May there be light

by Ella Mnatsakanyan

When Armen first set foot in his native homeland — his “official” homeland — he was already eighteen. Can you imagine how much of life he had inadvertently missed during those years? Homeland is something like a mother and father: it should be beside you from the moment you’re born so you can grow into it, learn to live from it and for it. And yet he had lost nearly a fifth of a century deprived of the pleasure of “feeling” his homeland. The most curious thing was that he didn’t even realize the extent of that loss, because he and his family, and indeed all the families around them, had lived in a country, a state — the brotherly Soviet Union. Here all the republics are brothers, all citizens are kin, who are supposed to be protected (at least, that was the ideology’s assurance) within the borders of their state. But, it turned out, they were not protected.

It was an ordinary winter day, one of the last when the sun’s rays grow warmer and promise the coming of spring. They, like all the Armenians in their neighborhood, woke up to spend the day as usual and finish the tasks they had left unfinished, but… Fate had decreed that that day would feel the longest and, in a way, never end. There were pogroms in Sumgait. Again what had happened some seventy years earlier — what the barely recovered people had straightened their bowed backs to move forward from — had happened again. Again the Turk was the killer, the Armenian the slain; again the Turk was the traitor who strikes from behind, slaughtering like beasts, and the Armenian the trusting, forgiving, and being slain… Again a genocide had been carried out, and again the world shut its eyes and ears to the greatest crime. Armen’s father was killed the very first day of the pogroms when he went out to take measures to save the family. What an astonishing coincidence — the Armenian, selflessly defending his family, is killed on his own doorstep… He died, but the family managed to escape and settle in Yerevan — this time clearly aware that there are no brotherly states, and that they would be safe only in their own homeland. They returned, leaving behind their house, property and acquaintances, work and honor, in that “brotherly city.” They returned, leaving several hundred kilometers and a whole life lived and unlived, and like an arch with a crack they collapsed, having lost the single supporting pillar of their wall…

“Arm, did you know I couldn’t sleep all night?” Lilith, Armen’s younger sister, began the morning conversation around the breakfast table.

“Why?”

“I remembered…” She glanced cautiously at the door to make sure their mother wasn’t there. “I remembered that mom didn’t say a single word the whole way back. Do you remember how we were quizzing her with endless questions, and she kept silent?”

“I remember.” Armen’s face visibly clouded. “But why are you remembering that now?”

“I always remember that day. Even now the image of mom staring from the window and saying nothing is before my eyes. Last night I thought — maybe she was crying?” There was a painful tremor in Lilith’s voice.

“No, she wasn’t crying, Li.” Armen smiled. “I watched her face constantly, trying to understand why she was silent.”

Lilith turned her half-questioning schoolgirl glance at Armen.

“After months of thinking I understood that the pain had simply settled in her throat like a weight and wouldn’t move to either side,” Armen continued. “She was leaving behind an entire life’s story and didn’t even know where her husband’s body was buried (if it was buried).” Lilith was already wiping her tears. “There was uncertainty in her gaze — uncertainty about our future.”

“There is that uncertainty even now — that half-empty feeling,” Lilith whispered through choking sobs.

Armen noticed his sister’s tear-bright eyes.

“Li, don’t cry.” He embraced her, wiping her wet cheeks. “Everything will be fine, you’ll see. Now stop it, mama will come in.”

“Mama will come in” were magic words: whatever the problem, quarrel, crying or complaint, it stopped as soon as Mrs. Hasmik entered. Her children clearly knew that this poor woman had seen far too much in recent months and was in an extremely fragile state. First, the pogroms in their hometown, then the murder of her beloved husband, the hurried flight from their own house and the difficulties of trying to maintain the family in a completely new environment. No matter how much she tried to hide it, by day the sadness disguised itself as fatigue; at night her bitter, secret weeping could be heard clearly, a plea and complaint to God, a powerless cry to change something…

Many say time heals wounds; some insist it merely scars them; others believe time changes nothing — people change everything. In any case, months went by, and it seemed that things were gradually settling into place for this small family. Armen and his mother had already found work and could provide the family’s daily bread; his sister continued the studies she had left halfway through. The fallen arch was being rebuilt step by step, the family trying to straighten the back bowed by pain and hardship, leaning on their new pillar — Armen — when fate struck another blow. The Soviet Union collapsed. A fierce war ripened at the border: to liberate the historic land of Artsakh from the “brotherly” brotherland. Chaos reigned in the country. There were bread lines everywhere and calls to struggle. Armen, a young man who had already seen much, impulsively wanted to join the fight and go to the front. The only thing that made him hesitate was his mother and sister — who would be left completely alone after he left. He was convinced his mother would oppose his decision, but he felt guilty for having left his homeland neglected so many years and believed the time had come to fulfill his duty to it.

“The situation at the front is worsening; volunteers from Yerevan and different regions are being gathered and sent to Artsakh,” the radio — which for days had transmitted nothing but such news — announced again.

“Li, I need you to promise me something,” Armen said softly.

“What?”

“Promise you’ll take good care of mother if… if I go.”

“You mean, go where? For what?” Lilith panicked.

“Lilit, I intend to go to the border soon to—” Armen’s words failed him.

“To what, Armen?” Mrs. Hasmik appeared in the doorway wrapped in a wool shawl. “So that you too will become an unnecessary victim like your father?”

“I will not be a victim, Mom. And even if I die, my death will not be in vain,” he said firmly. “I will know that I died defending my land, my homeland, to keep you and other mothers and sisters sleeping peacefully…”

“Do you really think we will sleep peacefully knowing you are there, fighting for your life? Will we be calm wondering if you will light the night or not?”

“That’s enough, Mom. I don’t want what happened to us to happen to other Armenian families, that they too will lose the pillars of their homes and run away mad like we did — this time from our own homeland. Mom, I want to avenge my father; thousands must answer for my father’s death. Above all, I must atone my debt to my homeland.”

“Armen…” Mrs. Hasmik could not hold back; tears poured from her eyes like a flood. “No, promise me you won’t go.”

Armen lowered his head; this time he could not resist and had reminded his mother of their greatest sorrow. He approached and hugged her tightly.

“Forgive me, Mom.”

She looked him straight in the eyes, her wrinkled hands sliding over his cheeks.

“My son, promise me you won’t go,” she whispered, swallowing her tears.

Armen made a helpless gesture with his hand and quietly left the room.

Armen cast a longing last glance at the house door and smiled at his sister.

“Take good care of mom.”

The sound of water splashing on the floor was heard; the door closed. A few minutes later the house’s electricity suddenly went out. Mrs. Hasmik, awakened by a bad premonition, came into the parlor. There Lilith was kneeling and whispering a prayer before the weak flame of a candle.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…” Her voice gradually lowered. “Protect and keep him, Lord God, and let there be light…”

And there was light. Eventually the house’s lights did turn on — without fear of being cut off from power — the hearth once again sent up smoke and warmth spread throughout the home. Now Mrs. Hasmik is proud of her soldier grandson, who, like his father, has chosen the difficult path of military service.