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A LITTLE OF LOVE AND NOT LOVE

Norek GASPARYAN

 Someone seems to be have stolen the feeling that holds us together; the feeling that we often call love, is stolen, hidden in a remote place, and no one manages to find it, though, there is no proper searcher either. Moreover, we have already learned to live without that dairy source, and we have adapted forgetting about its existence. That's nothing, one can stand, the scary is hatred, contempt, indifference, lack of individuality, the so-called endless contradiction of the old and the new, it would be fair to say, the conflict that replace love immediately, without wasting time.
Why? Asking, too, is a sort of shame. Sentimental and simple, as well. One would even lough. It's a matter of law and approach. To blame is senseless and illogical. Everyone blames everyone, forgiveness is ruled out, there is no friend, there is no basis for support. The word has been deprived of its warmth and color. Anyone can rule a country without overthrowing it, without feeling the weight of that country.
For some reason, I still remembered my grandfather who headed a collective farm for twenty-five years. On one occasion, perhaps he was already a retiree, he came home from a collective meeting, and cursed for the first time in his life, and put a few words under the feet of my surprised grandmother.
-What the hell are they doing ...?
This meant that the economy was not properly managed, that they did not get to the district center on foot, that they did not sleep at the office chairs at night, that they did not distribute what they had, that they did not give what they kept for a rainy day to families who had four-five schoolchildren...
-Anahit, we can’t keep a country this way ...
The old days are heavy and salty. Night arrests, the Great Patriotic, drought ... widespread poverty ... unmarried women, homeless men ... salvation was the neighbor's shoulder, warm talk, the full hands, my grandmother's cooked lunch for the whole yard, comforting look ... so the whole village, the city, the country ... otherwise there would be no living, and the head of the collective farm could do nothing ... the head of the collective farm would be left alone, the village, the house ... My maternal grandmother couldn't raise the orphans of my grandfather Ruben either. ..
What happened to us? Which devil entered our house, how did we lose our alertness of a soldier? To my mind, blaming others is not manly. Neither by accusation will anything change, nor by the persecution of that damned devil. And I've never been a fan of the past, I started to be afraid of the present with this incomprehensible cloak, this commotion, this denial ... It turns out that neither the hero is a hero, nor the peasant is a peasant, the writer is not like a writer at all, the teacher is of nothing, the minister does not know the country; the deputy is a child… Even the years we lived were meaningless and barren. That is to say, nothing. That is to say, lies, images of a fairy tale creator and apples from heaven. Who is right, who is wrong, who is cheating, where is the intellect…the ability to sense the smell of the land and the ability to stand firm on that land…?
I think, maybe we aren’t discussing our leaders often, our foreign policy, our people's finances, trying to know everything, expressing our "authoritative" opinion everywhere, even forcing ourselves to believe that we are the only truth. And everyone is involved in this job, whether adults or children, male or female, specialist and non-specialist. There is no indifferent person. We make a point of discussion the dresses of the wives of the authorities with pleasure, how they sit and stand up, how they talk and how they are silent. There is no enclosed space. And to justify it, people must know everything. And none of the participants in hilarious discussions think that this is what impedes the people to see what they have to see, to hear what they are only obliged to hear, that what they have seen and heard today is just a small piece of monumental performance, just an innocent episode, a hastily formed picture.
What do we want in general, why do we care so much about people's privacy, someone else's kitchen, bedroom, wedding, birthday party, even attending church...? It's sad. My grandfather would definitely say: “What the hell are they doing ...?”
Nothing. To be honest, nothing. And, strangely enough, no one realizes that he is in spiritual idleness, that he is just out of the game and that the flag has long been raised ...
I don't know, maybe I'm not saying good things, but our view of ourselves is often far from reality. I mean, not everybody can be a leader, be a politician, take a brush, write a book, plant a tree ...
No one can understand us better than we do. We know our good, our bad, our deeds and what we didn’t do, and even our future actions. We know what lies beneath any stone, any gorge and any valley, whoever whatever has got, whoever whatever has done, and whatever wants to do… Who the devotee and not devotee is. And, most frighteningly, it is not just anyone else who kills us, right in front of our house, on the busiest street of the millennium, and even some of my fellow tribesmen dare not recognize the choice of a whole country, my choice ...
One more thing to say: Only a few days abroad, that is, after returning to homeland, any Armenian finds it his duty, to present to his friends in his district and relatives, even strangers for months and years, what he has seen in that country, the life of that country, democracy and the laws, the beautiful buildings and the inhabitants, not forgetting to conclude his word in this way:
“Everybody there does his job. The neighbors do not know each other. People do not have time to discuss others”.
And for that matter, I mean, to discuss others, we have plenty of time, just endless, at least a thousand years of resources. If we don’t discuss others, right down the street or at work, we will be exhausted, not complete, and no one will care about us. Discussing is nothing, there is everything in that talk: insult, contempt, enmity, hatred ... according to our custom, everyone is bad, no one is in his place." There is nothing worse than us. And the country is not a country. One wants to curse the liar, one wants to say that there is nothing better than our country under this glittering sun, that both good and bad are ours, and if we do something wrong, we are all guilty, from adult to child. The suffering is not just for one person, not even for a hundred people, not even a thousand, each of the ten million has its share, and each of those ten million is the owner of what we have and don’t have.
It may sound a bit abstract, but I will continue my search for the living phenomenon that has been stolen from us, I will not close my eyes, I will not be afraid of loneliness, I will ignore any wolf and beast, I will not hide from heavy rains and whirlwinds, and I will find, of course, if those who do not understand anything have not yet devoured...