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Published: August 6th 2007
love at first sight
my freedom fighter and me... certainly not the reception i was expectingIt's Genocide Memorial Day. You know, remembering the 1.5 million (exact amount disputed) Ottoman Armenians killed during their deportation in WWI. 92 years later, and there's still a pretty big turnout; an unending throng of people bearing flowers or wreaths to the Memorial to be placed around the eternal flame as dramatic music is played on loudspeakers and the whole thing is broadcasted live on TV. It's April 24 and if you think that means it's warm and sunny you're very much mistaken. It's snowing heavily, giving the whole thing an even more dramatic and eerie atmosphere.
Not the best time or place to be a Turk.
Especially not when I'm seconds away from being interviewed for Armenian TV as the Turk at the Memorial. I'm trying hard to compose myself and think of the words I should be using. A wrong expression, an untimely smile, a blush, an accidental uttering of the F word... they could have terrible implications. I've been asked to tell why I'm in Armenia, why I've come to the Memorial, what I know about the Genocide, and what I think needs to be done about it. Great! This isn't exactly a controversy-free topic. Why
Menk Hay Enk! Menk Hrant Enk!
Me protesting the killing of Armenian journalist Hrant Dink... oh how the mighty have fallen... don't thy ask me about Somalia or the War on Terror (sic) -- or something else I have strong views on and think I'm well-enough informed about? I hardly know anything apart from the two official versions of history: the Turkish says it was the Armenians who massacred the local Muslims, and there was no option but to move them out of the area as they were actively fighting on the side of the enemy (the Russians); the Armenians say there was a sinister master-plan to exterminate the Armenian nation, and it was a premeditated act of genocide committed by the Turkish government. Here we go! We're rolling. I'm staring directly into the camera, rattling off a monologue that I hope is coherent and in slow enough english for them to be able to correctly translate later. I become vaguely aware of the interviewer nodding somewhere in my peripheral vision. Crap! Does this mean I should be talking at her instead of the camera? And should I switch now or just keep going; which is worse? Focus! Focus!
The art of talking without saying anything. I'm in Armenia to meet the people and experience their similarities with Turks.
(I'm 15 minutes of fame
staring hard at the camera, unsure of what's expected of me... not sure they want to be lumped together with us. I didn't mention that I think we're all the same sh*t (ayni bokun soyuyuz).) I like Armenia very much.
(Except for the part about it snowing in late April. I especially like Armenia because it's totally and unambiguously Middle-Eastern, and I feel at home.) In Turkey the official history says it wasn't a genocide; it says bad things happened but it was out of military necessity and during wartime. Nevertheless, it's a terrible thing that happened, that so many Armenians died.
(Regardless of the political reasons, I really do think it was a terrible tragedy. I Politically-correctly avoid using the word "Genocide".) I'm here in solidarity with with the Armenian people.
(And also because I'm a shameless tourist and think it's going to be a memorable experience that I can blog about.) The interviewer softly asks me a question in Russian. Uh-oh. It wasn't "where are you from?" or "what is your name", so it's too complicated. I'm sorry, I don't understand. I'm really glad this isn't live. Oh yes, going forward.... I think the two nations should resolve this issue once and for all, so we can bury the past and move on and coexist peacefully.
(And I don't think the Genocide should be _the_ defining event for the Armenian nation.) There shouldn't be two incompatible and politicized versions of history
(don't even get me started). We're all brothers, we lived together for centuries.
(I wonder how they're taking this...) In Turkey the dissident writer Hrant Dink was murdered.
(Yes, they know... there was an old lady with a poster with his picture and the words "1500000 + 1" beneath. They know.) Thousands of people in Istanbul marched to protest his killing. I also marched.
(I did it because I wanted to observe the protesters and prove my opinion that most of them didn't know what they were protesting. And also because a certain Spanish-Anarchist chick was going.) We chanted "Menk Hay Enk".
(We Are Armenian. Nice job showing off your Armenian. Actually I disagreed with the slogan and was too busy taking pictures to chant.) I have met Armenians in Aleppo and Beirut.
(Really, is this degree of self-promotion necessary?) And I took a year of Armenian in college.
(That's why I can't speak more than 10 words. How is this relevant again?) I love Armenian people, we're all brothers.
(I'm repeating myself. There's cold sweat running down my back.) I'm not sure how the interview ended. My Indian companion said I choked and kept muttering "we're all brothers". At least it wasn't "Ararat is in Turkey". Or "Turkish National Homeland".
Minutes later a well-dressed man comes up, asks if I'm Turkish and wants to see my passport. I'm meek: Here you are. Oh... another interview? Sure... 15 minutes of fame times two.
More of the same... this time it's live with instant translation of 5-minute paragraphs, broadcast live in channel H2 (I wish I could see what it looked like). I'm not sure any of our subtleties translated into Armenian. Darshak was repeatedly asked why Turkey doesn't recognize the Genocide... "Well, I don't really know since I'm not Turkish. But if Turkey really believes it happened then they should acknowledge it"... Go Darshak! Utterly content-free.
An old guy also being interviewed called out "hello my dears", so I decided I needed to talk to him. Any old man with long white beard, army fatigues, and cool hat who calls strangers "my dears" needs to be talked to. I identify myself as "Istanbuli" and the smile on his face freezes. He announces in the most powerfully commanding voice "you
shall understand and recognize the Genocide!" Then something about 12 million (not 1.5 as the Armenians officially claim and Turkey disputes) being killed, and something about Deir ez-Zur. I wonder if I should mention that I've been to Deir and that the people are very friendly? Maybe he's not so interested in my travels. I assume he's a little cracked so I try not to hurt his feelings. He proudly says he and his neighborhood militia killed every single Azerbaijani living in their area when the war broke out in 1988. Seems like the sort of thing you shouldn't be saying while holding a vigil for innocent victims. When we break eye contact and relax the grip of our 10-minute handshake I notice we have a bit of an audience including two foreigners: a blondish guy and a beautiful woman. Not the provocative insecure beauty of a teenager but a dignified regal beauty. I've always been partial to Diaspora Armenians.
Turns out our old friend is actually famous. He's a freedom fighter and produces photograph after photograph and official documents underscoring his own importance. The woman knows of him and seems awe-struck at being in the Presence, while the blond guy makes snide comments poking fun at the FF's english . He shows us a map of "Armenia" between the Three Seas (Black Sea, Mediterranean, and Caspian) based on the furthest reaches of the Kingdom ofTigranes the Great (95 - 66 BC). This is the goal they're working towards. The map includes most of Eastern Turkey (unsurprisingly) down to and including Adana, as well as much of North Iran (including lake Orumiyeh), the Black Sea coast from Batumi and including Turkish parts possibly up to Trabzon , and to the north including much of modern-day Georgia including its capital, Tbilisi. It's ironic, but the Georgians also claim much of the same region as Georgia, and the Kurds say it's Kurdistan. Seems there's no easy answer.
Through all this the blond guy continued to make besides-the-point sarcastic observations. If you're reading this and are wondering why you haven't gotten any in a while... now you know. Don't do it again.
FF shows me a photocopy of a picture: a man in a suit, his tie blown onto his right shoulder, a pistol in his lowered right hand, his left on his hip in a meditative stance, his care-lined face looking down to the corpse on whose chest he is resting his foot on. This is the murderer of Taalat Pasha (the Ottoman minister of Interior between 1913-1918, and held responsible for the events now called The Genocide). I don't know if he deserved to die or not, but I don't think the act (and especially the photo) was in good taste.
Luckily FF strangely begins to take a liking to me. There's quite a crowd around us and they gasp in unbelief when he declares I'm a Turkish journalist (his embellishment). But I'm not a godless Azerbaijani; I'm a good
Istanbuli who marched saying "Menk Hay Enk ". It's ironic since Azerbaijanis had absolutely nothing to do with the events of 1915. He slaps me on the back and I hope I'll be in such good shape when I'm 70. He has vowed to never go home until Naxchivan is "liberated" (it's part of Azerbaijan). Bystanders shake my hand and look happy to see me. Good. At least there won't be a lynching.
Other Stuff
I'm kinda hurting for hotels. I've been staying in "homestays" since I left Turkey a month ago. That typically means you pay to be a nuisance in someones house: sleeping on a bed in a corridor, witnessing family arguments or a mother yelling at her daughter ("helping with her math homework"), usually with nice people, usually they don't speak a word of english , usually I don't know how to go about paying them without being embarrassing, usually without any privacy, and usually paying more than I would for an upscale hotel with satellite TV and private bathroom in Yemen. Not that hotels are my ideal accommodation method either. But I like the understood nature of the contract in a hotel: I pay for the room, and the room is mine for as long as I'm paying, and I don't feel awkward. In a homestay you're neither quite paying customer nor a guest. It's awkward.
We did stay in a proper hotel once in a town called Goris, which has Cappadocia-like rock formations and caves and is situated in a beautiful lush valley. There's a bright clean guesthouse (Hostel Goris) charging $20/night for a bed, shower, satellite TV, and breakfast. And next door is the crumbling soviet monolith (unmarked) Hotel Goris , with maybe 200 rooms all occupied by refugees or else in some state of being torn down and rebuilt or simply falling apart. A very helpful old lady materialized and showed us a room: two balconies with amazing views; a
living room with carpet, dressers, and sofas; a private bathroom; and of course a bedroom with two decent beds. Nevermind the fact that Darshak thought the balcony was caving in when he first stepped out onto it; or that the bathtub is full of rotting water, there are exposed wire-ends dripping with water, the faucets (and flush) don't work, the balcony doors and windows don't close properly, there is no electricity in the day, and I bet there are fleas in those sofas. I simply could not pass by the chance to stay in a hotel with a living room, and was trembling with excitement. Darshak "did the negotiating" and we got the room for $11 (down from $17). Score!
We then hitched/walked/rode out to see Tatev Monastery. On the way a shepherd gave me a note and some money to give to a shop in the next village, which I assumed was a debt repayment. Imagine my surprise when the shopkeeper handed me a bag of cookies and explained in sign language that they were for me; the shepherd had indirectly bought us a snack! Further along an old, mostly drunk man made us drink a shot of vodka (they love it at any time of the day) "for the sake of Christ" while he made up stories about us for the benefit of the bystanders. A lady came out and bought us bread cheese and green onions "to eat at Tatev ". Even apart from the awesome view and journey to the monastery, I was feeling blessed. Things didn't look so good for a while after dark as we sat under some concrete structure in the drizzling rain and complete fog trying to stay warm by our fire of found-wood and peat, congratulating each other on how wonderful a fire it was, all the time aware that a single car hadn't passed by in the last three hours, it was pitch dark and impossible to see anything in the fog, there was a cold wind, and our chances of returning to the living-roomed hotel were much lower than Darshak's initial estimate of 49%! (MISSING)Just as I was giving up, the universe came to our rescue in the form of a white
Lada Dziguli which Darshak threw himself in front of. Two strange-looking foreigners hanging out by a fire on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere and asking for a ride back toGoris ... they were naturally suspicious but were nice enough to leave one of their number behind (he was drunk) to make room for us. They were headed for Nagorno-Karabagh , territory captured from Azerbaijan and the cause of the closed border between Turkey and Armenia, so I diplomatically said I was from California. We listened to Lebanese pop music (and Armenian knockoffs) while the guy next toDarshak hugged him and tried to communicate in perfectly silent pantomime (I didn't understand anything), and then fell asleep on top of him. Darshak paid for that ride, I guess. The young girl riding shotgun kept looking back to make sure we thought she was attractive (she was gorgeous). But we made it back... to our living-roomed hotel where the nice landlady had left an electric heater (one of the most unsafe things I have ever handled) in front of our door, and we laughed aloud in relief and disbelief at being back and alive.
I came to Armenia unsure of what to expect. Traveler-feedback said it was boring, or ugly, or the people were rude and unfriendly, or the roads sucked. I ended up really liking Armenia. Granted,
Yerevan doesn't have much character per se, its big squares and wide avenues all look alike, and it's hard to find a cheap place to eat, accommodation is expensive, the country is really tiny, and for a country so proud of its Christian heritage they have surprisingly few churches in
Yerevan. But waking up in the morning to a clear sky and the mountains of Ararat smack in front of you... that's priceless. As are the genuine smiles in peoples eyes and faces which replace the aggressive stares when you call out "Parev! Vontsek?" And people don't try to rip you off. And it's so entertaining to watch the young people: the bad-ass teenage boys, the attention-hungry flirty girls, the couples hugging for hours or kissing intensely without any bodily contact. The guys are middle-eastern: they check out chicks, congregate on street corners, spit, and stare; they wear leather jackets, black polyester pants and pointy leather shoes; they have identical short haircuts; they're cool. I wish I had a common language to communicate with them. The girls are flirtatious, with provocative hour-glass figures, high leather boots, lots of makeup, full hips, and even a few dyed-blonds. Truly Middle-Eastern. We met some Iranian dudes with a "Farsi/Armenian/English" phrasebook desperately trying to find a swimming pool. I was puzzled until I realized they've crossed the border to see some chicks in bikinis. I thought I'd have to resort to being Cambodian most of the time because there would be too much anti-Turkish sentiment among the population. In fact it wasn't that way at all: most people who I was able to communicate with said "the current generation shouldn't be held responsible for the mistakes of their ancestors, and there's no problem between us people, only between politicians and goverments". Most of them speak a bit of Azeri (they peacefully coexisted until the latest war), and are just genuinely nice people. I know this is a lame way to end any piece of writing, but: I liked Armenia.
PS: There are no photos because I've left my camera at home to minimize the tourist-effect. It's a decision I sometimes regret.
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