Category Archives: Armenia

shadows follow

10 Thursday Oct 2013

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Most people think that shadows follow, precede or surround beings or objects. The truth is that they also surround words, ideas, desires, deeds, impulses and memories.
— Elie Wiesel

If my memories could have only slept
in Yerevan; if I would have never
faced the sky’s worrisome slackness, windswept
spirits swept between mountains and further
rocks; if the swifts and skylarks had only
saved me; then telling you of what happened
would be utterable. My skull’s memory
feels like an oak-beam ripped in two, opened
by force. Hesitantly I step forward.
I want to tell you how this all began
but pain is potent and drives everything
away. There is no magic, no numbered
spell to ease this. No. I left Yerevan
and went north, which was all my undoing.

wreckage’s fate

10 Thursday Oct 2013

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Was there enough time to know the wreckage
that I soon would be facing? There were swifts,
skylarks, over Republic Square. Savage
small things. I would sit at a cafe, the gifts
from home—letters—spread out on the table
before me, drinking surch and garejur.
Find me a story teller or fable
maker, someone who doesn’t need liqueur
to help forget. Is it wreckage’s fate
to be wreckage? Savage words and bright birds
and I still have nightmares—all in a row.
But still … to have time to sit, watch and wait.
That’s a gift. To have time to write down words
of our fall; to have time enough to know.

][][

notes:

The Republic Square, or Hanrapetu’tyan Hraparak (Հանրապետության հրապարակ) as it is called in Armenian, is the large central square in the heart of Yerevan. It is intersected by Abovyan, Nalbandyan, Vazgen Sargsyan and Amiryan streets as well as Tigran Mets avenue. During my summer training (1995) in Peace Corps I would sit at a little cafe outside the National Gallery and History Museum, drinking coffee, surch (սուրճ) and beer, garejur (գարեջուր) and watching the skylarks circle in the sky far over head. I liked that particular cafe partly because it was fun to people watch (everyone passes through the square at some point) but also because the layout of the square gives anyone sitting at the cafe an obscured view of Mt. Ararat, which is always a nice thing.

mountain mountain mountain

10 Thursday Oct 2013

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But stay tender. Stay enchanted. Mountain,
mountain, mountain. I drank you like vodka,
so you weren’t useless like a grave. Heathen
women prayed for you and so did Noah.
We flew in during the city’s blackout.
I didn’t realize just how you dazzled
until I fell in love with your devout
colors: blue hues cut into deep purple.
Everywhere I went that summer I spied
you. Then, when Turkish gunships attacked
Kurdish towns, smoke darkened your eastern side.
People still pray to you. We build abstract
myths then tear them down. There’s nothing cryptic
about how this wayfarer is homesick.

disgrace

10 Thursday Oct 2013

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These memories, these harsh memories, marred
with the stink of self-hatred and hard drink.
Meager flowers. Petals. Sparse leaf. A shard
I still cannot dislodge. I use to think
that time would dull them; to think that time’s cure
would make them all fade. Then I tried to write.
But what words are there for the dead? What poor
sequence or meager spell would ease the spite
I feel for myself? P.T.S.D. … they
said. Survivor’s guilt. A world with no lust.
Let me write my erotica, pretend
that the spiritual life is the best, pray
that this shard will loosen one day. It must.
I must. I must begin. I must begin.

][][

notes

P.T.S.D., Post-traumatic stress disorder, is a severe psychological condition that might develop after a person is exposed to a traumatic event. This diagnosis may be given when a group of symptoms occur, such as disturbing recurring flashbacks and nightmares, avoidance or numbing of memories of the event, or a high level of anxiety continuing for a long period of time after the event happened.

I was diagnosed with it after I returned home in disgrace from Peace Corps.

remembering zaruhi petrosyan

26 Wednesday Jun 2013

Posted by in Armenia, Feminism

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zaruipetrosyanaaabbb

This is a friend I will never know, a sister I will never meet, a teacher I will never learn from.

This is Zaruhi Petrosyan. She was beaten to death by her husband. There are no domestic violence laws in Armenia; no place for women to go for safety; no one to turn to for help.

But change can only happen from within, domestic violence will only stop when it is taken seriously and not viewed as a private, family issue the government has no business with. I, personally, never want to lose another Zaruhi. Please consider signing this petition. Thank you.

PETITION LETTER:

Dear Prime Minister Mr. Tigran Sargsyan,

According to research in 2008, a quarter of women in Armenia are victims of domestic violence. These women think they can’t report the violence or rape because of social stigmas and pressure from others. Although there are steps in your country to fight gender-based violence, there needs to be specific laws directed at domestic violence. Please take steps to create laws fighting domestic violence.

If laws don’t specify violence within a family from violence with strangers, the proper protocol can’t be taken. Police sometimes see domestic violence as a “family matter,” which makes women think it is acceptable. This leads to women not reporting violence and Armenia as a whole covering up a serious problem. The other problem is women do not have the resources, such as shelters, to get the necessary help when they are victims of violence. I am asking you to create laws that will prevent domestic violence and punish the assailants.

Sincerely,

[Your Name Here]

do not be afraid

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arm_women_violence_demo

Demo

DV-article-2-photo-credit-Society-Without-Violence-Armenian-FB-page-protest-in-front-of-courthouse-during-Mariam-Gevorgyan-DV-trial

1-year-anniversary-of-Zaruhi-Petrosyans-death

Video

domestic violence in armenia [video]

26 Wednesday Jun 2013

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reblogged from One-Armenia:

Armenia faces a severe crisis of widespread violence against women and children. Due to the cultural and safety concerns of reporting violence, many women do not report violence and are often stigmatized for doing so. As a result, the Armenian government is able to deny the problem. Furthermore, Armenia currently has weak domestic violence laws and no law addressing sexual violence. Encouraging greater reporting and greater awareness of the problem is the first step to legislative advocacy and legal enforcement.

before the storm: poem for lilith

24 Monday Jun 2013

Posted by in Armenia, Armenian, bibical erotica, Feminism, Illustration and art, Lilith, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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before the storm 1

Ահա թե ինչ եմ հրաժարվել: խոստումը ծերության, պոեզիայի, սիրո.
Ես չեմ ուզում մի բաժակ գինի.
Բան չկա, իր բյուրեղային խորքերը.
Իմ ափիոն խողովակը վնասվել է:
LSD չի բավարարում.
Քույր. Քույր. Քույր.
Սովորեցրեք ինձ ձեր ալքիմիա.
Ես ուզում եմ իմանալ, թե ինչպես պետք է կատարել մի մոռացկոտություն դեղ, օգտագործելով ձեր կույս-կաթ.
Երեկ ես կենդանի.
Վաղը ես կլինեմ մահացած.
.
Aqui está o que eu vou desistir: a promessa da velhice, da poesia, do amor.
Eu não tenho nenhuma necessidade de copos de vinho.
Não há nada dentro de suas profundezas cristalinas.
Meu cachimbo de haxixe está quebrado.
LSD não vai satisfazer.
Irmã. Irmã. Irmã.
Ensina-me a alquimia.
Mostre-me como fazer um elixir do esquecimento do teus moça-leite.
Ontem eu estava vivo.
Amanhã vou estar morto.
.
Here’s what I’ll give up: the promise of old age, of poetry, of love.
I have no need for a glass of wine.
There is nothing within its crystal depths.
My hashish pipe is broken.
LSD will not do.
Sister. Sister. Sister.
Teach me alchemy.
Show me how to make an elixir of forgetfulness out of your girl-milk.
Yesterday I was alive.
Tomorrow I’ll be dead.

before the storm 2

before the storm 3

voch’inch’

08 Wednesday May 2013

Posted by in Armenia, Armenian, Illustration and art, Poetry, Translation

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painting by Jan Toorop,1858

painting by Jan Toorop,1858

Ըսէ ինծի՝ ե՞րբ եւ ո՞ւր հոգին մը հավերժ հիշատակին կին պիտի գտնէ. Ես ունեի մի քրոջը. Մենք տեսանք արյան ից Ղարաբաղ. Մենք խմեց են ցաւ ից Հրազդան գետ. Ես ունեի մի քրոջը. Նա կարող էր կրակում է սլաքը, եւ կսպանեն արեւի. Աստվածների թե լաց, երբ նա երգում էր նրան բանաստեղծությունները. Իմ լեռները սիրեց քույրս. Բայց քույրս մեռած. Ոչինչ. Ոչինչ. Ոչինչ.
.
Tell me when and where to find the soul of a warrior woman. I had a sister. We saw blood from Karabakh. We drank from the pain of the Hrazdan river. I had a sister. She could shoot an arrow, and kill the sun. The gods wept when she sang her poems. My sister loved these mountains. But my sister is dead. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.