It is the new Baku, the new Baku of its time. It has been given to it the name of Qara şəhər (Black, or Dark Town). I do not know whether because of its hugeness, or because of the dark smoke rising from the flues of the plants there. But we never called the name of this part of the town by its Azerbaijani name. Everybody called it “Cherniy gorod” in Russian, that is, “Black Town”. Our family gave their house located in the locality called NZS and moved to a new flat in a five storey building facing the Shaumyan hospital. We, the children of the family, began to go to school there. We were four- a sister and three brothers. The children in our yard were of different nationalities. The hospital close to our house was called the Shaumian Hospital. Our street, the nearest underground station and bust erected there all were named after Shaumian. Mostly Armenians and Russians lived in our yard. Each one had his own language, dialect and accent. My name is Ahmet. The Armenians called me Axmedjan, but the Russians called me Axmedik. We also called them in their own languages. When – jan was added at the end of our names, we immediately knew that the addressor was an Armenian. But we never paid attention that “jan” was an Azerbaijani word. Why the Armenians have priva-
tizedit? To make us like them?
When anyone with dark eyebrows, dark eyes were seen, they were asking: “Hayes, Turkes?” (Armenian or Turk?) I was surprised. What does “Turk” mean? Do the Turks live in Azerbaijan? The Turks are in Turkey. But we live in Azerbaijan, in the Soviet Azerbaijan and we are the Azerbaijanis.
The songs they listened were the Azerbaijani songs. They were eager to hear the songs sung by such popular Azerbaijani singers as Zeynab Khanlarova and Mammadbaghir Mammadov. Sometimes to tease the Azerbaijanis they were saying: “They are not the People’s Singers of Azerbaijan? They arethe People’s Singers of Armenia. And then they began singing:
“Qardaş olub Hayastan,
Azərbaycan”.(Armenia and Azerbaijan have become brothers).
All the craftsmen in our neighbourhood were the Armenians. As if their Hands were of gold. The Azerbaijanis called only the Armenians for doing the repair works in their houses. There was a queue for them, one had to ask them at least one, or two months in advance for doing the repair work. Qas, oil and other dirty works were performed by the Russian.
There was an Armenian shoe-maker alwaysengaged in repair work. I knew that he was an admirer of Anastas Mikoian, one of the twenty six Baku Commissars. I knew that once Mikoian was the first secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Azerbaijan and a comrade-in-arms of Shaumian (who betrayed the twenty-six Baku commissars,who were shot in the Karakum desert of Turkmenistan by the English and thenShaumian joined them, went to India, lived there incognito, died and was buried there). In those times it was difficult to find better shoes on sale. Therefore we made him to sew a pair of shoes, wore them a year or so, thenby making them repaired several times we wore it about seven, or eight years. I had never seen Mikoian. But I was praising him because this shoe-maker was his admirer, but in reality I did it because of my shoes. In those days there was such a proverb, which literally meant: “I may call an Armenian an uncleonly because of making him fulfill my request”. Very often I entered his small and narrow cobbler’s booth and began to praise Anastas Mikoian as much as I could. I did it till Uncle Karapet finally said: “I liked you, boy. I shall make present to you a pair of best shoes”.
When a Russian or an Armenian died in our quarter, it was a real holiday for the loafers, who early in the morning were crowed at the door of the deceased.They were shedding tears as if the death of the one grieved them. They knew that there would be a funeral repast. In Christians it is not a custom in such parties to touch the goblets. But our Azerbaijanis very often touched the glasses and drank to the health of the deceased.
There was a man in our quarter, which everybody called Uncle Ibish. Once he had drunk so much in an Armenian repast that he could hardly stood on feet. His wife was always grumbling and saying: “Damn you! When Mahammad died, you could only visit his house to express your condolences on the forty days of his death. And what has happened now? As soon as you heard that Rubik had died, you immediately appeared at his door. There will be lots of vodka, therefore you hurried there.
Most of the Armenian boys of our yard attended the Russian school; the Armenian girls did the same. Among them there was a girl by name of Shushanik, daughter of Uncle Armen, she attended the school where the education was in Azerbaijani. We were in the same form; we went to school and returned home together. She was beautiful in figure and in body, had dark eyes and long plaits. I enjoyed calling her by her name. Shushanik. When I mentioned her name the town of Shusha revived in front of my eyes. It seemed to me that “Shushanik” has derived from the name of the town of Shusha, and to fondle it “ik” has been added to its end. For instance, I was fondled I was called “Ahmedik”, was not it true?
Our family was originally from the town of Shusha of Garabagh. But I have never been there. I did not even know where it was. My parents were also born in Baku. We never spoke of our ancestors, our family tree, of places where they had lived. But Shushanik’s family had moved to Baku from Garabagh. Her grandfather and grandmother lived in Hadrut. Each summer they went there for their holidays.
Shushanik spoke in full praise of the mountains, springs, rivers and the beauties of the nature. And I was listening to these talks of this Armenian girl with interest. She girl was teaching me a lesson about Shusha, Garabagh, who originally was from there. But there never arose a desire in me to be in those places. My life was here, in Baku, in “Cherniy Gorod” (Black Town), where the smoke was rising into air from the flues of the plants and factories. The signals of locomotives, which were transporting oil, the sounds of the tram bells, the Boulevard, the dust cloud raised by the wind of Baku, All this were close and dearto me than the talks of Shushanik about Garabagh and her talks about Garabagh. Nevertheless, I was listening to her.
The Armenian boys were aspiring to make friends with me. I did not know the Armenian language, but knew Russian well. They were also excellent in Russian. But in all the cases they were aspiring to speak to me in a broken Azerbaijani language…And I was making fun of them. Instead of saying “Ə, maşın haraya getdi” (“Boy, where did the car go?)”They were saying: “Ara, maşın harama getdi”? (“Into what part of my body did the car go”? In this way the Armenian boys learned to speak better than me. Then by and by they began to move away from me. Then I understood that their goal was to learn our colloquial language. But it did not make any difference to me. My friendship with Shushanik was growing stronger and stronger. Uncle Armen had asked me to take care of his daughter and not all anyone offend her. We were going to school together and returning together. Her brother Arsen was looking at me aslant, but did not say anything because of the fear from his father.
My parents also did not protest against our friendship. To tell the truth, they paid not any heed to it. We were neighbours and lived as one family.
Shushanik had a profound knowledge, had a broad world outlook. She was asking such question to which, I was unable to answer and looking at her face.
“Darling, who is the founder of the soviet power in Azerbaijan?”
“I do not know”.
“That is Shaumian, Stepan Shaumian. Look here, our district also bears his name. A rural district, the district of Shaumian bears his name. What town is the capital of the Mountainous Garabagh Autonomous Province?”
“I do not know”.
“Why do you not know? It is Stepanakert. It has been taken from the name of Shaumian. How many districts are there inthe Mountainous Garabagh Autonomous Province?”
“I do not know”.
“What a pity, at least you had to mention the name of Shusha, the names of the districts of Mardakert, Stepanakert, Martuni, Hadrut. Who was the first People’s Writer of Azerbaijan”?
“I do not know”.
“Aleksandr Shirvan-zade, an Armenian by nationality. I have his novel “Chaos” written in Azerbaijani. I have it at home and shall give it to you to read. There are some critical remarks concerning the Armenians. But it makes no difference, he is our pride. Who is the architect of economic restructuring? He is an Armenian. Academician Aqanbekian. Who saved the Roman Empire from bankruptcy, from the revolt of Spartak? An Armenian, more exactly, a Hay by nationality.. It was my ancestors who saved the Arab caliphate from Babek. Do you know Babek?”
“Yes, I do, I have seen a film about it”.
“Why is the movement of the Hurramites called like that? What does free love mean”?
“It is better that you do not know it.
“He is Vazgen, my dear Ahmed. Who are your religious leaders, your sheik-ul-Islam?”
“I hear it for the first time”.
“Have you ever gone to a mosque?”
“No, I have not”.
“But I go to the church. My mother takes me to the church near Parapet, then to the mosque of “Teze-pir” and then to the Russian Orthodox Church. We light candles and pray in all three of them”. I understood why you go to the churches, but why do you go to the Moslen mosque, then to the Christian church?”
“My dear Ahmed, the temples are different, but we have one god”.
“By God, I did not understand anything. My head became swollen”.
These questions bored me completely. In each case she repeated the words “Hay” and “Armenian” and was proud of them. I did not know where she was reading all these. We were not taught them at school, and our parents did not speak at home of such things. When she mentioned the word “Hay”, I remembered Hitler. Each time when a feature film was demonstrated of that kind, there appeared a smile in lips. When I heard “Hail Hitler”, I thought that perhaps Hitler was also an Armenian. But fortunately we were leaning German at school. Though it sounded like “hay”, I knew that it was written like “heil”.
We were already completing our final year at school. It was our last day at school. We streamed to the Boulevard for meeting the sun. We stealthily left our friends, went to the upland park named after Kirov. Shushanik again bean to rain her questions on me:
“Have you read the epos of “Esli and Kerem”?
“No, I have not”.
“What about Narimanov’s “Bahadir and Sona”?
“I have not”.
“And Husein Javid’s “Sheik Senan”?
“Oh, how can there be so many questions”? I have not read them. I do not need them. I shall be an oilman, like my father. Give me questions from the technical subjects, I shall answer”.
“Eh, dear Ahmed,I don’t ask you questions concerning Avetik Isakian. All my questions refer to the history, literature of Azerbaijan. Well, how do you look at the love of an Azerbaijani young man to an Armenian young girl, do you believe it?
I looked at Shushanik’s black eyes. They were shining in the darkness of the night. Later I understood why she was asking those questions. Firs it was to demonstrate herself as a representative of a great and cultured nation. Secondly, to demonstrate how the lives of Bahadir and Sona, Esli and Kerem ended.
“Yes, I do”.
As if she was waiting for the answer of this question. She stuck her lips to mine lips. They were hot and burning. I was seventeen years old and it was the first time thata female was kissing me. To tell the truth I was feeling the taste of a woman’s kisses. I was trembling. I was hardly restraining myself. I was not kissing her, but she was embracing me tightly and kissing. I was in confusion. I had already forgotten about the love of an Azerbaijani boy and an Armenian girl. I was living the moments of that love. This love made me to sink into its depth. Either I would choke in the depth of that love and die, or remain alive. From passion tears were streaming from Shushanik’s eyes. She was mewing like a pussy cat. I had already lost my consciousness; I had penetrated into her world and feeling myself there. I had read about so much about passion, love and lust only in books with a childish feeling of shyness.
I had even learned by heart the happy endings described in the fairy – tales of “The Arabian Nights”. But now I was one of the participants of the fairy-tales: “The Sultan put the shell into the barrel of the cannon and fired, destroyed the lady’s castle. He did it once more, repeated it several times, got tired and fell asleep. In fairy tales the events move forward speedily, after nine months she gave birth to a son”. I was in the embrace of the tales of “The Arabian Nights”, but I was not a sultan. Both of us were at the threshold of the high school, committing the sin of the last day at school. In the upper land park, on a patch of grassy land. We had already violated the borderline. It was too late. To tell the truth, I was fully satisfied. I loved Shushanik. She also knew it. But what shall I tell to my parents?
“Shushanik, the day is already breaking, let us go.”
“I do not want. Let us just go for being registered for work in building teams, which go for building the Baikal-Amur-Mainline railroad. We shall get a flat, have a family, and organize a wedding party like the members of the Young Communist League. It will be only two of us and independent, build our own life”.
“Shushanik let us go home. Let us first get our school certificates, enter the institute, get education and knowledge,, then join the army, join the Communist Party there, get a position there, return and find a job, Mary a cousin, then have child, again and again. Make them get education, grow them up, get them married. Live for others and then die.Am I right, my dear?”
“I do not know. Let us return home when the day has not fully broken. Our clothes are in a very bad state. Let no one see us in such a state”.
“Let them see. Today I have happy and lucky. I love my dear Ahmet”.
“Do not speak so loudly, someone may hear. Do not say anything at home, otherwise you will create confusion, do we agree”?
“All right, my dear, let it be as you wish, because you have already become a man, I…”
We have got our high school certificates. Shushanik gave her documents for the entry to the Institute of Economy; I gave mines to the Institute of Oil and Chemistry. We both passed the examinations successfully and became the students of those institutes. Again we were going to our institutes together and returning home together. We even avoided the lessons on our common consent. Sometimes when we got our scholarships we went to the cafes, which were called “Narcissus”, “Turquoise”. But nobody was aware of our secret of the night, when we left the school. We were waiting for graduating from our higher schools. When our parents went to a wedding party, or for a walk, “we were doing our lessons together in their flat”. In this way we were living the happiest days of our lives.
Every day I used to leave my Institute and came upwards along the Tarqovi Street popular for shopping and came to a spot in front of the Institute of Economy. Shushanik was waiting for me there. We joined and either began to walk in the city, or went to the library. The next day was the same. First saw her off to her Institute, then started for my own one.
Years were passing; we already were the fourth year students. Again as it was my custom I was going to meet Shushanik. It was crowded in Communist Street. Someone was calling for “a resignation”, someone was shouting the word “Garabagh” and someone was shouting “Shame on you!” There were also rare demands like “Armenians, take off your hands from Garabagh!” In high voice the crowd the crowd was marching towards the Lenin Square. I approached the Institute. Shushanik was not in her usual place. I entered the Institute. I learned in which room was her final lesson. Shushanik was standing frozen in front of the window facing the street. She was trembling:
“Ahmed, did you come? I fear. I am afraid very much”.
“What are you afraid of”? What have you done to be afraid of””?
“I was very happy and joyful today, as if the whole world has been given to me as a present. But now I fear. I am afraid of losing you”.
“I am here? I do not go anywhere. Why were you not waiting for me in the street as usual?”
“I did not because I was afraid. When the people in the street were shouting “strike, strike”, all the students streamed into the street. And they were looking at me askance. What have I done to them”?
“What has happened? Let me understand it!”
“I do not know”.
Now we changed our parts. I was raining my questions on Shushanik. But she was repeating that she did not know anything. But I understood that she knew something. I was reading the answer of the slogan “Armenians, take off your hands from Garabagh” from her eyes.
We came home. The whole way towards the home she was full of anxiety. Nobody was looking at Shushanik even askew. But she was behaving as if she was guilty in something. We entered our yard. Her mother was in the Balcony. Seeing us, she opened the door of the balcony at once and fell down. She embraced her daughter tightly and kissed her as if she had not seen her for a long time.Then she turned to me:
“Dear Ahmed, by God, we are not guilty in anything, we have not committed anything wrong”.
“What are you speaking about”?
I did not go home, started towards the Lenin Square. There was a meeting. The next day was the date when the Armenians fell the trees in the forest of Topkhana. It seemed strange to me. Where was that forest of Topkhana? I did not know. It became evident that it was a forest land in Garabagh. Then why was the meeting of protest was held in Baku and why because of several trees hundreds of thousands of people have assembled for the meeting? And secondly, was there a necessity to organize such a meeting because of several trees? Well, if they have assembled, then why they do not go to Topkhana and prevent the fell of trees there? They are only shouting. And a man appeared behind the rostrum to run the mass by saying: Sit down! Get up!Sit down! Get up! Then all of a sudden he shouted: “Those who do not sit, they are Armenians. A man was bewildered and was a little late to sit. The poor man was soundly kicked. My God, what kind of days have been awaiting us?
A little later I began to hear the words of “The Mountainous Garabagh Autonomous Province”. Then they began to speak about the interview Academician Aqanbekian to the French newspaper “Figaro”. Here nobody asked questions like the Armenian girl Shushanik, they wer explaining. Then they said that the Armenians have begun to drive out the Azerbaijanis from their ancestral lands in Armenia. Some people have been murdered, even some live people have been pushed into pipes, welded both ends of the pipe. They have torn the wombs of the pregnant women, taken out the infants and were speared. They have branded the breasts of the Azerbaijanis with crosses used by the Armenians. The Armenians of Garabahg were demanding to exclude the Mountainous Autonomous Province of Garabagh from the governance of Azerbaijan and join it to Armenia. They have already had a referendum and got a confirmation. Were all this true? Then he understood why Shushanik and her mother were so excited. It means that they knew all this in advance.
I returnedhome, knocked at the door of the family of Shushanik. She opened the door in fear.
“What are you afraid of”?
“There is no one at home, except my mother and me. My father and brother have gone to Hadrut. Because of fear we do not go even to buy bread”.
“Well, who says anything to you? What are you afraid of”?
“We are afraid of being Armenians”.
“Do not go anywhere, I shall go and buy”?
In the evening my father also came home late. He was aware of what was going in the city. We began to have our supper. Suddenly the door was knocked. It was Shushanik. She did not enter; she whispered into my ear something. The news she whispered into my ear filled my heart with joy. When my parents asked the reason of my joy, I did not hide it:
“My dears, in the recent month you will be grand-parents”.
“When did you marry that you make us grandparents”?
“I wanted to tell you it long ago that I and Shushanik are together, living like family”.
My parents did not say anything. But I was full of joy and thinking of a daughter, as beautiful, clever and with a profound knowledge as her mother. But my parents did not demonstrate any sign of joy.They did not know what to say.
“Sonny, what are we to do now?
“Don’t you know what to do? You are to go to them as match makers, to arrange an engagement. Organize a wedding party according to our customs.”
“Shall we call a yengə (a woman accompanying the bride to the bride groom’s house), said mother, “The city has become uncontrolled and you are going to marry an Armenian girl. Do want us to be executed by our own people? What will our relatives say”?
“Mother, what does it mean that yesterday you were calling her your daughter, but now she has become an Armenian? She has grown up in front of your eyes since our childhood. She loves me, so do I. Tomorrow early in the morning we shall go to the office of the registration of our marriage. If you do not want, don’t do it”.
“Sonny, the Armenians are making thousands of kinds of juggling in Garabagh and you want to make an Armenian girl our daughter-in-law here”.
“Yes, I shall do it and she will bear our family name. If it is necessary she will adopt our religion and nationality, too.
A silence fell. Father finished his supper, went out to the balcony and lit a cigarette, called me and made me sit in front of him.
“Sonny, let bygones be bygones, your honour will not allow your child grow without his father, I understand you. But I want to relate to you a story.
One day an Armenian says that he wants to adopt the Moslem religion. He goes to the mosque and approaches to the mullah who teaches him what is necessary. And the Armenian obeys everything, he was told, fulfills everything he was said. Then he calls a barber, who circumcises him. Then the time of the final rite comes. He makes him to dig a grave in the yard of the mosque. The Armenian is put into the coffin. Then the Armenian is made to put on a white shroud like in Moslems, makes him lie in the coffin and asks: “Vazgen, what do you want to be your Moslem name? The Armenian wants his name to be Mamed. Thus, four men take the coffin with Vazgen inside it, lower it into the grave four times and take it out. When the coffin was put into the grave and pulled out, the mullah was saying: “Vazgen has gone, Mamed has come”. It was repeated four times. Then he takes Vazgen out of the coffin and says: “Vazgen, since this day you are a Moslem and your name is Mamed. Go and obey what our religion demands. In this way Mamed begins to live the life of a Moslem.
One day he wants to eat some kebab. The Armenians fry kebab, in general, they use swine flesh for it. Swine flesh is forbidden for the Moslems. Mamed was unaware of it, because of it Mamed slaughters a ram, turning it towards the kiblah (Mecca). But he did not like the taste of the kebab, because he was used to have kebab only from the flesh of the swine. He could not suppress his desire to have the kebab from the flesh of the swine. He thinks a bit and says: “I have found what to do”. He digs a pit similar to a grave, lowers and raises a swine into that pit four times and each time repeats; “The swine went, the ram came”. Then he slaughters the swine and fries a kebab from that swine flesh. My son, do not forget this story. You may change one’s name, family name, religion, yet an Armenian remains an Armenian. Now you are to make the decision”.
I listened to my father attentively. For a moment I remembered the words of Desdemona’s father to Othello: “The daughter, who betrayed her father, joined an Ethiopian and ran away with him, one day she will betray you, too. I do not know how these words of my father reminded to me Shakespeare’s “Othello”. I could not completely understand the essence of the story connected with Vazgen, but yet a suspicion arouse in me. What will be our fate? I do not know.
The next day we went to the marriage registration office and appealed for the registration of our marriage. She declared that she will take my family name. In addition, she wanted to change her name as well. I did not agree.
“Shushanik, I like this name. Each time when I call you, I remember the town of Shusha. Do not change it”.
“Why do callme Ahmed?You were always saying “Dear Ahmed, what has happened now”?
“Ahmed, do not cut me short. The name of Shushanik was given to me by my father. It was the name of the wife of Ashot Sunni, the ruler of the dynasty of Sunik in 906. But the fact which you mentioned is also interesting. It may be attached to Shusha. But it does not make any difference; I shall change my name and make it Süsən. Süsən Məmmədova. It sounds well, does it not”?
“Do it as you like”.
A month passed, we were officially registered. Shushanik officially became. Süsən Məmmədova. When she changed her passport she changed her family name and became Mammadova and an Azerbaijani by nationality. For two days her father and brother returned from Martuni and registered me in their flats and had their own registration liquidated and I was registered there. Several of our neighbours even wept when then left. They took the money they had saved in the bank and started for Martuni. Shushanik Armenovna Manucharian became Süsən Məmmədova and remained to live in her father’s flat, which belonged to me officially, who was an Azerbaijani by nationality, and she lived in the flat which once belonged to her father.
Several months passed. She adopted my religion, and then she gave birth to a son. She suggested giving him the name of Ərmən. Up to that day I did not know that. She found a book in the library, brought and proved it to me. I also agreed with her. It was a new name. There is Türk Mən (I am a Turk), let there be Ər Mən also. Let my son be a man, a brave man. In the period of national revival, in the period of meetings this name sounded very beautifully. Even there were people who praised me for this name.
In those years Süsən helped many of our Armenian neighbours to solve their problems here. She even brought them to our flat when it was dangerous. Even our garden and the summer house, which we visited rarely, turned into a bunker. The Azerbaijani refugee women in search of an Armenian flat knocked at our door and it was opened by a woman in the Moslem clothes, they asked pardon and left. If she was asked whether there was an Armenian flat in the neighbourhood, she answered politely: “We have also moved to this flat from Qarabagh recently. We are from Shusha. We do not know anyone”.
Years passed, the events were replacing each other. Only one Armenian has remained in our yard, she was Süsən Məmmədova. My parents and I have already forgotten that she was an Armenian. But I had not yet forgotten what my father had said. Süsən behaved like a real Azerbaijani woman. She was growing our two sons in the real Turkic spirit. As real ərəns(like real men)…
I had promotions at work, too. Our families, I mean mine and that of my chief, were making friends. Our wives were also friends. Our children attended the same school. The name of my chief’s wife was Qaranquş. But sometimes her husband called her Haykanush, just like me. Sometimes I committedconfusion. Instead of Süsən I was calling her Shushanik. At once she was closing my mouth with the palm of her hand: “Be careful, the children may here”
Once in summer we went to Sankt-Petersburg for a travel and rest. When we were passing the border control in the airport, a man of in the migration service stretched his hand to our children:
“Hay, Armen, you are welcome to Russia. I was surprised.How he knew that the mother of the boys was an Armenian by nationality.
“Not Armen, but Ərmən”.
“In your language it is Ermen, an Armenian, in Russian and in Armenian it is Armen, Armenian, the Great Armenia, hallow, Armen!
“Not Arsen, but Ərsən!”
“Oh, what is the difference? Pass, go on!”.
Later I understood that in English “Hay” is hallow, a greeting. Then one may think that the English has also derived from the Armenians. I was in confusion. Wherever I looked, I saw the face of an Armenian. Even the man in the migration control was an Armenian. He felt at once that Ərmən and Ərsən were halfly Armenians. How did he know it, from where did he learn it? Perhaps it was felt from the blood. No, they have the same blood code. They understand each other at once. If even they are under the veil.
I bit my lips. Shushanik was an Armenian, then she adopted the Moslem religion and became an Azerbaijani in the eighties of the past century, gave her sons the names of Ərmən and Ərsən, but in reality did she give the names of her father Armen and the name of his brother to her sons in the form ofƏrmən and Ərsən intentionally? Not only the name of her father, of her state, of her own state created by her within the Azerbaijani state. How manyƏrməns,Ərsəns, brave men, who look like their uncles, are there in this country? Do they deserve hatred or sympathy? Are they the bearers of the bloods of their fathers, or mothers? Whish language is their native language. Where is their motherland? When Shushanik asked me “whether I believed the love of an Armenian girl to an Azerbaijani boy”. Why did I not ask her “whether she belived the love of an Azerbaijani youngster to an Armenian girl”? I do not know whether she believed this love. But I believed her pure, great love to her people, to her nation completely.
In the whole world the half Turkic, half Armenian Azerbaijani sons an daughters will meet and see them off as their own ones. In Turkey, where there is a bitter hostility against the Armenians, the proper names Ermen (Ərmən), Ersen (Ərsən) will be recognized as Arsen, Armen in Russia, Prebaltics, Ukraine, in the United States, Armenia. But in all the cases, be itƏrmən,or Ermen, or Armen, at the end they will express the meaning of “ərməni”, “ərmənistan”, “ərməniyyə”, “erməni”, “Ermənistan”, “armenin”, “Armeniya”.
The name of “ərməni” has also been given to them by the Azerbaijanis. To create their own state in the Soviet Union we gave them the ancient Turkic-Ərməniyyə territores as a gift for creating their own state. The Russian and English words “Armenia and Armenian” are also the names given to them by the Turks. Today those say that “I am a Hay and the name of my state is Hayastan”, we say,” no, you are “ərməni”, you are our enemy, you are the derivatives of our enemy, who subjected us to misfortunes”. In this way we turned them to an acient nation. We made them heroes of our fixion. We glorified the love of an Azerbaijani to an Armenian girl. But we have never been able to demonstrate how dim and extinguished was the love of an Armenian girl to an Azerbaijani boy on the plane of her love to to the Azerbaijani people, Azerbaijani nation. Only because of a small favour we are ready to call “an Armenian an uncle”. But it is very small and funny and if it is compared to the love of those who for the sake of her nation fondles the Azerbaijani, shares with him the bed, saying “my husband, my beloved, my Turk”.
The controller seals my passport. I remembered how my father “sealed” our marrige. I do not only remember, but begin to understand. But it is late. I dig a small grave in my heart in order to forget the words of my father. I repeat thrice in my hearthe followings:
“Shushanik went, Süsən came, Shushanik went, Süsən came, Shushanik went, Süsən came”.