1995_03 Hye Sharzhoom Newspaper March 1995

              March 1995
Hye Sharzhoom
News—3
What you skipped in Armenia the first time
Armine Koundakjian	
Special to Hye Sharzhoom
Most visitors to Armenia treat
it like a theme park. How
unforgiveable for the most part,
they follow a touristic formula,
making a whirlwind run of Lake
Sevan, Etchmiadzin, Garni,
Geghart, Sardarabad—time permitting—Khor Virab and Dilijan.
They take a few snap shots of Mt.
Ararat with nostalgic, tearful eyes
behind their auto-focus Minoltas
or Nikons, then they attend Anoush
Opera one night or maybe a ballet
or another event squeezed in between their busy schedule. And
most inevitable of them all, they
are invited to a relative's home for
a lavish feast of kebab with all the
trimmings magically produced
from their tiny kitchens. The food
is washed down with numerous
interruptions of toasts with fine
Armenian cognac (very little good
wine in this historically wine producing land). Strict ceremony calls
for every drink to be accompanied
by a toast which are bombastic,
artful, poetic and often times of
epic proportion.
At the end, the visitor is
whisked off to Zavartnotz airport
with an armful of carnations and an
army of well-wishing relatives and
friends. Then the visitor returns
home victorious and content that
he/she has been to the Motherland,
Hayastan.
If knowing one's homeland,
no matter how small, was this simple
then I'd have no quarrel. But really
knowing the homeland involves
venturing to the no-man's land
where the displaced and homeless
scratch out a living from barren
land by hand carrying the water,
who will invite you into their shack
to share a "meal." It involves living
and seeing how the common people
struggle with their daily lives full of
depravation and misery. It means
bringing a smile to the face of an
orphan or lending a helping hand to
a refugee. It means listening to the
heroic story of a freedom fighter
lying in a dilapidated hospital bed.
It means, instead of paying Up service to those who give their life for
the survival of our homeland, providing a real, substantial assistance
to their impoverished families left
behind.
If you want an unusual taste of
the real history and culture of this
land, visit a far out corner of the
Araratian valley called Metzamor,
where a 27 year old archaeological
excavation by a woman scientist
has revealed an entire ancient Armenian civilization dating back
three to five thousand years.
If you want a real taste of human stamina, perserverance and
devotion of heroic proportions, visit
Gumri (Leninakan) School No. 5
where a tiny charming woman, who
has witnessed the horrors of the
1988 earthquake, has single-
handedly rebuilt the school where
she was the principal and all her
students perished, save a few. See
how she has inspired and mobilized a score of people around her
to convert several barracks into
comfortable classrooms complete
with an art center, a music center
and a library. This library is a 3 by
6 (meter) trailer box where two
energetic Gumretzi ladies have
furnished it with salvaged books
and homemade cardboard shelves,
desks and a handwritten card catalogue. They are constantly asking
for donations of books, pencils and
confidently announcing that they'll
expand or replace it with a permanent building.
A few blocks away, visit a 75
year old man who used to be a
member of the town council and
the most effective statesman in
charge of city planning. See how
he has single-handedly rebuilt entire street dwellings out of makeshift box trailers. He has even
managed to erect street lights. Why
is he so amazing? Because he lost
eleven members of his family save
adaughterand son-in-law who happened to be in Yerevan during the
earthquake. He almost died of depression, but somehow his spirit
did not break. He healed. Go with
him on one of his daily visits to the
cemetery where he places the most
beautiful flowers he can find on the
grave sites. In spite of the enormous weight of grief he has endured, he is hopeful and optimistic
that his beloved city will once again
flourish.
Visit the many institutions,
orphanages, hospitals, soup kitchens, and clinics that have become
the pet projects of many Diaspora
Armenians from all walks of life.
Find out how their benefactors, for
the most part the unsung heroes
amongst us are quietly and tirelessly soliciting, cajoling, and collecting much needed materials or
purchasing them to send or carry-
one suitcase at a time year in year
out—to their intended destinations.
Listen to a multitude of teachers who worry and suffer about the
poor nutrition of the students in
their care, while their own families
aren't any better off or less hungry.
They are constantly prodding any
charity organization for supplemental food stuffs.
If you don't mind giving your
precious nerves a bit of discomfort,
visit Karabakh and then you will
really learn the lesson of your lifetime. You will be so shocked by
the resilience of the people that you
will not be the same Armenian for
as long as you live. You will witness streets cleared or rubble and
trash. The population is active and
hopeful. Daily life is run like an
efficient military camp at all-time
readiness and alert. Drive to a
remote village in the Marduni district and watch a dedicated medical
doctor who has abandonedhis comfortable practice in Yerevan and
has set up a moobile emergency
hospital unit to care for the wounded
and the sick since the heavy fighting of 1992. He speaks of his
dream hospital on that site one day.
He is so determined and convincing that you see yourself in the
building already. He shows you
the fertile land, the purple mountains in the horizon and says, 'This
is God's country which belongs to
us, how could we have forsaken it
for so long. It shall never be given
back."
After seeing such saintly
people and witnessing their saint-
lier deeds, one becomes convinced
that after all is said and done, one
thing is surely indisputable, and
that is, any nation that possesses
such indomitable, strong-willed
individuals who do make a difference in the face of so much adversity and despair, shall not die. These
are the unbreakable souls who know
exactly what it is they are doing and
why they are doing it. These are the
chosen few who laugh at and dismiss the rest of us to wallow in our
petty quarrels, jealousies and back-
stabbing.
Bubble gum and Armenia-at the airport
Lara Simonian
Hye Sharzhoom
"It's only 65 pounds. They
said the limit was 75."
The chaperone huffed loudly
as he dragged the suitcase across
the floor. He took a deep breath
and grunted loudly as he dropped
the bag onto the airport check-in
counter. People stopped walking
to stare at his struggle.
"Yeah, but it's still too heavy!"
he replied.
"It's only 65 pounds..." I murmured back.
"What?" he asked as he wiped
his brow.
"I said yes Mr. Samuelian." I
smiled up widely at him. Innocence poured out of my face. His
crooked grin reluctantly expressing acquiescence to my gaze.
I looked at the blank walls
surrounding us. They were empty,
void of all colors and pictures. Not
even any advertisements adorned
these Soviet run airports. The room
felt chilly without any central heating. I stared at the fog which escaped out of my warm nostrils. I
blew harder in order to see it float
higher. I was shivering from the
cold, wondering how the people
could live in such weather.
The people looked poor,
dressed in ragged clothing, one
layer wilting away as it draped
over another layer. I felt a pang of
guilt I tugged my parka closer to
my body. It was not really that
cold. I noticed that no one in our
group had a tear or a patch holding
their warmth together. The people
were cold, but they were not life
less. I peered into their faces, but
made sure I did not meet their eyes.
Mr. Samuelian's voice suddenly broke through my thoughts. I
turned around and found him arguing with a soldier in Russian. My
suitcase laid open on the check-in
table. The soldier had his hands
buried in my possessions. I felt the
terror of private violation. I dashed
forward towards Mr. Samuelian,
who kept arguing while the soldier
continued digging through my contents, calmly ignoring the ranting
man.
Anger burned into my cheeks.
I was going to scream and pierce
the soldier's eardrums. How dare
he! He will shake when he hears me
boil my voice over his whimpering,
pitiful tone. I took my last step with
a dramatic stomping of my Reeboks.
When I stood behind ' Mr.
Samuelian, I just decided to wait
for him finish. The soldier moved
slowly. He was very large, over
seven feet tall! I decided that Mr.
Samuelian had everything well under control. There was no need for
me to interfere. I stared at the
soldier's kaki uniform, searching
for the machine gun that he had hid
somewhere beneath his coat. No,
there certainly was no need for me
to interfere at all.
The soldier's eyes suddenly
popped open. He grabbed a handful of items from my bag. Bubble
gum packs, dozens of them in various flavors, peeked out from under
his grasp. He had collected every
pack of gum that I had hidden in all
the corners of my suitcase. There
was a pile collecting in the center of
my bag. I gasp and felt a burn.
"PUT THOSE DOWN!" I
screamed as I pushed my way past
Mr. Samuelian. The soldier's eyebrows spread wide above his eyes
as he stared at me in astonishment.
Mr. Samuelian moved back and
glared at me in shock. The Russian
kept staring at me while he directed
his comments to Mr. Samuelian.
"He wants to know why you
have so much gum," Mr. Samuelian
translated.
My heart pounded fiercely,
"BECAUSE I like chewing gum."
My voice was still high pitched, but
my hands were trembling from the
terror I felt.
Mr. Samuelian translated for
me, but the soldier apparently was
not convinced that one little girl
could chew so much. If my mother
was there, she could tell him I had
the mouth to chew it all if I wanted.
I stood there, with my neck stretched
up high, wishing I was taller. At
least tall people did not have to
stand on their tippy toes when they
yelled at a Russian soldier.
Mr. Samuelian began quickly
talking to the soldier. He placed his
hand on top of my head, apparently
to highlight my youth and innocence. That almost infuriated me
— I could handle my own battles.
The soldier only shook his head
back in disagreement. He shoved
his fist full of bubble gum in Mr.
Samuelian's face andscowledback
something.
I felt the panic. I could get
violent, but everyone knew about
the firing squads in Russia. I was
not going to let him take that gum.
It was much to important to me. I
did not bring several pounds of
gum from Fresno to Armenia just
so that this animal could take them.
The gum was for the children in the
International Camp. I knew about
them. They had nothing fun in the
impoverished country. The gum
would make them happy!
I knew he wanted the gum.
His mouth was drooling. He could
almost taste them. His hands
trembled because he wanted them
so bad.
"He says you're going to sell
the gum for — for profit!" Mr.
Samuelian exasperatedly said.
That was my last chance. If he
labeled me a capitalist, the fight
would be over. I would lose all the
gum. The panic hit me so hard that
I lost control of my hands. I was
going to give him a hell of a fight.
I grit my teeth and prepared for
battle. My fist was clenched. I took
in a deep breath. The energy continued to build. The power burned
through my veins. It was going to
happen soon. I forced myself not to
think of the Siberian concentration
camps.
I looked up at the soldier's
face. I paused. Then, I snapped.
"AHHHHHHHHH!" I
screamed. I screamed loud enough
to startle everyone around me. They
all turned to stare at us. I did not
think that the shock on Mr.
Samuelian's face could grow any
larger. I was wrong. His mouth
dropped into a large 'O'. He tried
to take a hold of my shoulders.
There was panic in his eyes.
I unlocked my knees and suddenly flopped to the floor. I pushed
the pain out, forcing the tears to
come rapidly. The wailing had to
be loud, with gasping sobs and
choking moans. I threw my hands
up around my temples, squeezing
them until I left fingerprint dents.
My moans were as loud as my
screams. I could not see Mr.
Samuelian, but I could hear him
saying, "Oh, my God! Oh, my
God!" The people who were dragging their luggage across the floor
stopped to stare at the soldier. They
whispered their disapproval of his
behavior.
I wanted to look up and see the
soldier's confusion, but I was only
in mid-performance. Through the
corner of my eye, I glanced at his
uncertainty. Other soldiers began
yelling something at him. He responded with silence. I concentrated on not giggling or breaking
my sobs.
After several minutes, the soldier slammed the suitcase shut.
Pushing it towards Mr. Samuelian,
he attempted to gruffly issue acom-
mand. Mr. Samuelian quickly responded in a lighter tone of voice.
He was smiling as he picked up the
suitcase off the counter.
A pair of hands picked me up
by the shoulders and lifted me off
the ground. I kept my face buried
in my hands. I could not force any
more tears to come, so I had to hide
my face from everyone else's view.
I was guided towards the exit doors.
I stayed humble and quiet, with my
face hidden, until our group was
loaded into the transportation vans.
Only then did I finally look up and
smile.
The next day, I saw why my
See BUBBLE GUM , Page 7