#58-Pashinyan- The Other Side of the World

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58. ինստալյացիա
Բայց, այնուամենայնիվ, հոգեւորն ու մարմնականը այնքան էլ անհաշտ ու հակոտնյա չեն, ինչպես թվում է առաջին հայացքից: Հոգեւորի ու մարմնականի հաշտեցումը թերեւս մարդկային կեցության ամենամեծ հրաշքներից է, եւ այդ հրաշքը կոչվում է Սեր:

58. Installation

Nevertheless, the spiritual and physical are not that irreconcilable and antithetical as it may seem at first glance. The reconciliation of the spiritual and physical is probably one of the greatest miracles of human existence, and that miracle is called Love. It’s interesting, isn’t it? God has given the human race a small space where indescribable passions can spread, where people can indulge in the most uncontrollable ecstasy and still not sin. And what’s more, that little space where erotic events can take place, is considered sacred; that space is called the marriage bed. And it is here that man can be liberated from the passions that enslave him.

Frankly put, I’ve always been surprised by the inclination of gays and lesbians to get married. I’ve always been surprised at their desire to have the right to be married. Later, I had looked at the recognition of their right to marry from the point of view of the church. Yet in Tokyo, only in Tokyo, I was able to understand what they wanted was to have their own space without sin, having a small marriage bed where, whatever they did couldn’t be considered a sin. When I was in Armenia, homosexual marriages seemed disrespectful to me. But away from Armenia, I now see that these people, consciously or unconsciously just want that their love not be considered a sin. But this isn’t something humanity should decide; this belongs to God’s sphere of authority.

****

I wonder how Paola, Quentin and Isabelle are doing. What happened to Charles and Cecile? And I wonder if the exchange rate for the sexual act is still alive. The interesting thing is that when I say Cecile, I remember her light blue thighs. From the beginning, I was really very interested in Cecile. But it’s too hot to wear long stockings in Cuba, so when she took off her stockings, I think my interest died down. On the plane, however, and I kept this from you, dear reader, on the plane I kept looking at the sleeping Cecile’s light blue thighs. I had forbidden myself to do that, but did it anyway and continued to dismiss the barrier I had imposed on myself. I had looked at those light blue thighs and regretted that I was not a painter. She would probably have agreed to pose for me; I would have asked her to take off her skirt and stand on the table. I would have painted her light blue thighs, from the knees up. I wouldn’t have represented the groin except maybe by just a reference. But I would have asked Cecile not to wear anything under the stockings. I would have painted a light red background to the canvas, similar to the juice of a ripe watermelon. Then I would have painted Cecile’s thighs, which would have been the color of the sky, like the summer skies in Yerevan. Then I would have made a small reference to the groin, just to show that the thighs belonged to the same person and not someone else. That motif I would have taken from Paola’s variant of ‘guess what’s in here.’ That is how I would have painted Cecile’s thighs. But most importantly, for this canvas, I would have gotten a rococo frame, which would have been in guilt and which would have decorations in the style of rococo. But because I’m not a painter, I can’t picture the effect of shadow and light on the canvas, which makes me hesitate. But that’s not a dead end, maybe the avant-garde and modern art movements have been created for such instances. I won’t only paint Cecile’s thighs, but I would exhibit them in an avant-garde gallery. And this is how it would happen. We would prepare a small cabin in papier-mâché with enclosed, opaque walls. On one of the walls, at eye level, we would open a right angled hole. Beyond that opening, as background, we would hang a piece of cloth in the color of ripe watermelon or just paint the walls in that color. We would also put up some lights for the background. Then we would ask Cecile to take off her skirt; she, of course, wouldn’t be wearing anything under the light blue stockings. Then we would ask her to enter the cabin and stand on the pedestal. The pedestal would be situated such that from the only opening of the cabin, the window we’ve opened would show Cecile’s thighs, above the knees, and a little glimpse of the groin. Most importantly, we would frame that window in the same rococo style frame. I’m convinced that that in front of that display sample—they call it ‘installation,’ I think—before Cecile, a huge crowd would gather. Cecile, of course, can’t stay immobile for long and would change the positions of her thighs, as she had done on the plane, in her asleep. But that’s even better; it would make our installation more interesting. Ah, I wish I could be invited to such an installation. I would show Cecile’s light blue thighs, and, why not, Paola’s jelly-like ass, and Isabelle’s breasts. But the last two would be against a black, completely black background.

Oh, I shouldn’t forget the title of Cecile’s installation. The title is very important, extremely important, especially in painting. Martiros Saryan, for example, is a great painter, very great. But he has an important shortcoming: his canvases are entitled with monotonous, almost non-expressive and unremarkable titles.

They are magnificent canvases. But when you’re sitting in a café with someone, and after looking at his brilliant canvas, often you can’t tell which one of the canvases you have in mind because either the title is not impressive or, there are a few canvases with the same title. So the title of the display sample is very important; we will call our installation “sky blue thighs’ or “Cecile’s sky blue thighs.” The second is better and more convincing. The only thing left is to convince Cecile and engage the interest of a gallery.

***

The act played by the woman in the chador also suggested some ideas on ‘installation.’ I thought there was no other clothing in this world which you can put on so quickly. And also, the face is covered, so the voluptuous expression of the girl doesn’t let onto anything. So, the chador can also be considered the uniform of ‘forbidden love.’ At any rate, no other clothing is so appropriate for that kind of performance. Maybe that’s what the producer of the act had in mind.

# 57 - Pashinyan - The Other Side of the World

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57. ազատություն եւ կրքեր
Ուզում էի Վարդանին ու նրա ընկերներին գարեջուր հյուրասիրել, բայց պարզվեց` դա հնարավոր չէ. սուպերմարկետ գնալ-գալու գործընթացը շատ երկար կտեւեր: Ստիպված էի նրանց հրաժեշտ տալ առանց գարեջուր հյուրասիրելու:

57. Freedom and Passions - N. Pashinyan
I wanted to treat Vardan and his friends to beer but this wasn’t possible. It would have taken too long to get to the supermarket and back. I had to say goodbye to them without treating them to beer.

I returned to the hotel, asked room service to bring up my dinner, and then rested a while after dinner. I had decided that at midnight I would go to the striptease club which was a few buildings away from the hotel as advertised on the billboard. At that moment it seemed to be the only way of overcoming the impression I had gotten about Tokyo. I hadn’t decided on my future journey yet, so I had not choice but to stay a few more days in this suffocating city.

At the striptease club there really was no rushing. On the contrary, Japanese and black dancers swirled around slowly around the aluminum pipes, breasts touching each other, touching their hips, with suggestive hands.

I sat at one of the tables set for a single person. There were already a lot of people in the club, and more were arriving. Pretty soon, there were no vacant tables around me. It turned out that the show for the evening was not just a regular show but a unique presentation called ‘In the Small Planet of Sex.’ Under this suggestive title, there appeared on the stage people from different parts of the world, burning with carnal desire and different expressions of sexuality. The presentation had many segments and was bold. And, regardless of the opinion the spectators would form about it, they were bound to remember it for a long time.

And now, a Japanese woman in a traditional kimono and with little steps comes on stage. The first thing you think of is this: what business does this proper lady have in this suspicious environment? But just then, she turns into a sex maniac, takes off her clothes and becomes a striptease star. During the dance she caresses her body and possesses, possesses all the men around her and devours them like a sexual beast. The multitude of men around her desires her, ask for more sexual devouring. But she refuses them, and continues to possess other, totally new victims, new and unfamiliar men. On the stage we see scenes of desperate Samurai committing mass Seppuku (a form of Japanese ritual suicide by disembowelment.) In another scene, the Samurai are engaged in mortal combat. Flames shoot out of their swords. You can’t tell the winner; the battle wages on, you still don’t see the winner. But with the slashes of the swords, their clothing has torn and is on the floor, in small pieces. And they now appear naked, almost naked. Then, tired of the battle and having lost all hope of victory, they begin to love each other, with tender caresses.

The greatest excitement, however, was created by the appearance of a girl in a chador. Only her hands were not covered. The beams of light focused the attention of everyone to her raised hands, which enacted a striptease with her fingers, for the time being only with her fingers. Then as she turns horizontally around the pipe, it becomes clear that she’s wearing nothing under the chador. Then this Persian or Arab beauty throws off her chador, creating mass excitement around her. But she soon spots her father (or husband) on the horizon looking for her, puts her chador back on, and, as if nothing had happened, follows him with obedient steps.

This scene unsettled me. But when half-naked rabbi, priests (you could identify them only through their hats), long-bearded priests, who were only wearing sadomasochistic sexual things, I was already waiting for some explosion, an explosion in the real sense of the word. But when there was no explosion, I started thinking that for sure in the next few days there would be an explosion of caricatures. But nothing like that has happened yet maybe because those scenes would not be written about, and those who would like to create a scandal would have a problem explaining how they knew that such horrible things were taking place in one of Tokyo’s striptease clubs. At first I didn’t know what to think about what was taking place. Everything seemed simple and understandable. But I couldn’t decide on the nuances the producer was trying to make. What was he trying to say, that man is the slave of his passions, or that passions make man free?

Or, was he offering the choice to the spectator? At any rate, I told myself that I had never thought about such a dilemma and it was obvious that I couldn’t get those thoughts out of my mind. So, is the man a slave of his passions or are passions the liberator of man? I didn’t want to answer the question in the way I wanted to, but was trying to examine it like a magistrate under oath, from different points of view.

I realized that it wasn’t so easy to be objective because if we’re going to study the relationship between man and passions, we should make choices between two theories that arise when discussion the relations between man and passions. The biblical theory, according to which, man was created by God, but man was thrown into sin by Satan, and the Darwinian Theory, according to which man evolved from the monkey and passions are the result of hormonal functions of the organism. If we are to rely on the truth of one of these theories, we can not be objective. That means, we’re either taking side with one, or the other theory. And if truth be told, in this case I don’t even want to be objective, I refuse to be objective, if to be objective, I have to doubt that which I believe in.

Darwinism and Materialism have suffered defeat in this case because the followers of this theory can hardly consider group sex or orgies as normal and natural. Even the most fanatical opponent of the biblical theory, as it was, for instance, in the Soviet Union, was preaching moral values. Under that empire, an indescribable storage of spiritual and cultural values was created in literature, cinema, arts and other fields. This is undeniable. But it was exactly the creation of such values that caused the collapse of that empire.

You can judge for yourself that when you accept the high moral values to love, to respect and to empathize with those around you, you actualize a propaganda of spiritual values, and with that, you retreat from the theory that man has evolved from the monkey. The Soviet empire was based on the theory of the monkey.

On the other hand, when Soviet writers and artists created works on God and Satan, on the spirit and the heavenly, communist authorities gave them the Lenin Prize. Then they exiled them to Siberia or out of the country. After giving them the Lenin Prize, they hounded the same artists. Then later, it was already too late.

I now understand the Soviet leaders. Hrand Matevosyan, Nodar Djumbadze, Chingiz Ahmadov, Vasily Shuskin, Vadimir Visotsky were destroying the proletariat behind the iron face and creating the spiritual man. On the one hand, it was good because they could show the imperialists the kind of art that was created in the fatherland of socialism. On the other hand, those men were eating away at the foundations of the socialist fatherland, because the soviet Union could not be the fatherland of the spiritual man.

And the leadership of the USSR didn’t know what to do. It couldn’t resist the power of art, and sometimes it didn’t even want to. As a result, that empire was entangled in its own steps and collapse became inevitable.

There, the history of the collapse of my vast former ‘fatherland’ helped me to refuse to be objective. But the choice can’t be resolved this way. It should be subjected to conscious reflection and finally find a solution: is man the slave of passions or are passions the liberator of man?

But now it’s already easier to make a choice, much easier. Isn’t it true that first there was Freedom, and only later the passions, and only because of Freedom man had been able to taste passion and become its slave? So, passions don’t liberate man but enslave him. This approach, however, brings up a much more important question, the answer to which is equally difficult to find. So what should be done with human passion? Should one stone those women who like to have fun, to burn lesbians and gays, or those who like group sex, at the stake? No, no; because lesbians and gays don’t threaten the life of others in their everyday relationships, and as strange as it sounds, they enjoy their own freedom. So then what? Should we hail lesbians and gays? No, no. So then, what should be done? To allow them to live their lives because they don’t trample on our freedom and rights but simply enjoy their freedom and rights. This is an instance which does not belong to the sphere of the relationship between man and the public at large, but to the sphere of the relationship between the individual and God. Therefore, the gay person is not responsible to the public; he is accountable before God, and people don’t have the right to execute God’s judgment.

You’re right, I just got caught. It was me, wasn’t it, who said that the revolutionary is to be like Divine judgment, but it is people who do the revolution. But don’t hurry, I’m not caught yet.

Yes, God has said don’t fornicate. He has also said, don’t steal. He has also said, don’t kill. Why, then, do we judge the thief, the murderer, but shouldn’t judge the fornicator. Let me try and explain. If the fornicator has committed an act of violation while fornicating, we judge him and that is called rape. But if people have passion for each other and perform that passion within their right for freedom, it is not us who should judge them; that is something between that man and God. For the same reason that we don’t judge a person for not liking the one near him. But we judge the murderer because he has violated someone else’s freedom. More accurately, we don’t judge, we separate him from the public. Again, God is his judge. We also separate the thief, as well as the one who accepts bribes, since it isn’t a lesser sin then theft. And so on and so forth. Who would have thought that going to a striptease would have has such consequences?

#56- Pashinyan - The Other Side of the World

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56. մի տնից չենք, մի հալի ենք
Վարդանը, իրոք, աշխատում էր կորեացիների հետ: Չոն, իրոք, նրանց ղեկավարն էր:

The Other Side of the World - N. Pashinyan

56. We’re not related, but we’re in the same situation

Vardan did, in fact, work with Korean. Cho, in fact, was the foreman. And Hom was a real person. They did, indeed, understand each other, as much is it was necessary to get along and work together. Vardan, Cho and Hom were the three permanent members of this construction group. Depending on the volume of work, they either hired new workers or did the work themselves. At the time we met, they were working on a fairly large site, which was to be a night club or a bar; they had hired three other Koreans for the job. Vardan had talked with Cho on the phone about the tiles in the bathroom, an area of about 10 square feet. Vardan had placed the tiles on the wall himself. That left the floor, which Vardan promised to finish that day. It was doubtful whether he would make it.

I had nothing to do and being curious, I asked Vardan to take me with him, especially when I found out that the place where they were working was available to them and was not far from “McDonalds.” Cho and Hom greeted me politely and went to work. I found a box, and sitting down on it, I was watching to see how Vardan worked. Vardan spoke with a heavy heart, it seemed like there was a worry behind each word, something that weighed them down. Fit seemed to me that he was thinking of totally different things as he spoke: his home, his family, about Yerevan. He had left Armenia 4 years ago, leaving his wife, his son and daughter. He had sold the car he owned and left. He had first gone to Sweden, from there to Germany, then to France and from there to Japan:

“I said I was going somewhere where I wouldn’t see an Armenian’s face,” Vardan explained the reason he had come to Japan and said that he had gotten lucky and met an honest man like Cho. The latter, as far as I could find out, had escaped from Northern Korea and gone to Southern Korea and from there he had come to Japan with the hope of earning an honest living. The area, by that I mean the area where they worked testified that their business was picking up although I wasn’t sure if they were working legally or illegally—probably in the middle. Cho took care of Vardan’s documents. The three of them lived together in a room they had rented from a retired couple and spent the night there, under the same roof”

“The old folks are deaf, brother. Till late in the night they turn the television as high as it can go; we can’t sleep normally,” complained Vardan.

Ultimately, what had brought him to Japan? Vardan was disappointed in the way the European Armenians related to each other:

“Brother, they hate each other. Those who had come during the massacres hate the ones who had immigrated during the Soviet period; those who had immigrated during the Soviet period hate those who had immigrated during the massacres. But most of all, they hate those who had immigrated during the Karabagh war. These, who had immigrated during the war, also hate those who had immigrated before, but above all they hate those who had come after the war. And those who had come after the war hate the ones who had come after them. I really mean it; the person who had immigrated yesterday, if he sleeps and wakes up in Europe for one night, hates the one who comes the next day,” observed Vardan.

“But why is that so, Vardan,” I was curious.

Vardan explained, without interrupting his work:

“Well, there’s an anecdote you might have heard of. So these people are in an airplane, when the stewardess comes and says, ‘brother, there are three people too many, and the plane is overloaded. If we don’t decrease the number of passengers by three, we’ll all be going down. The commander,’ she says, ‘is asking for three volunteers to fly off the plane.’ Everyone is quiet. Then all of a sudden, an Indian stands up, says ‘long live India’ and flies off. Then a Spaniard gets up, says ‘long live Spain’ and flies off. Everybody is waiting to see who the third one will be. But there’s no movement. The stewardess says, ‘brother, do something, we’re going down.’ That’s when the Armenian stands up, looks at the black sitting next to him, and says, ‘you animal, don’t you have a fatherland?” and throws him off the plane.”

We laughed.

“But what does that have to do with the hatred of Armenians,” I asked.

“What do you mean, brother? To the Armenians in Germany who are on that plane, it seems that when Vardan went from Yerevan to Dresden, Dresden became overloaded because Vardan was that extra passenger, and because of him they would all have gone down. And these people, my brother, start to explain to Vartan, ‘brother, don’t you have a fatherland? You’ve come here like a homeless person and you’re taking us down with you.”

Vardan started to laugh; he was laughing so hard.

“Why are you laughing, Vardan?”

“And don’t they have a fatherland, brother? I mean, is the Fatherland only for blacks? And those Garbises, brother, those Akhbars, haven’t they had a fatherland? Why have they left their fatherland? In fact, it’s Vardan who is the traitor against the fatherland,” although still laughing, Vardan was saddened and was saying, “and you know what? All the Armenians living in Europe call Armenia their Fatherland.”

“Why are you surprised,” I asked.

“Brother, what is the fatherland?” asked Vardan and answering, “The fatherland is your child, the fatherland is your wife, if you have a girl friend, and the fatherland is your girlfriend, you friends. If you’ve taken your wife, children, father and mother and gone to France, then how is Armenia your fatherland? And if you don’t break bread with your friend once or twice a year, then in what way is he your friend? Am I not telling the truth, Borig?”

“I guess so. And then? How did you get to Japan?” I continued.

“Brother, first I went to Switzerland. I figured, no, Switzerland will drown under my weight. Then Germany; I realized that there was no place for Vardan here, either. Then I went to Paris, my brother, Paris became overloaded, too. Then I said, brother, you’ll have to go to such a place where you won’t see an Armenian face, I thought, and said, that would be Japan. Although some Armenian guys in Vladivostok took me under their wing so that I could get here; those guys dealt in cars, you know,” said Vardan.

For a year and a half, he hadn’t been able to send a single penny home. The last couple of years, after he started working with Cho, he was content, and had been able to send a lot of money home, and paid off his family’s debts. After working as a common laborer for the last year and a half, Vardan had become a master at his craft and his reputation had grown. But, he said, he always kept aside enough money to be able to get to Yerevan.

“Although, I won’t go back until I have the means to buy a nice car. I sold the car to be able to come here, so I should at least go back with a better car,” explained Vardan.

The interesting thing is that he wasn’t thinking of moving his family to Japan. There were two reasons. First, even though the children were still of school age, they wouldn’t be able to learn Japanese so that they could feel equal to others here. And then, Vardan shared another secret:

“Brother, this isn’t a country; here, they all screw each other; there is no forgiveness, and you don’t get a break.”

Talking about the relationship between him and the Koreans Vardan said something that was really moving:

“How can we not understand each other; we’re not from the same family but we’re in the same situation.”

Fingerprints,fingerprints, fingerprints...

I just heard on the RFE news from Armenia that a police official announced to the commission investigating March 1st that no useable fingerprints were found on the weapons that were supposedly confiscated that morning from Liberty Square. And, apparently, there is some questioning as to why the police who supposedly confiscated those weapons didn't wear gloves.

Where do I even start commenting on this one...

Addendum - The English RFE/RL has put up an article with even more info: click here.
According to this article, the ARF representative is now beginning to have some doubts as well. Interesting.

#55 - Pashinyan- The Other Side of the World

ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ
55. մոսիկի տակի
Պաուլայի հետ հանդիպումը լուրջ հանգրվան դարձավ իմ երկարատեւ ճանապարհորդության ընթացքում:

55. “Mosiki Taki”

The meeting with Paola became an important stage in my long journey. For the first time, temptation was standing before me, palpable, storming my soul. I remembered her, her thighs pressed together, her feet intertwined, and inside of me was growing a person with a desire – a desire to be the medium for all of this. And how beautiful is that, which is temptation. Otherwise it wouldn’t be temptation, but a sign which would read, “Stay Away. Danger.”

In my head the rhythms of Argentinean tango were still playing. That tune wouldn’t leave me, and beneath those sounds there waged an enormous battle, an enormous war: an impulse to pick up the phone and call her cabin, and an internal obstacle, “don’t do it.” How simple and easy everything seems, to just go, to just fall into the lap of oblivion, for a moment, for but a moment, to feel unforgettable sensations, then to return, and to leave. But is it possible to come back from there? A voice was saying to me, you will stay there, and someone else will come back. A voice was saying to me, you will be admitting that those values in which you believe are defenseless, frivolous. She may not even open the door for you, and you will just be a pitiful traitor. Even if she caressed you, even if she dedicated her body and soul to you, you will still be the same; you cannot return from there, you will stay there, and another will return in your place. Sleep brought a ceasefire to my war, and when I woke in the morning, our ship had already entered Tokyo’s Bay, where the sea was lost under the multitude of ships.

All of the passengers of our ship had come up on deck, and were watching Tokyo approach, stooped under smoke. I wanted to push Paolo’s existence into oblivion, but that isn’t so easy. “And what if she’s just blowing hot air,” I thought, remembering Cecil’s treachery. But what if Cecil was blowing hot air, and if I had ended up in the same room as her, maybe something else would have happened than what she had declared. But this you can’t know, no one knows, maybe Cecil doesn’t know, maybe Paola herself doesn’t know what would have happened afterwards, had I called her.

I was just going to leave ship directly from the pier, but I thought, is that a good idea? Won’t that be way of running away? I wanted to leave the ship with the feeling that I had won the war waging within me. On the other hand, I didn’t know how many days I would need to overcome these feelings, and whether I would even reach that point.

The appearance of Japanese police on the ship made my decision final: I had to leave the ship and get situated in a hotel in Tokyo today. And the police had come to document Bob’s murder, and to solve the problems tied to Felipe. This investigation, of course, was not under the authority of the Japanese police, and it would have to be done by the investigators coming from Argentina. But until their arrival, the Japanese police and the Captain, together, had to keep the situation under their control.

I left the ship without saying goodbye to anyone. I got in a taxi, and asked to be taken to the hotel, where I had made a reserved online. Tokyo was the largest city I had ever seen, although larger cities either don’t exist at all, or are few in number. Tokyo is one big stress; it is a city which collapses down around your head. My room was on the 20th floor of the hotel, where I waited, hunched over, for an earthquake. But after a short while, and having had a little whiskey, I relaxed and drew back the curtains; and there, were stone jungles, a beast of metal-glass-stone, which seemed to be devouring any vegetation growing in the cracks of the buildings. You get the feeling that nature is being strangled here, and is crying out for help. The streets of Tokyo are flooded, the roads are flooded with cars; streets, sidewalks and subways are flooded with pedestrians. It seems Tokyo has forgotten all human qualities, and has put the emphasis on one thing, and especially one thing, rushing. People are in a great hurry, are constantly late, they leave things unfinished, they can’t finish things. They are abandoned to the flood, to the human flood, which has become one large living conveyor belt, which rushes each person to their pre-assigned location, without asking the latter’s will. Here, everything is done to hasten the human course, even such that in many places sidewalks have been replaced by escalators, on which, regardless, people walk, people don’t make it, people rush. All the same, they will be late; all the same, they won’t make it; but all the same, they’re in a hurry, a great hurry. They don’t notice that the city is collapsing around their heads, that the advertising billboards are oppressing them; they don’t notice that the sky has disappeared from over their heads; they’re rushing, they are constantly rushing.

And I, alone in this enormous whirlpool and unrushed; I have nowhere to go in this whirlpool, that is, I have no reason to rush. But the current suffocates me, I cannot simply stand because it seems the current will pull me in as well; it seems to me that it is better to voluntarily rush along. I feel that I am at a dead end, I can’t get into the current, nor can I stand, just stand.

“People, where are you rushing to?” I suddenly say. My voice comes out softly, no one hears me.

“People, where are you rushing to?” I say a little louder. The current swirls.

“People, where are you rushing to?” I say loudly. People don’t have the time to listen.

“People, where are you rushing to?” I yell. Just at that moment, someone who had fallen into the current, a naked, completely naked man, passes by me. People are rushing – his nudity doesn’t surprise a single person. And I understand that I am yelling in vain, that I will not be rewarded with a single response; this is Tokyo’s working neighborhood.

“Are you Armenian, brother?” I hear suddenly from over my shoulder. This is the most unexpected and possibly, in this case, the most undesired response. There’s no use denying it, since it’s almost possible that a person of a different nationality would be able to enunciate the phrase, People, where are you rushing to, with such clarity.

“I am Armenian,” I say like a criminal caught in the act, and turn toward the inquirer. In front of me is standing a young man, about 35 years old, his hair cut short, with a round face, five days of stubble, cheap gold-framed darkened glasses, wearing a black long-sleeved, collarless shirt with gold buttons, with black pants made of synthetic silk and black fabric shoes. The impress he leaves is that just 15 minutes ago, he was at the Yerevan Circus stop. The impression he leaves is that this must be some kind of mistake, just a common misunderstanding. I look at him, afraid that he will recognize me. He looks at me calmly and says,

“I haven’t seen an Armenian face in a thousand years: Vardan, my brother.”

“Borik, my brother,” I say.

“Yes, my brother, they all rush around her. What brings you here,” he asks.

“Business.”

“For work reasons?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s been a thousand years since I saw an Armenian face, let’s grab something to eat.”

“No, I say, I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll drink coffee, around here somewhere there’s a place to eat.”

And why not, I ask myself. We went. “The place to eat,” it turns out, is “McDonalds.” We go in and stand in line.

“It’s like “Queenburger,” brother.”

“Yeah, I say.”

Our turn comes.

“You’re sure you’re not hungry?” Vardan asks.

“Ok, I’ll eat something, I say.”

“ ‘Double-double cheeseburger, double-double cola, double-double coffee,’ ” says Vardan.

They understand him very well, and they give us two double cheeseburgers, two double colas, two double coffees.

We go up to a table and sit down.

“And then, brother?” asks Vardan before we even sit down.

“What, and then?” I ask.

“So what’s up, what’s going on?” He asks lazily.

“Well, ya’ know,” I say.

“How did you get to this hellhole, brother? You know, right, that this is the end of the world, observes Vardan.

“What you mean,” I ask.

“Brother, the day starts here, and ends here. Like this, let’s say today is the 25th, the 25th of the month starts here, and it ends here. Seriously (xx) though, there are these mixed-up things. ”

“Who told you that?” I ask, noticing that Vardan is talking about something out of his league.

“There are these Korean guys, right, we work together,” he says.

“You work with Koreans?”

“Yeah.”

“But how do you understand each other, Vardan; what language do you guys speak?”

“We understand each other well, brother; language is like hunting, when a man speaks, whoever gets it, gets it.”

I am laughing, and so is he. Vardan senses that I don’t believe what he is saying. He takes his cell phone out of his pocket and makes a call:

“Allo, Hom, it’s Vardan, brother. Tell Cho that I’ll be an hour to an hour and a half late. Something came up. I’ll tell him when I get there. ‘Davai,’ brother. ”

Vardan hung up the phone and turned to me.

“I let the foreman know that I’m going to be late.”

“Vardan, were you just talking with a Korean?”

“Yeah, brother.”

“No, seriously.”

“I’m telling the truth, or I’m gay, brother.”

“You’re messing with me, brother,” I couldn’t resist anymore.

“Brother, I just swore to you, and you still don’t believe me?”In his turn, Vardan was hurt and went on – we’ve worked together now for two years, how can we not understand each other?

“Yeah, but at least, not on the phone; in person, at least, you gesture with your hands and feet, and understand that way.”

“Brother, I’m telling you, whoever gets it, gets it, and you’re still telling me, I don’t know what…” and again Vardan was hurt, and took a big bite his cheeseburger. And I took a big bite out of my cheeseburger. The phone rang. Vardan looked on the screen and then turned to me:

“See, brother, it’s Cho, our foreman. Now he’s going to say that there’s work to do, what happened to you,” said Vardan and answered the phone.

“Yeah, boss,” he said, eyeing me.

I was completely confused. I got up, went over to his side, and put my ear to the phone.
Vardan didn’t resist. On the phone, someone was really speaking some language, which could have been Japanese, or Chinese, or Korean, or something like that. Vardan was listening closely:

“?????????” the voice said.

“Cho, my dear, something came up, brother. There’s someone from Armenia, we’re sitting somewhere, I’ll be there in an hour and a half,” said Vardan.

“???????” the voice became agitated.

“Cho, my dear, I’ll make it, my brother, that’s not a problem, rest assured.”

“?????????” the voice didn’t give up.

“Cho, you know, this isn’t going anywhere. Something has come up, I have a visitor, but you keep pushing it. I mean it; I won’t sleep today until I get the work done, my brother. Are we done?” Vardan said, upset.

“?????????Okay, okay,” the voice softened.

“Davai, my brother,” said Vardan and hung up the phone, “we have to finish the work the day after tomorrow, the guy is panicking,” he explained.

I understood everything.

[Translator’s note: Vardan’s speech is very informal, with some slang- this dimension does not come through fully in the translated version.]

Pashinyan's call to the Youth and Students

Նիկոլ Փաշինյանի "կոչը" երիտասարդությանը և հատկապես ուսանողությանը

(qbhima.blogspot.com)

Nikol Pashinyan’s Call to the Youth and, especially, the Students

The creation of the Armenian National Congress is the fruit of strategic planning. Of course, during all of this, many people would like to gain immediate victory-- this is very good and important. But, from the strategic point of view, the creation of a strong support system can become the guarantee of victory. Sometimes our thought process is interrupted by the prospect of victory, but it is important to realize that after victory, further victories will be necessary which will not only not disappoint people, but will inspire them – not only the supporters of the Congress, but those who have opposed it. And it is for this prospect that the Armenian Popular Congress is laying down the foundations. And, in general, I think the September stage of the struggle should begin, and not end, before victory. To secure the course of these events, serious preparations are necessary. Of these, I would like to emphasize one in particular: as great a participation as possible on the part of the student body in the processes of September. This, in fact, becomes the decisive factor in the future development of the struggle—the position of the students is important in the ideological sense. That is to say, whether or not in 5, 10, or 15 years there will be a public that guarantees government by the people depends on the position of the students. This is not a tactical issue, but a strategic one. During the years of demoralization under Kocharyan, the group that had become prominent among the students dreamt of becoming state officials and was willing to go to any length and endure humiliation to secure a job in the Internal Revenue Service, in the National Security Service, the Prosecutor General’s Office , the Customs Office. Now, here’s the question: Is our student body only composed of people who dream about positions, or, are there also those who dream of citizenship and are committed to the realization of that dream. The biggest surprise of the events of February was just that. It turned out that the student body still has the spine, and that spine came to Freedom Square. In September, that spine should demonstrate that not only is it unbreakable, but that it is a decisive political factor. I am convinced that such is the case. But to show it, it is necessary that all student and youth initiatives which support the Congress centralize their strength, replacing the tendency to be the first by the readiness to be the last. My brother and sister students: You remember, don’t you, that we have already announced February 26 as Student Day, and will mark that day every year by an exceptional Rock-Concert to take place on Freedom Square. Let’s complete our work by the end of September so that on next February 26 we can invite such groups to Freedom Square as “Tokio Hotel”, “Linkin Park”, “Evanescence”, “Metallica.” We are the authority in Armenia, and the title of our positions is Citizen of the Republic of Armenia. We are the champions, my friend.

P.S. Many have started drumming that the powers in the Armenian National Congress don’t have ideological commonality. But isn’t the struggle against illegality an ideology? Isn’t the struggle against “bespredel” an ideology? Isn’t the struggle for Freedom an ideology? Or, do you think that ideology should have the name of: The ‘perseverance of the nation’ group of the transcendental engraved fraction of the right-wing centripetal sector of Euro-Nzhtehism.”

Nikol Pashinyan

P.S. 2 You may send suggestions to mobilize the youth can be send to qb.hima@gmail.com.

[Translator’s note: Pashinyan uses the term “bespredel” – Russian terminology which has made its way into the Armenian vernacular meaning something akin to without limits or boundaries, especially in reference to morals or legality]

# 54- Pashinyan - The Other Side of the World

ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ

54. երազախաբություն` բաց աչքերով

Պառկել էի մի տապճակի ու փորձում էի հաղթահարել ներվայնությունս: Իսկ ներվային էի ֆուտբոլի, ավելի ճիշտ` ֆուտբոլային անհեթեթության պատճառով, որ մատուցում էին Ֆրանսիայի հավաքականի մարզիչ Ռայմոն Դոմենեկը եւ Իտալիայի հավաքականի մարզիչ Ռոբերտո Դոնադոնին:

The Other Side of the World - N. Pashinyan

54. Wet Dreams with Eyes Open

I had lain down on a chaise lounge and was trying to calm down. I was upset because of the absurdity in football that was being offered by Raymond Domenech, the trainer of the French team, and Roberto Donadoni, the trainer of the Italian team.

A little while ago I had watched the France-Italy game, which ended with the victory of the latter. It was clear from the start that Italy would follow the example of France and wouldn’t let go of the European Championship for very long. But that wasn’t the problem, nor was it the absurd gave played by the teams in this and previous games.

I’m not a great fan of the Italian team, or of the French team. It’s just that the trainers of these teams are the personifications of an old Soviet anecdote. A friend of Brezhnev, the Chairman of the Communist Party goes to him and asks for an easy job. Brezhnev asks his friend what kind of job he has in mind when he’s asking for an easy job. The friend thinks hard and says: “You know, the job when you stand before an orchestra and move your arms up and down.”

Now, they’ve given an easy job to Domenech and Donadoni. But woe is on them; yet the insulting thing is not that, but the fact that they look at the field as if they understand what’s going on there. That’s really insulting for a lover of football. I was in a pre-stressed condition before, but didn’t know how much more stressed I would be in a couple of weeks when it became obvious that the trainer of the Italian team, Donadoni will not want to resign. But that’s still nothing. I almost had a heart attack when I read that the Football Federation of France intends to keep Domenech in his job. At that time I was thinking of writing a letter to Isabelle, to say, my dear, dear Isabelle, do something, give that Domenech a kick, otherwise he’ll cause heart attacks of genocidal proportions among the fans of football. Dear Isabelle, in the name of football lovers over the world, ask Meme to convince Nikolya, to get rid of Domenech.

While I was trying to decide whether I should write or not, the news came out that Domenech had been appointed Chief Trainer of France’s team. I was following the news in disbelief, hoping that that decision would cause mass street unrests in Paris. But, it seemed, the poor French football lovers were in a depression and nobody could make it out to the streets because of high blood pressure.

But that was later, when I was already in Russia. Back on the ship, my heart was in turmoil. If only there could be someone with whom I could argue this theme, if only we could fight, vent our emotions… But it was not possible to argue about Domenech or Donadoni on the ship, because any discussion of this theme would last 20 second at best, and the sides would say that they completely agree with each other and that they thought exactly the same thing, verbatim, about Domenech and Donadoni. And so, the passengers on the ship all gathered in one place, stooping and eating their hearts out. And that Luca Doni…I’m surprised at him. How did that guy get to be Italy’s first goalie, then the goalie of the Bundes league? Man, he doesn’t even know where the goal is, he’s an expert in missing the goal and being kicked out of the game!

So after these thoughts I had closed my eyes and was trying to relax, when I heard a woman’s voice:

“Are you trying to be different?” the voice was asking.

I was surprised because if I wanted to seem different, I wouldn’t get upset about Domenech and Donadoni but would try to justify them. But the voice wasn’t referring to that. I had been noticed because I hadn’t yielded to Paola’s flirtation. The voice was Paola’s. I opened my eyes; she was standing before me. Her black hair cascaded over her shoulders, the dark glasses obscured her gaze. She had put on a white silk bathing suit, if the term ‘suit’ could be applied to it. A suit, or clothing, is usually used to cover nudity; this particular ‘suit’ underscored her nudity. The bra, which in her own use, simply covered the tips of her breasts, was now netted and showed everything under it. From the little slip of a brief a couple of curls had escaped, as if they were asking ‘guess what’s here.’ Paola was exhibiting the short hairs that had grown in her armpits, which were extremely erotic. “This must be the new fashion,” I thought. She had a cocktail glass in her hand:

“Are you trying to be unique? It’s clearly working,” she said

I had overcome my initial confusion and answered:

“Every person has a special way of appearing unique.”

Paola understood that I was referring to her:

“So we’re not compatible,” she said, and turned around. She was moving away and with each step her ass was quivering like jelly.

“Paola, what are you drinking?” I asked, losing my self-control, and rose.

She stopped and turned around:

“You know my name. That means you’re not as unique as you try to be. Margarita, the name of the cocktail is Margarita.

“Would you object if I joined you?”

“I won’t object,” she said.

“Caballero, uno Margarita, por favor,” I ordered. We both sat down, side by side, on nearby chaise lounges. More accurately, we lay down, only keeping our shoulders higher, which was more convenient if you were having a conversation.

Paola raised my left hand gingerly and carefully started examining my wedding ring:

“I’ve considered a few hypotheses, but none of them seem credible.”

“Hypotheses? About what?” I asked, pulling my hand back.

“About you. For a while I thought you were gay; but you didn’t flirt with anyone. Then I though you would be impotent; but I’ve read somewhere that impotent men flirt more aggressively. But then, why would an impotent man be in this environment? It would be humiliating for him. Then I thought you may have escaped from a terrible family scandal and were trying to slowly recuperate; but then it seemed that your recuperation process was taking a long time. Do you hate women? But then, the fact that you know my name and you invited me to have a conversation with me, means that you do have some interest.”

“Yes, what interests me is the games you play; I follow your game with the addiction of a football fan. The only problem is that I don’t know the score,” I said.

“The score for what?”

“Your game.”

“My game? What do you mean?”

“What I mean is how many people had any success in the flirtation marathon you’ve fired up?” I asked with a slight smile.

“Hey, are you jealous?”

“Damn it, am I really jealous?” I asked myself. But it was necessary to have a come back:

“How absurd; the question interests me purely the point of view of sports.”

“Perhaps you think all women are whores and britches?”

“There are those, too,” I said, and realized that I was saying idiotic things.

“One.”

“What?”

“One was successful; I will give you three chances to guess who it is.”

I started thinking:

“Carlos,” I said.

“You didn’t guess right.”

“The guy, whose name I don’t know, who has a tattoo on his chest,” I continued to search.

“I can see that you won’t be able to guess.”

“Okay, I give up.”

“Me, I’m the one.”

“Excuse me…?”

“You were asking who in the game of flirtation had scored success; I’m saying one—me. Who else could it be? Or do you be thinking that sex is the man’s success and the woman’s failure?”

I was in total confusion and realized that I should have been smart enough to avoid this whole thing. Of course the conversation was very interesting, but I felt that I might not be a worthy conversationalist. I was constricted, like a child, and I couldn’t accept that:

“It’s just that your game interested me; and I must confess that you play it well. Yet the question is, how long will you continue,” I said, gathering my strength.

“And the others don’t play? Doesn’t everybody play? Don’t you play?”

“Why do you think I’m playing a game? Maybe I’m trying to remain true to the values I believe in.”

“Perhaps I, too, am trying to remain true to the values I believe in.”

“But at one point your beauty will fade. How long will you play the game?”

“Until my prince charming appears on a white horse.”

“Are you talking about love?”

“You guessed it.”

“And have you considered protecting your virginity for prince charming on the white horse?” I continued.

“Don’t tell me you belong to the Mologa sect,” Paola was surprised.

I, too, was surprised, too:

“How do you know about the Mologa? I asked.

“They’re not so few in Argentina.”

“And what do you think about virginity?” I continued.

“It’s not a bad idea. But can you guarantee that prince charming will come? Do you know how many beauties like me grew old as virgins, waiting for their princes, who, on the way, were lost in the arms of women like me? Stop it already; virginity has a value if you are determined to lose it. I can surmise from what you say that virgin men should marry virgin women and live in eternal bliss. Most of those relationships end up in ruin, in the ruins of a disappointed sexual life.”

I felt that I had been had, that I would inevitably be defeated, and didn’t know what to do. Paola continued:

“But, I am crazy about virgin men. First of all, when you’re their first, that’s a guarantee that they will remember you all their lives. They tremble like scared rabbits and as a rule, they climax at the first penetration.”

Having said this, Paola bit her lips, pressed her thighs slowly together and then, wrapping her feet around each other, she visibly convulsed. I began to sweat, and panicked. I moved as if I was trying to sit more comfortably, but my hand hit the Margarita glass where a slice of lemon had been left. The glass hit the ground and broke. I came to my senses but it was already too late. With her big toe, whose nail was painted with emerald flowers, she was touching my drawers. I tensed up, but didn’t know what to do.

“Your values are indefensible, my friend, and you are loyal to your instincts,” she said without sarcasm, but with a hint of victory.

I didn’t know: did she want to take me to her cabin or to get me to have a wet dream with my eyes open. What was obvious, though, was that all this must stop.

“Paola, do you know Marta?” I asked, gathering whatever was left of my strength.

This seemed to scare her somehow.

“Marta, Marta. Yes, there is a girl like that,” she said and got up. Then she turned to me and asked: “Don’t you want to swim?”

“No, I don’t’ want to,” I said.

“I do,” she said and went to her swimming pool.

I wanted to cool down, but preferred the other swimming pool.

***

Captain Ricardo had missed something; the bloodshed did, after all, take place. A member of the ship’s crew by the name of Bob, had taken a 15 year old boy by the name of Felipe. The latter, after what had happened, had sobered up and using the gun in Bob’s cabin had blown Bob’s brains all over the place. When the news spread, Argentinean tango was playing at the open air theater. The tango was being played by two accordionists, one guitarist and one flutist. Two young men in sailors’ uniforms were dancing. It turns out that at first, the Argentinean tango had been a men’s dance, the dance of sailors. Paola was sitting a few tables away from me. This evening, for the first time, I saw her without the company of anyone else.

Attack on HZH reporter Lucine Baghdasaryan

This morning, Lucine Barseghyan, reporter for Haykakan Zhamanak, was attacked and beaten by 2 people. An announcement regarding this atrocious event was made by HIMA, and has been reported on lragir as well.
Briefly, the announcement explains that Ms. Barseghyan’s recent articles have exposed the anti-democratic and criminal workings of the government. More specifically, her articles have addressed the actions of Mher Sedrakyan (http://www.hzh.am/Arkhiv/2008/August/0108/01-08.html) and Hovik Abrahamyan (http://www.hzh.am/Arkhiv/2008/August/0108/01-08.html). Both of these individuals have been known in the past to settle scores with reporters. For these reasons, HIMA is assuming that the attack on Ms. Barseghyan was ordered by one of these individuals. The attack is considered an act against Free Speech and Press, and HIMA strongly condemns this and similar acts. HIMA youth movement demands that the perpetrators be found. Finally, they state that even if those guilty are not investigated now, the youth will bring each and every one of those guilty before the full force of the law.

...This is not the first time that and attack like this has happened during the past year. Unfortunately, I doubt it will be the last. So far, however, most (if not all) of the attacks have been on men. I wonder if the attack on a woman can be taken as a sign of utter desperation in the face of one's guilt being so exposed - desperation that is extreme enough to overcome the almost innate resistance to beating up a woman.

#53- Pashinyan - The Other Side of the World

ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ

53. երազանքների բարի փերի

Յուրաքանչյուր ոք գոնե մի անգամ պետք է իրեն մենակ զգա` օվկիանոսի վրա: Դա օգնում է, օգնում է ամենակարեւորում, որ մարդը նկատի ամենագլխավորը, հիմնականը: Մենք այնքա~ն շատ բան չենք նկատում ու նկատելիս զարմանում:

The Other side of the world

53. Good Fairy of Dreams

Everyone should feel alone at least once on the ocean. That helps one understand the most important, the most basic things. There is so much we don’t notice, and when we do, we’re surprised. That which the ocean makes you conscious of, you can’t even notice in everyday life. Even in the ocean it’s not easy to notice it; you should feel yourself alone and far from others, and the ocean will tell you…No, it won’t say a thing, you will have to look at the ocean yourself and understand:

“You insignificant, insignificant being. You are so miniscule and so ridiculous. Do you know what makes you ridiculous?”

“I don’t know.”

“Not being conscious.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that you are not aware of your own nothingness. That is so ridiculous…”

“And if I am aware…?”

“That fast?”

“Let’s suppose.”

“So what do you feel?”

What do you feel? How does it feel to be aware of your nothingness? A blessed, blessed feeling, to which you want to cling so it won’t leave you, so it will forever stay with you. Living is so easy, Freedom is so sweet. Freedom is nothing but the awareness of your nothingness.

How do you turn a man into a slave, humiliate him. They openly threaten us, they threaten to hurt us, to torture us, to humiliate us, and finally, to eliminate us. And that worries us because we’re not conscious of our nothingness. To us it seems that the universe revolves around us, that the stars shine for us, and that they disappear when we do. And we crouch under the burden of our self-importance; next, we walk on all fours, and finally, we crawl.

Being conscious of your nothingness makes you feel lighter; you feel so light that you can fly anywhere, and the breeze will wave you over the ocean as a flag, as the flag of Freedom, and you will soar high, higher and higher—indescribably high.

“Ocean, Oh, Ocean, I am so ready for suffering and death…”

“Then you are ready to be brave.”

“And what is bravery, Oh, Ocean?”

“To be true to your origins and to your destiny.”

“And what are origins, Oh, Ocean?”

“God created you Free…”

“And what is destiny, Oh, Ocean?”

“Origin is destiny…”

“I am so ready for suffering and death…”

“Then you are ready to live; you are ready to win…”

“I am but nothing, Oh, Ocean…”

“Then you are Free…”

***

I had asked Fred for one more favor: when I’m far from Paris, to open my email account from any internet club and to forward the emails to my new address. I couldn’t open my old account because then my pursuers would find out where I was. But if Fred opened my e-mails, then it would be Fred’s location that they would discover. Fred had done so, and I received the letters from him. On his part, Fred let me know that Soros had transferred the sum. Then there was another letter, written by my daughter, Mariam. This is what the letter said: “Hello, Daddy. You know, we have two turtles and a dog. We keep the dog in the yard at Ichevan. A boy gave us that dog. The boy was walking with the dog in his arms, when I said, ‘what a nice dog.’ He said, ‘I’m going to get rid of it; I have a new one. If you want, you can have it.’ So I took the dog. It’s a puppy. When grandma found out, she said ‘Take it away,’ and I almost cried. I took him away. The next day, I went to see him. Grandpa asked, ‘where are you going?’ I said, ‘to see the dog.’ He said, ‘what dog, let me see it.’ The dog was on the street. I picked him up and took him to grandpa. He said, ‘why have you thrown him out on the streets, bring it, and keep him here.’ I said, ‘But grandma won’t let me.’ He said, ‘it’s not what grandma says that goes here;’ and grandma and grandpa had a fight. And now, right now, the dog is sleeping. Dad, maybe you don’t approve of it, but I can’t tell you how happy I am. I have two animals; I have a papa and a mama, two grandmas and one grandpa.” This was the letter.

My emotions were in turmoil. One minute tears covered my eyes, the next minute laughter regaled my heart. And I started thinking, thinking about my children. First I thought about Mariam; I thought and thought and then thought some more. And those thoughts made me happy. Then I thought about Ashot; I thought long about Ashot. Then I thought about little Shushan, who in fact was born on Freedom Square and who doesn’t know me yet. Then I thought about my son who is yet to be born, and whose name I had picked years ago. Then, I thought about Davit. I thought about Sipan, who had put flyers about the demonstrations among the documents of the authorities and when the latter had opened their envelopes, the first thing they had seen were the flyers.

I thought about the children of my friends. First I thought about Ghevond and his sister Hermine, who, being of school age had managed to be detained in the Kentron Police headquarters with her brother, Tevos. I didn’t think about Tevos because Tevos is already an adult. Then I thought about the children of my other brothers in prison, whom I either don’t know or don’t remember their names. Then I thought about Tzovinar, whom I don’t know, but whose poetry I had read in the newspaper “Aravot” and remember her name in that context. Then I thought about Beto who made us cry with his presentation. Then, I thought about Mariam and Vakous. Then I thought about Levon, Hratch, Areg and Nare. Then I thought about Shogher, who was ‘lost’ one day; I’ll never forget Mher’s face at that moment as long as I live. Then I thought about Hrayr, Tatev and Narek. Then I thought about Aspram. Then I thought about Shushan. Then I thought about Levon, Hakob and Lucine. Then I thought about Beno, about Haykouhi and Anahit. Then I thought about Mary, Ashot and Valodik. Then I thought about Narek and Sarine. Then I thought about Nver. Then I thought about Raissa, whose gift of a cross to me I still have.

Then I thought about Lianchik. Then I thought about Hrach and Vahe. Then I thought about Milena. Then I thought about Vahag and Hebo. Then I thought about Narek and Misoul, whose grandfather spent 5 months in prison. Then I thought about Aram, Anna and Gor. Then I thought about Araxi. Then I thought about Abkar and Armenak. Then I thought about Leovik. Then I thought about Vahak and Kimoush. Then I thought about Gougoul. Then I thought about Lyoubik and Araxi. Then I thought about Tamarik, Milena and Alessia. Then I thought about Sophie. Then I thought about Grigor. Then I thought about Seno and Aghounik. Then I thought about Sevada and Anahit. Then I thought about Vika and Ani. Then I thought about Rafael. Then I thought about Edil. Then I thought about Grishik. Then I thought about Goharik and Astghik. Then I thought about Robert.

I started thinking… I know so few of the children. Then I remembered the kids in the group “Arevik” whose songs echoed on Freedom Square for ten days. Then I remembered that I was born on June 1, on International Children’s Day. Then I thought about the children:

“They will live in a Free and Happy Armenia,” I promised myself.

#52- Pashinyan - The Other Side of the World

ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ

52. ծովից ծով

Ամերիկացի Ֆրեդն ու ամերիկացի Վիկտորը ընդհանուր ծանոթ չգտան: Սերբ Բոյանն ու արգենտինացի Գաբրիելը, սակայն, ավելի հաջողակ էին այս հարցում, եւ նրանք գտան մի ընդհանուր ծանոթ, որ ազգությամբ հայ էր եւ ապրում էր Բուենոս Այրեսում:

The other side of the world - Pashinyan

52. From Sea to Sea

The Americana Fred and Victor hadn’t able to find mutual friends. But the Serbian Boyan and the Argentinean Gabriel had more success in that area. They found a mutual acquaintance that was Armenian by nationality and lived in Buenos Aires.

I took a look at the ocean; there was ocean on all sides, only the ocean. There was no trace of land, not even a hint. I remembered where ‘Ousda Norig’ had served, and then I remembered ‘Akhberam.’ It’s interesting that this is happening on an Argentinean ship. Akhberam lives in the capital of Argentina. I had known that, and during one of the breaks while watching football in the sports bar I asked the people there if anyone knew an Armenian barber who lived in Argentina by the name of Aram. For a long time no one answered. Then, someone said:

“Is he bald?”

“That’s him.”

“Yes, he works on our street but we don’t know each other well. I’ve had my hair cut in his shop a few times,” said Gabriel.

“Is he a good barber?” I asked.

“Yes, he is. Anyway, he has customers,” said Gabriel who had a big store for sports apparel on the same street. “And how do you know him?” he asked.

“Before ending up in Buenos Aires he had first come to Serbia, Belgrade, from his country. But things didn’t work out for him there and he decided to go to Argentina,” I said.

Of course, that wasn’t the case. Aram had left for Argentina not from Serbia, but from Armenia and must have taken the barber’s scissors in his hands for the first time in Buenos Aires. He and I had worked together on the editorial board of “Molorak.” I was a reporter and Aram dealt with finances. Our director was Haygazn Ghahriyan. I hope the other guys won’t be offended if I don’t mention them. If I hadn’t been on the Pacific Ocean, I wouldn’t have remembered this story which, true enough related to everyone although the authors are Aram and Ousda Norig.

But first, about Aram. We used to call him Akhberam because that’s what he called everyone.

In Armenia, people use the term “akhper” a lot; Aram, on the other hand, used to say “Akhberam.” Part of his image was his baldness. Usually, bald people try to hide that fact. But not Aram; he used to emphasize his baldness as a special privilege. And frankly, it became him. The next important attribute of his image was the cane-umbrella he often carried. He wanted to draw the attention of people who didn’t know him; he had a mystifying appearance. In the beginning, I used to be very careful with him, but later we became close. He used to like to be unique, had a fine sense of humor, was a great narrator and had many stories to tell, to which we listened with great satisfaction. Aram didn’t like to be like others; he tried to underscore his personality, and was able to. When the newspaper “Molorak” was shut down, he tried some undertakings, but nothing worked. And then one day, I heard that he had decided to emigrate. This wasn’t anything original at all but Aram couldn’t help underline his uniqueness even in this situation. So he had decided to immigrate not to Russia, to the United States or to Europe, as most people do, but to Argentina. You have to agree this was an novel decision. The last news I had heard about him was that he had become a barber and had won a prize in a contest for barbers. Of course some people would consider this a success, but those who know Aram realize that this is not a success but a successful trick.

Let me now say a few things about Ousda Norig, may he rest in peace. At that time the newspaper “Molorak” was renting space at the “Armenian gymnasium” in the editorial office of the then “Athletic Armenia” which was located on Arshagounyats street, near “Tosaaf.” Ousda Norig was a long time security guard of that editorial office.

Haygazn Ghahriyan was a new kind of director, a new kind of chief editor and the first man I ever knew whom his subordinates addressed by his first name. Being a beginning journalist, for a long time I couldn’t bring myself to call him by his first name. But over time everything worked out. I emphasize this because it was due mostly to Haygazn’s behavior that Ousda Norig became one of the collective. Our relationship was informal; they later developed into very close friendship. So in a short time we all became friends with Ousda Norig.

Ousda Norig loved to entertain, to feed, and to honor people, as much as his means allowed him. Haygazn used to encourage his habit. Sometimes, with his decision, Ousda Norig would prepare pickles in a large container, he would prepare ‘Khash”, etc., and in fact at least some of the staff had become his family. I, myself, basically lived at the editorial office.

Ousda Norig had his philosophy which was summarized in a few sayings: “A real man should not be a kyata” he used to say. To those who wanted to cheat him or bother him, he would say: “Norig is not an ass, Norig is a Kesh.” He had a favorite swear: “Chatlakh.” But he could also say it in jest.

When people put him down for drinking, he used to join his thumb, index finger and middle finger and kiss the tips of his fingers as a sign of peace. He expressed his opinion about family life with this saying: “There are women who make ‘pashas’ of their husbands; there are women who turn their husbands into ‘poshas’. He would call his wife or the wives of others superiors. So, if he wanted to say ‘My wife will come,’ he would sway “my superior will come.” If he needed to give a message to someone that his wife had called, he would say “Your superior called.”

Ousda Norig liked telling different stories about his life. He used to remember with great admiration a chief editor, long deceased, of the newspaper” Armenian Athlete”, but whose last name I’m sorry to say I have forgotten. He was proud of the fact that he had shook hands with Marshall Baghramyan.

Ousda Norig loved pulling practical jokes, especially with Aram, whom he called Bald Dog. And Aram, despite a huge age difference, called him Noro and would pull his own jokes. Well, I told you this whole story because while I was looking at the ocean, I remembered a joke authored by Ousda Norig and Aram.

Ousda Norig used to say that he had served on the Maersk Flot in the Far East, in a submarine. That day, he was telling a story about those years. It was the end of the day, and as usual, by that time we had finished the issue of the newspaper and were looking for photographs in the archives of the editorial office, as well as in different foreign magazines, to insert in the particular issue of our newspaper.

So Aram had placed a few issues of the Spiegel before him and was looking for some pictures. The guys formatting the pages were involved in their work and Haygazn was supervising. And Ousda Norig was telling his story.

He went on and on and at one point he had to describe one of their officers. As he began the description, he turned to Aram: “The officer was like you, Aram, but he was literate, intelligent and graceful.” Haigazn immediately snorted and we all started laughing. Ousda Norig laughed with us a little, then, like a conqueror, he left the room. Aram continued to turn the pages, while the others were still commenting on Ousda Norig’s joke.

Aram was turning the pages of the magazine, and then all of a sudden he brightened up:

“Noro, Noro,” he yelled.

“What is it, Bald Dog?”

“Noro, come, I found a picture of the place where you served.”

Ousda Norig wasn’t expecting so much attention, and was visibly moved:

“Are you telling me the truth, Aram?” he said, and came closer. We all started moving toward Aram.

He had spread a page of the Spiegel before him and looked smug. There was a photograph on the page, the photograph showed something like an area of water, which could have been the sea, the ocean or a lake. The frame showed only water and nothing else could be seen, absolutely nothing.

“Chatlakh,” said Ousda Norig.

We burst out laughing.

#51- Pashinyan - The Other Side of the World

ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ

51. վհուկների որս

Ես նավ էի բարձրացել Խուլիոյի տված մի տոմսակով. նա ինձ ասել էր, որ ուղեւորության համար պետք է 1000 եվրո վճարեմ նավապետին եւ դա կարող եմ անել պատեհ մի ժամանակ: Ահա մի օր որոշեցի մարել հաշիվներս եւ այցի գնացի նավապետին: Նրա անունը Ռիկարդո էր, մոտ 40 տարեկան բարետես մի մարդ, բայց առանց միրուքի ու ծխամորճի. չնայած սիգար էր ծխում:

The other side of the world - N. Pashinyan

51. Witch Hunt

I had gotten on board the ship with the ticket Julio had given me. He had told me that I should pay 1000 Euros to the captain, which I could do at a convenient time. So one day I decided to settle my account and went to pay a visit to the captain. His name was Ricardo, a photogenic man of 40 but without a beard or a pipe, although he smoked a cigar. I put the small envelope with the money on his desk. He thanked me and offered me rum and coffee; I accepted. It turned out that the person who served the rum and coffee was the captain’s wife, which surprised me a great deal:

“On a ship like this, it’s not easy to find female crew members. You’ve seen the types of temptations here. Our women are at least consoled by spending their vacations with us,” explained Captain Ricardo and informed me that there were other men on the crew who had brought their wives and children along on this cruise. The company that owns the ship allowed that once a year.

Over coffee we spoke of different things. The captain seemed like an open person. I asked him, with a smile:

“Doesn’t it bother you that there are witches on the ship…?”

He understood at once that I was referring to the incident in Marta’s cabin:

“What, are you suggesting that I start a witch hunt?” he asked with a smile.

“No, it’s just that I find the stories associated with Marta very interesting. Don’t you think it’s worth an internal investigation, to explain what happened?”

“Don’t you worry, those are just female intrigues,” Ricardo said calmly.

“What are you saying; it doesn’t bother me, it’s just professional curiosity. Do you also think that those who planned the whole thing are Marta’s prostitute friends?”

“Off the record?”

“Off the record!”

“Have you heard about a woman by the name of Paola?”

“Yes, of course.”

“She’s a very interesting woman; she likes to be the center of attention. At the beginning of the cruise she wasn’t satisfied with the attention she was getting from the men and had heard that the reason for that was a prostitute by the name of Marta. Paola met her and had seen before her eyes an unfortunate peasant girl, who, due to circumstances, had ended up in the hands of pimps and couldn’t get away from them. Marta is a naïve woman and very unlucky. Paola decided to help her. It was Paola and Pepa who came out of Marta’s bathroom. They were the ones who told the wives of the husbands who had slept with Marta about their husbands’ infidelities. This is the whole truth,” summed up Ricardo.

“Excuse me, Captain, but I don’t get it. Did Paolo do all that for her own sake or to help Marta?”

“Both. That’s what I think, anyway.”

“And couldn’t Marta refuse if she doesn’t want to do it.”

“Have you heard about trafficking? It’s not that easy. That Marta is really an unlucky girl. She’s Brazilian, from a poor peasant family. Her family had emigrated from their home with the hope of finding a better life. On the way, her father got ill with tuberculosis. They didn’t have the means to pay for his treatment and the girl was forced to sell her virginity to pay the doctor. Later on, the story came out and Marta’s father threw her out of the house. The physician gave Marta to someone else, and he gave her to another. Then she surfaced in Argentina, and then, on this ship. Let’s assume that she was saved right now; where would she go or what kind of job can she have? She has no place to go and so she has to do what she does, although I know that she suffers horribly, horribly because of it all.”

“And why don’t you help her?” I asked.

“You know, I’m just a captain. That is, a driver and I don’t stick my nose into things that don’t concern me. With the exception of the cruise and its security, everything else is the business of the tourism company that has been renting this ship for many years. And how can I help Marta? Those men consider her their property and if I were to argue against that, nothing good will come my way.”

“And is it legal to have prostitutes on the ship?”

“I said that I wouldn’t stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. For me, the ship has a crew and travelers. Marta and her friends are travelers as far as I’m concerned. Whatever they do in their cabins is none of my business.”

“You know very well what they do in their cabins and in fact, you’ve clarified a few details,” I said, smiling.

“There is no contradiction here. That’s related to the security of the ship. Don’t be surprised when I tell you that in the last two weeks, two married women have found lovers for themselves. I know about it and should watch over the situation.”

I looked at him quizzically.

“No, I’m not the moral police. You yourself understand that it wouldn’t be good if the husbands of those two women start bloodshed on the ship. A few cases like that and I will be left without a job. The name of my ship will appear on the news and would get a bad image. And now I have to keep a watch on the situation so that I may have the opportunity to intercept possible bloodshed.”

“In that case, aren’t you afraid that Marta may throw herself in the ocean?”

“Of course I’m afraid. When the situation had tensed up around her I got a vacation for her from her bosses and now she’s a regular tourist, all expenses paid. Although that Paola amazes me; it looks like she’s found a solution for Marta,” said the captain.

“Really?”

“Yes, my friend. Sometimes we underestimate women. But they are smart if they have to be. Look what that Paola has thought of. When we reach Tokyo, Paola intends to take Marta off the boat after which she’ll try to steal something valuable from some shop and will be caught. Naturally, they’ll sentence her to one or two years of prison. The Japanese prisons will be like heaven for Marta, and her bosses and pimps will soon forget about her existence and she’ll have the chance to start a new life. Paola has promised that after Marta comes out of prison she’ll find her a job in Argentina. And she will; she’s a pretty capable woman. Of course, they’ll run into a few complications leaving the ship, but I may help them. Off the record!”

“Damn it,” I thought to myself. Judging from her movements, her bathing suit, I wouldn’t have though that Paola would be so intelligent and so humanitarian.

“Captain, please allow me to write something on this subject away from Latin America and in general, away from the Western hemisphere. I mean, the ‘off the record’ we agreed on would be known only in the Eastern hemisphere.”

“I knew you would say that and I guess for that reason I divulged my secrets. I agree that this story is worth writing about. I only ask that you change the circumstances as much as possible and really make it such that no one in the Western hemisphere will read what you write.”

“Agreed. But Captain, do you bug the cabins?”

“What are you saying? When there are waiters and servants, it’s not necessary to bug the cabins.”

“You’ve consoled me.”

“You remember, right? Off the record. Come and see me sometime—for coffee.

“Thank you,” I said and left him.

I didn’t try to talk with Marta or Paola. It would have been cruel to bring up Marta’s troubles and besides, she only spoke Portuguese and a little bit of Spanish. And to speak with Paola, you had to wait in line.

# 50 - Pashinyan - The Other Side of the World

ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ

50. Պաուլան, Բեբան եւ Մարթան

Նավի ուղեւորները բաժանվում էին երկու մասի` մենակներ եւ ոչ մենակներ: Մենակները հասկանալի է` ովքեր էին. այն կանայք եւ տղամարդիկ, ովքեր նավի վրա դե յուրե չունեին ոչ մի ուղեկից: Ասում եմ` դե յուրե, որովհետեւ կային ջահել աղջիկներ եւ երիտասարդներ, որոնք այստեղ էին իրենց տարիքով ծնողների հետ ու չնայած դե ֆակտո ունեին ուղեկից, բայց դե յուրե, եթե կարելի է այսպես արտահայտվել, մենակ էին:

The Other side of the world - Nikol Pashinyan

50. Paola, Pepa and Marta

The passengers on the ship were divided into two sections: those who were married and those who were singles. You could tell who the singles were since these were men and women who had no companions on the ship. By that I mean de jure, because there were young girls and boys who were with their older parents and although de facto they had companions, de jure, if one can use the term, they were alone.

Understandably, this group went on a cruise hoping to find amorous adventures, although even the married ones were those looking for amorous adventures. But being under the careful eye of their spouses, they didn’t have the time for elaborate love pursuits. The tourist office that had organized this cruise had considered the needs of the men and had let them know that there would be prostitutes on the ship. Men were giving each other the telephone numbers for reservations. They were also telling each other to be careful: if married women got a hold of the numbers there would be a big row on the ship.

Pretty soon one woman’s name was circulating among the men: Marta. Those who had taken advantage of the service had unanimously chosen Marta, if, of course she was available at that moment and listed as such. Marta’s name had quickly become a brand name and many men not only wanted to use the service but wanted to be with Marta. More, many men who had not intended to take advantage of the service, had been infected by stories of Marta, and had decided to meet her.

There were contradictory accounts about Marta; she was stiff as wood, said one. No, she did a good job of loving me, countered another. Then they would start to discuss the reasons for successful or unsuccessful séances—was it Marta or her clients? These conversations took place in a laid-back fashion which allowed me to put together their general content. Everyone agreed that Marta was not really a prostitute but an attractive woman: “you can’t be sure of how to express your affection toward her—to visit her often or stop asking for her,” said a thoughtful Argentinean who, however, had opted for the first alternative and had already been with Marta three times.

For ordinary people it was not easy to meet Marta because the whores were overworked and spent the day between serving the clients and resting in their cabins. As far as I could gather, the procedure was this: the client called and would go to a reception room where he would be introduced to 8 or 10 prostitutes. Each one had her own cabin where she lived and received her clients.

I met Marta by accident, before the unusual events about Marta had begun to take place. That day I had woken up very early and come up on deck. It was barely dawn. Leaning against the prow, she was vomiting into the ocean. She had a light jacket on. I ran to the café, but there was no one there. I picked up a bottle of water from the refrigerator and too it to the vomiting woman. She looked up. I don’t know why, but I immediately realized that it was Marta. She really was a special woman, a young girl of almost 20 years old, and one who had suffered. Your heart broke just by looking at her because you could tell that this girl was selling her body, and because I could tell from the very first look at her that she could be a great wife and mother. Maybe this was the result of the PR that was spreading on the ship, but that’s what I thought anyway, as soon as I looked into her eyes.

Before long some alarming news began to be associated with Marta’s name. One of the women passengers had caught her husband with Marta, in the latter’s cabin. Just like that, she had opened the door and entered. It wasn’t clear why the door had not been locked. The woman, naturally, had created a big scandal and the captain had been forced to give the banished husband another cabin. The same thing happened the next day, with another of Marta’s clients. This was beginning to make the men uncomfortable. These couldn’t just be accidents; something was amiss here. Another husband was similarly banished by his wife and moved to another cabin. They also moved Marta to another cell because the location of her cabin was now known to all. Everybody was trying to figure out how these incidents had happened. At the end, the view that spread was that the betrayal was being organized by her friends in the profession, who were jealous of her success. They were saying that the other prostitutes, crazed with jealousy, had decided to persecute anyone who dared ask for her. Even without that, married men realized that it was dangerous to have anything to do with Marta and none of them spoke of her and wouldn’t even think of asking for her. Then, another incident took place. An unmarried man, who had asked for Marta in this pandemonium, had run out of Marta’s cabin in the middle of the night, screaming like a madman. He had explained that when he was with Marta, two witches had come out of the bathroom, yelling and creaming, and with swords and sabers had attacked him. This incident further confirmed the opinion that her prostitute friends wanted to eliminate the competition.

The ship’s pimp was conducting an investigation and, according to rumor had subjected the other prostitutes to torture to find out the ones who had organized the betrayal. But this didn’t yield any results. The young man, on the other hand, was insisting that his attackers were really witches. Myths began to be attached to Marta’s name. The result was that everybody started avoiding her. People were saying that she had no clients, that Marta brings bad luck and that it was best to avoid Marta. And, in general, the enthusiasm the prostitutes had generated in the men had ebbed a little.

After these events, Marta began to appear among people. Only the men recognized her and even those two women who had caught their husbands with her, had not seen her face or didn’t remember it.

Now you could see Marta sitting at the café, or swimming, as if she was an ordinary tourist.

Soon, a new name began to circulate among the men: Paola. The latter wasn’t at all a prostitute, but a successful manager. She was on vacation on the ship and had become the subject of general discussion. She was an attractive, young woman and loved creating a fuss around her. She spent the whole day in the swimming pool by the prow of the ship. I noticed that when she went into the water, a large number of men followed her example, and when she came out of the water and laid down many of the men hurried to take their places near by. Paola had long, black hair, her skin was the color of light chocolate; she was beautiful, really beautiful. The bathing suit she wore, which she changed several times a day, was designed to make her the center of attention. The strange bra that she wore, for instance, barely covered her nipples. The rest, you can imagine. She liked to wear dark glasses, sometimes she smoked cigarettes she had been offered by the men around her, who tried to have the type of cigarettes appropriate to Paola available.

This woman appeared to invite flirtation and many responded to her invitation with pleasure. In this struggle, of course, married men had very little chance because the women on the ship knew that a new seduction had appeared for their husbands. Paola conducted her business near the swimming pool by the prow, and before long a few of the women had established observation posts in the area. Despite that, some of the clever husbands had figured out ways of flirting with Paola, although in this instance the first place was occupied by singles. A few favorites could be seen among the latter group, but it wasn’t altogether clear who among them had reached what level of success and if in fact any had been successful at all. While the men had loved to talk about their visits with Marta, they were silent about their relationship with Paola. It was obvious, though, that the cruise was very interesting for Paola; everything seemed to be under her supervision.

Along with Paola and under her leadership a girl by the name of Pepa was also conducting some business. By contrast to Paola, she was very young, barely 19 years old, and was obvious that for her Paola was a teacher and an ideal. Pepa, of course, attracted the younger contingency and had become the focus of interest for the younger men on the cruise. Yet many of the caballeros gave up, and the only hope Paola and Pepa were left with was a small circle of favorites, although they themselves left the less successful ones out of the struggle being waged for them.

So, after these initial developments and unraveling, the passions that had fired up on the ship finally calmed down a little and the cruise went back to the football mode. But I still needed to find out about the witches who had run out of Marta’s bathroom.

(to be continued)