The Blog

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Bottle #37: ~ Set Up For Eternal Reiterating ~

Aram was reverences itself, always addressed me with honorific "Uncle Syrozh" and he asserted hotly that that never even heard my village handle "Tsogl", though to my face they did not call me that.

To counter his hyper-politeness, I hold back my dislike of his adding volume in tries to sound more convincing, which gives out folks not really certain of themselves.

However, visiting my turf on that day, he was unusually quiet and in our usual run of the rehash of village news, just to add another detail or an afterthought, like, what a sore asshole was that new Chairman of Community Council (who, actually, lived in Lachin City, yet neatly listed there as a resident in one of 3 neighboring villages that constituted our community), how many calves were slaughtered by wolves the day before, at Ambo's turn of shepherding and now he was to repair the damage with his, as well as the news in the nearest villages—Aram wore a sort of inexplicable half-smile and, when he switched over to inquires of my future plans: what structure was I to build next, and how many liters of alcohol were already stocked in the basement cell, I even felt some leniency in him, towards me…

Some uncanny conceited aloofness. As if he already knew…

That morning Emma got up early and not at 11 am, as was her habit on Sundays, and she stood in the yard when there started these strange “thumps”.

She was standing on the porch in the sun and knew it already, but still unwilling to guess, she asked her mother, and Satenic, with a hardened look in her face, replied:

"This is war, Emma."

Stepanakert was being bombarded…

Mom told Emma to go down to the basement under the kitchen.

Crazed cars rushed along the streets, heedless of the color in traffic lights.

People were running in all directions, screaming. Where? Who to?

Clouds of dust and smoke were rising into the blue sky.

The third Karabakh war went off.

A month and a half of the strange war.

The war of drones against the legendary Kalashnikov assault rifles.

A war in which generals gave orders to leave the fortified area and withdraw the military personnel.

"Well, the commanders should know, eh? Probably, some clever maneuver. For strategy’s sake."

Then they were thrown to attack at the surrendered positions. Fortified. Until there was no force left to throw to attack.

And after, the Prime Minister shared the titles of Heroes of Nation, to the generals. For the precise execution of their combat duty…

A Colonel handled Qyokha, as stubborn as a Karabakh donkey, by his obstinacy made the Prime Minister call him directly, to which phone call the headstrong Colonel replied:

"Send me a written order."

So unrefined, indecorous a boor. No manners…

Qyokha never received any order from the Commander-in-Chief and was ignored throughout the war in which he didn’t retreat a meter. However, neither became he a Hero of Nation…

Two battalions were positioned in the open field to defend the approaches to Stepanakert.

There they stayed for one third of the war, not even having shovels to dig trenches. Short of water supply. No food except for packaged pasta.

Drones flew over their heads loaded with cluster bombs for the city, never dropped anything at the idling force.

Lucky SOB's…

While on the other, far-off edge of the war, four days and nights a detail were lying in a dugout, never leaving it, suffocating in the stench, their own and of their comrades-in-arms'.

Those bitchy drones with infrared rays, even at night were they capable of figuring out from the posture of a soldier on his haunches that there was a dugout at hand…

The war, in which the Armenian Army did not take part, leaving the RMK Army (40% of which were conscripts drafted in the Republic of Armenia) and the local reservists to stand against the combined Azerbaijani-Turkish-Israeli-Syrian-Tunisian military efforts and, in the same breath, to report to Yerevan, to execute strategic directives from there…

The war, which, when mentioned in TV and radio news, made faces of Yerevan citizens tighten and darken, and look back at all those bill-board pictures of boys in camouflage fatigues decorating the city thoroughfares above the streams of traffic thronging along.

Pretty boys from the army of Republic of Armenia against the backdrop of viewy, conceptual landscapes.

And the picture of one soldier without views screened completely by the flames thrown up from the firing gun behind his back, his mouth open to save his eardrums. He was as young as them, those war propaganda models, that boy named Albert, however, in the picture he looks a strangely ageless, timeless soldier with his cheeks and uniform coat blown out by the air concussion at the discharge. The citizens did not know that Albert had been long since blown up by a drone together with his howitzer gun, and Yerevan City continued to live as before, for the majority of its population Mountainous Karabakh remained as unknown backcountry as for Moscow citizens was Sapozhok District in the Ryazan Region, except for those whose sons were at their hitch in the RMK Army of Self-Defense…

The progressively informed world community were full of indignation regarding that war, in between two slurps of Pepsi or beer in front of their monitors, after which they clicked over to the details of the marital life of the singer Googgie or onto the mass grave unearthed in the cellar of the otherwise unremarkable ranch in Texas, while the bulk of the remote control holders had not even switched from their X-sites and live baseball matches…

Members of the KVN* team “Moscow Armenians”, in a jolly group, ran cheerfully out onto the Theater of the Soviet Army (TSA, we keep sacred traditions and names) stage in the games of the 1/4 finals of KVN and an assimilated Jew-Azerbaijani on the jury board, flushed up his grade marks for the wit of their jokes…

(*Russian Central Television show-pacifier considered a supreme spring-board for a stand-up comedian career.)

"That’s life, see?" used to repeat my mother-in-law, Emma Arshakovna, while she was still here…

The bloggers who arrived in from Russia (yes, there were some), wearing heavy-duty helmets and bulky body armor, sang from the front-line trenches their praises, full of awe, to the incomparably outstanding human qualities of Armenian Soldier.

A French correspondent on a fleeting visit to the deep rear, not even reaching Karabakh, with his hair strands collected loosely into a debonair knot atop his crown, explained, full of resentment, to his smartphone:

“Une putain de maison de fous”…

A few Armenian volunteers from the CIS countries and overseas Diaspora were sent by the Ministry of Defense of Armenia back to their respective places of residence.

Those of them who, ignoring MD of RA, still made it to Karabakh, were sent home by the local commanders reporting to Yerevan.

The volunteers felt offended and humiliated, however, they stayed alive…

Some outright bad asses, refusing to grasp the requirements of the globally current moment, merged with the local militia of one or another of the villages, managed to temporarily disrupt the plans agreed upon, for a day or two, but then the situation returned to the outlined track…

Who knows, some of the most stubborn might have survived and in 30 years, on their deathbeds, they would say:

"Yes, I’ve been there then!"

We all remember Mel Gibson's famous pep talk before the Scots lined up for the battle with the out-numbering force of the British enslavers in The Brave Heart.

Some topnotch action movie, right?