A quite interesting travel show of sorts on Turkish television had a young couple in the Kurdish village that leads the bravest of mountain climbers up Mt. Ararat, in Eastern Turkey. A pity I don’t understand Turkish, as the narrator told about different monuments in the area, including khachkars. It happens that several of the exact same style of khachkar that stand in the area of the St. Khach church on Aghtamar Island, on Lake Van, are on the base of Mt. Ararat. The khachkars are ancient, with only a simple vertical and horizontal line forming the cross. Another surprise was a rock identical to those at the Karahunj rock observatory near Sissian, in the southern Armenian region of Zangezur. The camera showed how in the past one could look through the hole in the rock and see different views of Mt. Ararat, as opposed to those in Karahunj, which were used to study the stars. I wondered why these monuments hadn’t been photographed or filmed by Armenians who were in the area before climbing Mt. Ararat.

Rumors abound after Levon Ter Petrosyan’s surprise announcement of a two-to-three- month break in opposition rallies while the Karabagh conflict is undergoing serious negotiations by the major powers. The latest talk has Ter Petrosyan having secret meetings with Robert Kocharian, with the latter becoming prime minister and Ter Petrosyan being named as president of parliament, the post currently held by Hovik Aprahamyan.

Many say Ter Petrosyan is satisfied with the way negotiations concerning Karabagh are going, as they are close to what he wanted back in the Nineties. Others go so far as to say that the reason Ter Petrosyan has been able to win over so many who hated him not so long ago is the kind of music being played over loudspeakers before and after opposition rallies, saying he has help from secret, foreign organizations who are experts in the area of brainwashing.

All these rumors were at least somewhat forgotten today, as the ninth anniversary of the October 27 parliament slayings was commemorated at the Pantheon and Yerablur, the latter where Vazgen Sargsyan is buried. At the Pantheon, we expressed condolences to Anahit Bakhshyan, who lost her husband, Yuri Bakshyan, that fateful day in 1999, as well as Aram Sargsyan, whose brother, Vazgen Sargsyan, also died that day.

The large crowd that gathered at the gravesite of Karen Demirjyan included Stepan Demirjyan, his son and former presidential candidate, Heritage party members, other opposition politicians, and Levon Ter Petrosyan. While there, I remembered being in Yerevan on that infamous day in 1999, and watching the shock and panic of Yerevantsis when the news of the shootings was broadcast. I remembered the tens of thousands who lined up at the Opera building to view the victims, and the way many, if not most, Hayastantsis lost hope in their future.

Today, opposition politicians declared the case unfinished, a cover-up, while coalition politicians claimed the case has been solved and the guilty punished. As to what Yerevantsis think, it is safe to say that most side with the opposition, believing the murders were well planned and organized, with the organizers, be they Armenian or, as some say, powers from beyond our borders, still free.

A Karabaghtsi originally from a village near Togh, in Hadrut, lamented the way his countrymen have taken over so many important positions in Armenia, a major reason for the ill will many Hayastantsis feel towards Karabaghtsis. “Everybody was together during the war, and afterwards, at least for a while,” he said. “And now, seemingly every day, we hear news like this, like what I heard just yesterday. The former education minister of Karabagh was shown in his new position, as pro-rector of Yerevan State. He deals with students from abroad. ‘Why didn’t he stay in Karabagh?’ people here ask. ‘Doesn’t he care about education there?’ I have nothing to answer them. It’s beginning to look like Karabaghtsis came here, took over, and now are ready to give Karabagh back to the Azeris. A few of those at the top are giving us all a bad name. Once, we fought together, now, this.”

A farmer from Voskevaz, a village neighboring Oshakan, and whose ancestors happened to emigrate from Karabagh some 200 years ago, overheard the conversation and continued: “I can’t believe how most Karabaghtsis who came to Yerevan already own homes and property, and have good jobs, like the one you’re talking about,” he said. “The big shots own half of Armenia, from Tsakhkadzor to Jermuk, and no longer seem to care about their homeland. True, they funnel money there to upgrade and renovate the country and its infrastructure, but many Karabaghtsis have no love for their land, and are quite happy here, in Russia, Europe, wherever.”

The Karabaghtsi from Hadrut sat silently.

Our conversation took place in one of the villages of Echmiadzin, where several of us had gone to check on plantings of winter wheat and corn and vegetable harvests. A fifty-year old farmer, who I found out is battling lung cancer, energetically prepared us a barbecue of pork chops and freshly picked peppers and tomatoes. During the early Nineties, he fought in Karabagh, yet, being the modest type, never talks about those years. Tired, and without color in his face due to his illness, the farmer took care of the entire barbecuing process and then served us tsirani oghi, the tasty result of two large trees behind his home. Without doubt, he will continue with such hospitality until no longer able; he knows no other way.

Leaving the village, and reaching the road leading back to Echmiadzin, we came across two old women who were standing on the side of the road, alongside several large bags of peppers, tomatoes, and eggplant. The women, who appeared to have come from another, long-past century, had come from Echmiadzin, and had gleaned the fields after their final harvest, with plans to can their goods for winter use in their homes. As they weren’t local, and weren’t part of the huge makeshift vegetable market near the main road, they had been left behind, and were waiting for someone willing to take them to Echmiadzin. Tossing their bags of vegetables into the back of our Niva, we all headed towards Echmiadzin.

A head doctor, an attorney, and a young mother with a small child sat in a hospital room in the Zeytun district of Yerevan and talked about life in Armenia. “Of course,” the attorney said, “a battle against corruption is underway in Armenia, as the higher-ups say. But the laws are changing so fast I can’t keep up with them. With so many rich businessmen in parliament, they write a law, it’s accepted, then when it no longer suits them, the law goes back to what it was. And money still changes hands, but now they’re being careful, and accepting money only from trusted sources. I hate to see the judicial system in this condition. I know of a case where a family of Karabaghtsis moved into a house and refused to leave, lived there a few years, gave a judge some money, and got ownership of the house, with the innocent party out of luck. Sometimes I go to sleep at night hoping I won’t wake up.”

The doctor, who has a quite good reputation in his field, continued the conversation: “I hide my head when I have visitors from outside Armenia, especially those we work with professionally. A Swedish colleague told me, in so many words, that it’s ridiculous for Sweden to continue funding our program, as it’s obvious the government here could be doing better than they’re doing. ‘Leaving the airport, all I see is expensive jeeps and casinos,’ he told me. ‘In Sweden, you don’t see so many Mercedes, BMWs, and jeeps as you do here in Armenia. And the government says they have no money. If there was no money here, there wouldn’t be so many of these expensive vehicles on the streets. Something doesn’t make sense.’ I don’t know what to say. People have lost their sense of modesty. Haven’t you seen the weddings here now? They spend $5,000 to shoot off some fireworks, and bring in pop stars at over $1,000 a song. I just heard one of them recently demanded $8,000 a song. Why not, one of the oligarchs is supporting her, took her out of the restaurants and made her famous.”

Hearing this, the young mother angrily said, “How can I bring up my daughter in this country? We turn on the television and all we hear is pop stars. None of them has a good voice, and not one is actually a singer. They close the door to anybody who knows how to sing. And the male singers, many of them, are starting to talk with a certain ‘less than manly’ kind of slang. That’s all we need here.”

To note, this morning the culture station in Armenia was broadcasting a circus, from wherever in the world, while Turkey’s culture station had Turks aged forty or so and up, in national costume, in a house in Kharberd, singing Turkish folk songs.

At the opposition rally, a Hayastantsi fedayee told me his thoughts about the Karabagh conflict, and if fighting resumed: “Even though I, personally, would return to fight the Turks in Karabagh, I would never allow my sons to go there. Whatever happens there, I can handle it. But I remember well what Karabaghtsi commanders were saying to Hayastantsis under their command. ‘If we want, we can put you on the highest mountain and shoot you. Or in the lowest valley.’ I remember the beatings and threats of beatings of Hayastantsis during the war. Maybe this is why Karabaghtsis don’t serve in the Armenian army. They probably know what would happen to them. And now, like Levon says, the proposed peace deal, apparently approved of by our leaders (from Karabagh), has us giving up the liberated territories and having Azeris move back in, and not only that, back into Karabagh proper. Then they’ll have a vote, some time in the future, to determine the status of Karabagh. The Azeris will fill the place up, and easily outnumber Karabaghtsis. And I can guarantee you, none of the thousands of Karabaghtsis now in Yerevan or Russia will go back to live in Karabagh. Mark my word.”

Walking up Mashtots Boulevard, known here by its old Soviet-era name, Prospect, short for Lenin Prospect, the crowds became thicker, as a large number of Yerevantsis and others had gathered near the Matenadaran to hear Levon Ter Petrosyan’s plans for the newly-formed Armenian National Congress and his thoughts about the political strategies of Serge Sargsyan concerning the solving of the Karabagh conflict and other matters. Arriving just before seven, we heard Ter Petrosyan’s voice echoing over the loudspeakers, and slowly made our way through the crowds up the stone steps, noticing people standing and sitting throughout the entire area beneath where the speaker and his entourage were standing. Although not adept at estimating crowd sizes, it would seem that up to 50,000 were present, not what organizers had hoped for but still a sizable throng. Looking down the stone walkway, I saw several Armenian flags waving, and one that simply said “Aparan.” Heritage party members gathered in an area alongside the walkway. Noteworthy was the fact that people were seriously listening to what Levon had to say, even though many there undoubtedly disapprove of the politician, but support the cause, including the ousting of the current rulers.

“All I have to do is look at the faces of the higher-ups in today’s government, and I get sick,” an acquaintance said. “Something has to change, before it’s too late.”

Another said she had come for the “cause,” as she said, “Hearing Levon’s voice makes me sick, but if things stay the same, we’re finished.”

Just after darkness fell, it was announced that the rally would continue at Northern Avenue, and directions were given as to which route to take to get there. Most of the thousands present, young and old alike, marched down the right lane of the street below the Matenadaran, with police walking along the white lines and traffic crawling along the other lane. Marchers waved flags and shouted “Serzhik heratsek,” “Levon Nakhagah,” and “Hayastan, azat ankakh.”

“Whether one sides with Levon, or Serge Sargsyan,” an onlooker said, “It’s good to see the energy here, to see that people haven’t given up. That fact alone gives me hope.”

At times in Armenia, one is given a stark reminder that not only we are far, distance-wise, from the West, but just as far concerning culture. Today’s trip to Byurakan was such a reminder. The occasion was a sad one, as Hasmik’s fifty-two-year-old first cousin, Jivan, was laid to rest, passing away after suffering a stroke some three weeks ago. I remembered being at his house during St. Khach, and his lamenting how we hadn’t bought a house close to his, saying he would have watched over the house if we were gone from the village, and what good neighbors we would have been.

Reaching Byurakan, Hasmik, a sister, and I walked down one of the main, winding streets to the home where the funeral was to take place. On the way, we passed St. Hovhannes church, entering the oldest part of the village, almost overgrown with walnut and other fruit trees and vines. At the family house, men were sitting on benches under the trees and most of the women were in the living room, where the open casket was set on a table, lamenting their dear father, brother, relative, and friend, in the quite vocal way practiced in this part of the world. Soon, two duduk players and a man with a dap showed up outside, took their places on three chairs, and began what is known in the village and area as Bayati, or, more completely, Bayati Shiraz, a form of mugham in which the singer carries on a conversation with the deceased, asking why he doesn’t answer, why he left his family, and whatever comes to the singer’s mind.

Up to this point, most of the wailing, or lamenting, was done by the women. Then, the casket was brought outside and placed on a table with a carpet on it, with the family men now joining the lamenting women.

After a few minutes had passed, the casket was taken to a nearby waiting van and placed in the back, with the two back doors left open. The long procession to the cemetery then began, with most of the men walking behind the van all the way to the cemetery, with two lanes of cars following behind.

Near the entrance of the cemetery, the casket was put on a large, flat rock, where the women bade farewell to Jivan. Since according to custom women don’t go to the actual gravesite, they started heading back to the village, with the men walking alongside the casket all the way to the edge of the cemetery to the gravesite.

Again, the duduk players and singer began their mugham. After lowering the casket and filling it with soil, several wreaths and bouquets were spread over the fresh dirt. In the distance, to the east, I saw the village of Agarak and the city of Ashtarak. To the west, at the end of a ravine, the dark-stoned Tegher Monastery loomed over the landscape.

An elder relative spoke: “Jivan left us at a young age. In his entire life, he never said anything to hurt anybody. No one can say he ever did anything bad to anybody. He never asked anybody for anything. Our village lost one of its best sons.”