burnt in their patrimonies, how many were killed by scimitars, drowned in rivers, hung on hastily built makeshift gallows?! How many were shot, tortured to death? We say one and a half million. It was count only beginning from1915. What about before 1915? Under the reign of "bloody” sultan Abdul Hamid. How many of our children didn’t reach stars as great V. Ambartsumian did? How many of them didn’t become doctors as L. Orbeli, writers as K. Zaryan, composers as A. Khachaturian, artists as M. Saryan, poets as P. Sevak? How many of unborn Armenian women were deprived of motherhood happiness?! How many unborn fathers had no chance to cultivate the land, to warm it by their tired, hardworking hands? They never got a chance to build a house, plant a tree, enjoy son's company, our unborn friend and brother.
Look at them. Don’t turn away; I demand don’t remove your eyes! Look! They are our parents and children! They all led to death: this mother with the child on her hands, this girl, in dying despair bends her arms praying to not-responsive god. There are so many of them; the innocent people sentenced to death. Two millions! Don’t dare to turn this number into statistics! Our parents and our children deserved by name memory. Statistics depersonalizes. Memory obliges us.
Each of us should live and create for ourselves and for those unborn brother and sister in the name and for the benefit of Armenian nation. Each of us should do everything possible to force Turkey to confess. The grandchildren of killers and torturers of innocent people must drain to the lees this bowl of bitter repentance. This is our national task. The souls of our ancestors will find the rest only when the slaughterer on knees will ask for forgiveness from descendants of miraculously rescued Armenians in the memorial dedicated to the victims of Armenian Genocide.
During the Artsakh war, during the regular firing of Hadrut village, enemy shell killed two children of my friend Albert. I rushed to Hadrut in terrible confusion, not even imagining what I will say to Albert, what consolation I will find for the friend. In Hadrut we hugged each other. There were no words: only unbearable pain in the chest. Suddenly, Albert began to talk: "Be strong, friend! My children will return home together with the victory”.
After war Albert was in charge of the district bank, in his house rosy cheeked tot importantly walked, beloved by everyone, Victory Child.