Almost an entire street in the village was occupied by my relatives, distant relatives or almost relatives. People there were very open and friendly. Without invitation they would visit one another, just for a cup, two or three, of really, really, strong coffee. I don’t remember much from those years, but all my memories are warm and soft, bringing a slight ache to my heart.
One of the most vivid memories is the day I first went to school. I was so happy I couldn’t sleep the night before. I remember my first teacher, a kind, smiley, mature woman with large-framed glasses. I was her favourite student (this was the first and last time that was the case). After school, we scurried around the village barefoot, catching fish in the river with our bare hands, or building cubby houses. I was six.
Then came Easter…At that time I had no idea what the real reason was for this holiday.Then again, neither did most adults. However, the celebration was always memorable: cakes of various sizes and shapes with sultanas and icing, and of course, coloured eggs. We, the kids, competed knocking our eggs against those of another to see whose was the strongest. Some kids were very sneaky.
They would buy coloured, wooden eggs in advance and beat those of us who were more naïve! It was fun. According to culture and tradition, at this time of year we were also supposed to honour the memory of relatives who had passed away. My family, along with some other close relatives, had gathered. We proceeded in two cars to the local cemetery. I remember we had to persuade my mother to come with us because, for some reason, she didn’t want to. It was as if she sensed something badwasabout to happen…
Turning down a narrow, country road, we stopped to open the wooden gate blocking the path. Then, going up a slight incline, we drove towards an oncoming, yellow car. Then, from that moment, everything happened as if it was straight out of an action movie. My father gets out of the car and opens the door of the yellow Lada. He waved his hands and was saying something to someone in the car. I later learned that there in the car sat my cousin, my uncle’s son, who disappeared from home about a month ago. His parents were by this time already desperate in their quest to find him.
My dad tried to convince my cousin to go with us and then home to his parents. I then saw the other doors of the car fly open and four men jumped out. They started beating my father. There was only one man still with us. He ran to the rescue and there, practically in the middle of nowhere, a fierce fight broke out – two middle-aged men against five, burly young guys. The noise, the cries of women and children, the sight of faces, fists, violence – it was horrifying. I threw my Easter eggs and lollies at the enemy…
Suddenly one of the passengers of the yellow Lada, took out a rifle and began shooting. One shot fired into the air and people panicked and fled in all directions. In the end there were only the raging youths and my parents left centre-stage. The armed guy pointed the rifle at my father. My mum rushed over to his aid. A shot rang out. My mother stumbled a few steps towards our car and then sank to the ground in a crumpled heap. Clouds of dust rose as the wheels spun and the car sped away, taking my parents away to find emergency medical assistance. The “yellow Lada people” left in a hurry. I gazed around and saw the stunned expressions on everyone’s faces. I was shaken out of my shock by the overwhelming reality of continuing screams and the non-stop, ear-piercing cry of my two-year-old brother, and the monotonous wailing of my grandmother, “Oh… Astvats, Astvats…» (“Oh… Lord, Lord”) she moaned.
For four months my mother was in hospital in very serious condition. She endured four operations, and miraculously, survived. As soon as she was discharged from hospital we sold our cosy home on the hill, and drove as far away as possible…
This was the first time I experienced fear. My childhood ended abruptly.
«I do not like your fogs, big foreign city».
I was 7 years old when we arrived in a big city, surrounded by beautiful, majestic mountains, clad in white hats. The city seemed huge and grey. It greeted me with a cold shoulder. Already, it seemed we didn’t like each other. Later, I wrote a poem:
I do not like your fogs big foreign city
I do not like grey houses and streets
Though you are beautiful – yes, you are very pretty
Your mountains, alleys, parks and rushing winds
Yes, you are beautiful, with a very special beauty
And I should have felt at home here long ago
But memories of another city
Disturb me and won’t let me go
Another city’s beauty, smell and splendour
Another people and my childhood dreams
The majestic sea, so gentle and so crazy
And fragrances of juicy fruits and trees …
It was winter. It smelled strange – chimney smoke, frost and snow. There was no sea, and I missed it… I thought that I was different from other people, both in appearance and expression. I was too open, too noisy and too alive. I was embarrassed of my appearance. Most likely the whole thing was about my “great nose”… I was too aggressive. I pretended as if I wasn’t afraid of anyone. I fought with the boys and bossed people around with my sharp tongue. Of course, the boys gave me the same back. They teased me – the “Armenian”, the «witch», «fighting for justice» and «Caucasian prisoner»!
There wasn’t much at all to build my self-esteem… Dad was always away on business trips and came back weary. He couldn’t ever seem to muster up enough energy to deal with me. He read the newspaper «Soviet Sport», and I sat beside him on the floor by the couch and watched the rings of smoke from his “Medeo” cigarettes float towards the ceiling. I learned to play guitar at a summer camp – it upset my dad – and he promptly bought me a sewing machine. A sad fate awaited that sewing machine! For years it turned into a TV stand. Becoming a seamstress was not for me…
I was growing up and I needed to know if I looked okay. One day I asked my father what he thought about my appearancee. “Do I look good?” I asked. He got angry for some reason. «What are you talking about? A woman’s beauty is to be humble and hardworking.” I decided I was probably ugly…
When I was about 10 years old, my father took my brother and Ito a kids’ Christmas-party event. There we met a girl about 12 years old. After the party we went to our house, and the girl told me that she, too, is the daughter of our father. She just had a different mother. I was confused, but happy. We looked quite similar. We became very close. Years later, our family began having trouble. It came out that my dad was unfaithful to my mother. Back then, one of the happiest days I remember was the day my parents reconciled after a long quarrel, and a long silence. We boiled corn on the cob, and we enjoyed feasting on it together like a real family, sitting on the floor watching television. This was our last pleasant memory. Scandals became more frequent – accusations, insults, tears, fights – all this lasted about a year.
Finally, when I was about 12 years old, and my little brother, eight, my parents divorced.
I remember the day of their divorce. It was January 19, 1983. They returned from the court and entered the house in silence. My mother went into the back room, and I whispered, «What’s wrong?» «Divorced,» she answered quietly. Dad threw a packet of “Squirrel” lollieson the table – I still can’t stand these lollies. I prayed and hoped that they would come to their senses and make peace. I asked my father, “How will we live without you? How will you live without us?” He answered me, «You will grow up and you will understand. Don’t worry, everything will stay the same. I’m still your father…» I raided the first aid kit and swallowed 20 pills. I also scribbled down the name of them just in case the doctors needed to save me! I didn’t want to die but just hoped to scare my parents enough, to get their attention,