Читать книгу Life and Freedom. The autobiography of the former president of Armenia and Nagorno-Karabakh - Роберт Кочарян - Страница 3

I was born and raised in Stepanakert – a small town at the center of Nagorno-Karabakh, or Artsakh, as our people call it. I remember a cozy, green, and pristine town tucked away in the mountains when I think of my childhood.

They say that a person forgets much of what happened to him within two years, except for the very best and very worst events. The only childhood tragedy that I remember is the death of our dog Julbars, who was hit by a car. All other childhood memories are enveloped in a fairytale-like warmth, a collection of many bright and happy images.

I remember very well the first time I swam on my own. I was about six years old. My brother and I were at a small lake not too far away from home. I waded in the water a little and then, accidentally, went in too deep, where my feet couldn't reach the bottom. I suddenly felt the water raise me up and hold me as I made hand movements to stay afloat – doggy paddle, of course – but I swam! During the same summer, I learned how to ride a bicycle. It came easy to me, naturally: with a single try, I was off, racing along the dusty road with the other boys. This ability to keep my balance and my passion for speed have stayed with me throughout my life.

I still remember our first family road trip to the Black Sea in our Moskvitch[2] car in great detail. We camped overnight in tents right on the beach. The sea, of course, left the strongest impression. Unlike our mountain creeks, it was so warm that our parents couldn't lure us out of the water. It was there that I learned how to snorkel pretty well, too.

Children spent most of their time in the streets back then. In the summer, we woke up early, raced to the river, and spent entire days there swimming, fishing, and playing. No one remembers most of our games nowadays; they are long forgotten. I loved to hike and often took a tent to the mountains with my brother or friends. I explored our famous canyon in Shushi far and wide. I knew all the trails and secluded places, climbed in all the caves, and could easily spend the night in the mountains, without a tent even.

In the winter, we entertained ourselves primarily with ice skating and skiing. Oh, how we loved when it snowed! Of course, no one had mountain skis back then, so we would take wide soldier's skis, install homemade heel holders, climb to the highest hill and zoom down the slope.

It snowed a lot, and the snow stayed. In those days, they didn't spray salt to melt the ice, so all the streets would practically turn into ice rinks. City buses had to use tire chains to keep from skidding on the ice. As the buses sputtered slowly up the hills to the upper part of town, we, on our ice skates, would cling to their backs to hitch a ride, then rush back down once they had reached the top. Our ice skates, snegourkey[3] as we called them, were very different from those of today: nothing more than two steel blades tied to the soles of our snow boots with shoelaces.

Our family lived in a stone house that my grandfather built back in his day. I remember how we would apply a coat of red lead paint to the roof every summer to keep it from rusting. The house was rebuilt several times: initially, there was only one room, but over time two more rooms as well as a veranda and a basement were added. I can still clearly see the old photographs of my grandfather, grandmother, and great-grandfather hanging on the walls. To me, as a child, the house seemed enormous. Many years later, I was surprised to see how small it was in reality. The house survived the war, but it was demolished later; I discovered a construction site there not long ago. The orchard that my grandfather started had disappeared too.

That orchard was my father's pride and joy. A prominent agronomist, he loved his profession. Three immense mulberry trees hugged our house, and we, as children, climbed them all the time and ate their sweet, ripe mulberries. The grownups made mulberry molasses. And vodka, of course. To this day, if I do have vodka, it tends to be mulberry vodka.

There were six of us living together: my parents, my grandmother, my brother Valera, me, and our sister Ivetta – my stepsister from my father's first marriage – who was a college student. After finishing her studies, she continued to work in Armenia, but later moved to Moscow where she got married.

Valera and I shared a room. Being only two years apart, we used to fight a lot as kids – over unimportant stuff, of course. As the younger brother, I was feisty and didn't want to give in on anything. And then, suddenly, Valera grew up and became big and strong; he matured, and at that point, our relationship had transformed. The fights stopped, and a friendship that would span our entire lives began.

We also had family secrets. One of them – my father's story – I found out only as an adult.

My grandfather lived in Baku. When the Turks entered Baku in 1918, and the Armenian pogroms began, my eight-year-old father was separated from his parents. In a crowd of escapees, he ended up on a ferry across the Caspian Sea to Central Asia. Despite the chaos of a revolution, civil war, absence of government, and civil unrest everywhere, my grandparents and their daughters survived and finally reached Karabakh. My father, wandering around for a long time as a homeless child, somehow ended up in Tashkent. He got lucky – he and many other homeless children were taken in by a wealthy Armenian. The children worked for him, and in exchange, he fed them, even sent them to school, effectively saving them.

My grandmother didn't lose hope of finding her child all those years. Order was gradually restored in the country, and the regular mail service began working again. My grandmother's brother, who had gained an influential position in the local police force – he headed its anti-banditry division – was able to find my father, who had been lost six years earlier, and return him to Stepanakert. My father was already 14 years old at that time. My grandmother was ashamed that she had lost her child and forbade my father to talk about it. And we didn't know. We did, however, notice things here and there. For instance, my father's close friend from Tashkent visited us every year. "Who is this friend of yours? Why do you have a friend in Tashkent?" we asked, but our father never answered. Later, we found out that they worked together for that rich Armenian in Tashkent.

Another secret was about my grandfather.

I never met him; he died before I was born. Once, I came across a man in our ancestral village who said he knew my grandfather – "Reverend Sarkis" – very well. I asked him why he was calling my grandfather "Reverend." "Well, of course," he said, "your grandfather was the last priest in our region!" As it turned out, when my grandfather – a literate man – came back to Karabakh after fleeing the Baku pogroms, he was offered the opportunity to become a priest. Being literate was not common then. My grandfather agreed and served until the late 1920s, before the last church was shut down. Even though my father grew up a devoted communist, his application to join the Communist Party was denied for a long time based on his family history. My father took it to heart, and even after many years, he didn't feel comfortable talking about it with us.

My paternal grandmother had a stern demeanor – I never saw her smile. A priest's widow, she didn't believe in God. My brother and I sometimes teased her, "Grandma, they told us at school that God exists!" She would wave her hands at us and ask us not to talk nonsense. She never punished us, but we always listened to her, most likely sensing her inner strength and toughness. Our grandmother had three children: her eldest son – my father – and two daughters. The husband of one of her daughters died in World War II, and she lived with her son in Baku. My grandmother's younger daughter lived with her family in Stepanakert, not too far away from us. The younger daughter died early and unexpectedly while I was away serving in the army. Precisely a year after her daughter's death, my grandmother made a suicide attempt by taking too many sleeping pills. When she came to at the hospital, she explained, "I shouldn't have lived longer than my daughter."

In our family, the adults never fought and never raised their voices. My mom lived peacefully with her mother-in-law. Perhaps they sorted things out between them when the children couldn't see them? I don't think so; we lived in a happy home. My mom kept our household together. Strong-willed, strict to a degree, and practical, she defined our household order, kept track of our family expenses, and took care of our upbringing. She was responsible for everything that had to do with our education. I remember that my older brother had difficulty waking up early in the morning. I would be up before the alarm clock, but Valera had to be dragged out of his bed. Mother would wake him up, and he would mumble, half asleep, "Mom, please, one more minute… one more second…" And here she might raise her voice a bit.

The primary source of conflict between my mother and me was the music classes. Her distant nephew played the violin, and my mother's dream was that I would learn to play a musical instrument. When I was in the first grade, she sent me to music school, but I was embarrassed to carry the violin and hated it with a passion. When I walked with it outside, my ears burnt and I wanted the ground to swallow me up. I suffered for the first two years but found a solution during the third year. I would leave the house to go to music school, but instead, I hid the violin in the boxwood bushes nearby and played soccer with my friends. After the game, I would retrieve the violin and return home as if nothing had happened. I skipped music school like this for two months before my music teacher called my parents. My secret was out, and I got into very serious trouble. My mom wanted me to go back to music school, but I refused. Emphatically. By that time, I had already learned to resist. Finally, mom yielded but went after my brother. She made Valera take piano classes. He quit. Then she talked him into taking up the clarinet – same outcome. Mom persisted, but we defied her, and none of us became musicians.

Nonetheless, the head of our household was our father. He would come home late from work and frequently went on business trips. My father was passionate about agriculture and was responsible for the agriculture of our entire region. The successful development of viticulture in Karabakh was mainly due to his efforts. Moreover, he served as the deputy chairman of the regional executive committee for many years, even managing to carry out scientific work in the midst of his hectic schedule. After getting his Ph.D., he stayed in our town. This was quite unusual at the time – after receiving an academic degree, people would typically move to the capital cities: either Baku or Yerevan. But my father was convinced that he was needed here, in Nagorno-Karabakh. In these mountains, he, an agronomist, created the orchard-town and built the communist system, the ideals of which he sincerely believed in all his life.

Due to his busy work schedule, my father couldn't spend a lot of time with me, but he did his best to teach me what, in his opinion, every man must be able to do. I remember how he taught me to drive a car. We had an old Moskvitch sedan – I believe it was the 403 model with round edges. I was barely 13 back then and rather short. My dad sat me behind the wheel and asked me, "Can you reach the pedals?" – "I can" – "Can you see the road?" – "I can" – "Then, drive." And I drove.

He also taught me how to fire a gun – a 16-gauge single-barrel shotgun. We began by shooting at homemade targets we drew on plywood or cardboard, then we went hunting in the mountains. I was so proud of myself when I shot my first chukar partridge. Soon enough, my father allowed me to use the gun alone and then gave it to me for good. No kid in my neighborhood had their own gun yet. So we all would go hunting together in the mountains with that single gun.

I went to a Russian school, and I did well. Whether I liked the subject or not, I couldn't imagine entering the classroom unprepared. I couldn't imagine a bigger embarrassment than to stand by the chalkboard not knowing what to say. In general, I was quick and disciplined: as soon as I came home, I did all my homework, and then I was free. Math and physics were easy; I liked geography and literature. Languages, including Russian, were much more challenging for me. My essays were good, but I made too many spelling mistakes. The only two subjects that I really wasn't attracted to were the Armenian and English language classes. Ironically, fate would make me learn them as an adult. When I became Armenia's prime minister, I truly regretted that I skipped Armenian classes in school! I would never have guessed that I would need them so much: our Karabakh dialect is very different and hard to understand in Armenia.

The courtyard was essentially the center of our universe. The private home we lived in was next to an apartment complex, and all the neighbors – adults, children, and the elderly – gathered in its spacious courtyard every evening. They all knew each other well and spent their spare time together like a large extended family. There was a gazebo in the courtyard's center, where adults battled over chess and backgammon, poking fun at each other while we ran around. Once in a while, one of the players would say something particularly witty, and the gazebo would explode in loud laughter that bounced off the buildings and reached every far corner of the courtyard. And since everyone made fun of everyone else, the light-hearted laughter never stopped. In short, the atmosphere in the courtyard was amicable and cheerful.

Our courtyard was seen as upscale. The chief of police, the head of the People's Oversight Committee, and several officials of the region's Communist Party Committee lived in the big apartment building. In general, our neighborhood was cultured – people read books, and played sports. Kids played soccer, basketball, and – what was particularly popular at the time – handball at the school's nearby sports field. Naturally, we would argue, quarrel, and fight during the game on rare occasions, but it didn't ruin our friendship. Sometimes, we played soccer with kids from rougher neighborhoods down the street. Some games were friendly, some not so much. However, there were no serious fights; we mostly waved our fists in the air from the abundance of energy and excitement.

As with everyone in my generation, my childhood was carefree and happy. I might be biased, but I am convinced that there was something special about Karabakh. All around – in Azerbaijan, in Armenia, and in the entire Caucasus – corruption flourished, and crime lords had authority. But Karabakh remained an oasis of law and order. The word "bribery" was considered the most terrible insult, and people sincerely believed that they were building a communist society. Apparently, the ideals of equality and fraternity for all were in line with the traditional values of many generations of Karabakh people, and the dream of an ideal society took root in our land. Residents of Nagorno-Karabakh – upstanding Soviet citizens – sincerely believed in their bright future.

And that's how we lived – calmly and simply, thinking that nothing could disturb our quiet and isolated land, generations succeeding generations.