Passage Through Hell

Before I begin the story, I think it’s worth mentioning for those of you who don’t know that buildings in Armenia are quite different from what we are used to in North America.  From what I understand, people own their apartments.  But there is no Homeowners’ Association or equivalent to maintain any of the common areas, such as staircases and hallways.  Therefore, the common areas are often run down, dirty, and dark.   Every apartment appears to have a light into the hallway.  But most of the time, these lights are turned off, because people do not want to waste money on electricity to light up the hallway when they aren’t using it. 

Last night, when I came home, my building’s staircase was darker than usual.  My neighbor’s hall light has a motion detector, so I can usually make it up to the third floor without my flashlight because the light from the street and the light from the motion detector are usually enough.   But it was pitch black last night, and I had to take out the flashlight.  When I got into my apartment, the light wouldn’t turn on.  It seems my building had no power.  

My apartment was warm, but when I touched the heaters, I realized they had cooled.  I checked the Baxi gas regulating machine, and I realized that the Baxi runs on electricity.  I thought maybe I hallucinated, because it just didn’t make sense to me.  So I checked again.  Sure enough, the little screen that normally has Russian on it was blank, and I saw the spot where the Baxi was plugged into the wall.  So even though I had gas heat and hot water, I would need electricity to get the hot water and heat to work.  I’ve been here about two weeks, and so far, the Baxi machine has broken twice, once I had no water, and now I had no power.  I live in the “best” part of town, and I am wondering what winter will be like.  I really can’t imagine what winter was like years ago during Armenia’s dark days. 

The power came back on around 4 am, so my apartment didn’t have a chance to get too cold.  And even if the outage had lasted longer, I suppose after hearing the stories last night, I really don’t have anything to complain about. 

Last night, our volunteer group went to Dzidzernagapert (Armenian Genocide Memorial) after dark.   Dzidzernagapert is an overwhelming place, especially when you begin to think about what it represents.  The relatively small eternal flame burns inside an enormous and intimidating stone fire pit.  In fact, the fire pit is made up of twelve stone columns placed in a circle that lean toward the fire sitting in the center.  The stone columns represent the regions in Western Armenia (Eastern Turkey today) that were destroyed during the Genocide.  Between each column is a staircase that leads you to the center where the flame burns.  When you are in the center, you feel the weight of the surrounding columns on your shoulders.  It’s overwhelming.  It’s eerily quiet. You can’t escape the thoughts of the pain and suffering many of our families endured. 

Outside this fire pit structure is a long wall with the names of the towns that were destroyed engraved on it.  There is also a tall monument that is supposed to symbolize the rebirth of the Armenian people.  I can’t help but think… rebirth?  How many times?  As many times as necessary, I suppose. 

We laid down blankets on one of the staircases and sat down.  The Director of the volunteer program began to read passages from a book called Passage Through Hell, which traces one survivor’s experiences.   As we sat in the cold night watching the flame, we listened to this man’s childhood memories… the sounds of bombs and guns… the last kiss his father gave him… how he was deported with other Armenians… how he watched his mother weep as she held his brother’s cold, lifeless body against her chest… how he and his siblings dug a shallow grave with rocks and sticks to burry his baby brother… how he watched his sisters die, one by one, and their bodies thrown to the side of the road or thrown into carts with dozens of other dead bodies… how he saw crows and dogs eat the corpses of Armenians that had perished on the side of the road… how he watched a Turkish soldier behead a woman in the caravan without a second thought merely for cursing the Sultan… how the Turkish soldiers tried to rape six Armenian girls one night, but the women in the caravan stole guns and shot two soldiers to save the girls’ honor, and how the remaining Turkish soldiers retaliated by cutting the girls they were going to rape into pieces…. how the Arab women on the side of the road showed so much kindness… how he ended up in a mass grave tied at the waist and at his feet to a woman’s corpse and stuck under three other bodies, but cut the rope with his teeth, managed to escape and survive.  

How can they say that these were casualties of war?  How can they continue to deny what happened?  How?