I wanted to write a letter to the February of 1988, as if it was one of my relatives. I have an inexplicable longing for my youth, my generation. February was a division for those, born in the 40s, 50s and 60s of the last century: we had to say good-bye to the Bolshevik system that had born, but also denied us. Our Komsomol-communist-non-partisan generation was destined to become a decent flagman of the national instinct and the struggle for freedom. And although we had not stopped believing in bright ideas of communism, we were already driven by protest desire.
The Kremlin walls were trembling with our fists shaking. Group by group - drivers and furniture makers, gardeners and milkmen, students and lecturers, men and women - we went to the rally and told the Soviet state that binding us to Azeris was a great historical mistake. Our suggestion, however, was misinterpreted by the Center, they thought that the Soviet Union itself was a mistake and that the Gordian junction had to be untied. They demolished themselves with a red axe. Later we realized that red was not just the color of the Soviet flag, but also the color of blood.
We were calling "Miatsum" and those who were asleep, woke up early, those who were awake, rode their horses, those who had already ridden, hurried to join the national liberation struggle. They went to conscious self-sacrifice, for there was no doubt that "this world is very narrow for freedom lovers". For us, the new millennium came sooner than expected, because when the 21st century began, our part of war was already over. Those who were not given a long life by God, died in the Artsakh war, and those who luck had “half-smiled” at, became disabled. We, who did not die or did not become disabled, proclaimed us happy and still live happily or displeased, with our eyes to February 1988 and our minds to the future worries and thoughts.
Since it is natural that the truthful details of the past may change or be forgotten, however, the biography remains unchanged. Only the future cannot be changed, and we believe in tomorrow, as in the 88th year. It's been 30 years since that damp and warm February, which ideologues dubbed "stormy". We agree with this term, but when we meet with peers, we still whisper to each other about how good it would be to return to that time.
What are the reasons for such nostalgia? There is no exhaustive answer to this question, unfortunately, because in our ears there are still echoes of the slogans "Unity" and the dull thunder of the exploding shells. Our generation just wanted to live, as it befits the Armenian.
We have lived with this dream for all these 30 years. And now, having voluntarily handed over the baton, we turned into active contemplatives, applauding for those who bear our dreams on their shoulders. And here it is very important to note the stage remains the same, it is just the actors that are different now.
I wanted to write a letter to February of 1988, however, as it turned out, that February has always been with us. It continues to give sprouts inside of us and teaches us lessons. Just like now, we are taught by our children, following the example of April 2016. And even after 30, 300 or 3000 years, we will still continue to build our lives based on these lessons’ example.
Special for “Hay Dzayn”