Sahagian: I Will Return To Her

Under my current psychological condition, I would be labeled depressed. I humbly have to agree with that analysis, because yes, I am caged in that particular state of mind. My soul, my heart, and my essence are not intact these days. They are kept away, hidden from my present environment. My trinity is nested under cloudy skies of home. And I, I am here…a million miles away.

I left Armenia last week, a soulless and numb figure who took flight back to Jerusalem. I saw what many around the world consider the Holy Land, a region that has been more a cradle of global conflict than of tranquility. Arriving there, I mentally cursed my situation and my surroundings. Agitated, frustrated, and on the edge of a ballistic meltdown, I calmly shut my eyes. There, in the darkness, I searched for the dim light hovering somewhere. Through that cerebral night, I journeyed my way to the glimmer, so that maybe I could lose my agitation, reopen my eyes, and face reality once more.

I found the glitter in the gloom, a memory of such charming intensity. Reality was a blink away, a distant bleak being, long forgotten at that exact flash. I had found an image in my mind, the embodiment of a realm of unfathomable perfection. I could have spent a lifetime there, roaming the fields of grain, climbing the mountains of snow, and running through the winds of ecstasy. However, I decided to get some courage, open up my eyes, and cope with reality. Gradually, the aggravation I was a victim to a minute ago passed. And I was back…a million miles away.

During the coming days, I would have to accept that I had left Armenia. I would have to let go, get on with life, and lock my memories of Armenia away.

Thus I walked my first few days within the footprints of Armenia.

Because I had not yet healed, I called my Russian friend Alex to go out and have another one of our amusing quarreling nights. Under the Bethlehem night, we sat on a hill side and drank for Mother Russia and Mother Armenia. Again, I went on momentary retreats, behind shut eyelids, back to a cabin in my dusky mind. A cabin filled with pictures of belonging, of brighter days, and a portrait of what could have been, what should have been, and what can still be.

We rode to the only “legal” pork restaurant in the region—a haven for us—as neither Israel nor Palestine allow pork into the country. I remembered the aroma of Armenian pork, which one would assume is the only dish eaten by Armenians. This time around, I consciously left the cabin and came back to my Russian friend’s side. At the end of the night, with a “Welcome back by the way, Armenienski,” I went to my house, as my trinity still carried on in a different universe, a million stars away.

I woke up early the next morning. It was cold, misty, murky, and cloudy. There was a note of acquaintance with the weather, as if, long ago, I had been standing under its heavens, mouth open, bracing myself for the first drops of summer rain. This was not Palestinian or Israeli August climate, I thought. Midway through my self-interrogation, I stopped, a new array of uncertainty washing over me: Was I back? Am I back? Didn’t I leave? Wait, did I leave after all?

Devoid of hesitation, unconcerned with how deep I would fall, comforted by the light weight of the dive, soothed by the ease of the descent, I stood outside the cabin door, the portal in my mind that assured me serenity. Gently, I strolled through, and this time, nothing could bring me back to the real world, not for a long time. I revisited memories, relived chronicles, mused over thoughts, and reminisced about what I left behind. Enclosed in this cabin, I found laughter, joy, thrill, pleasure, and a bliss of wonders.

Like black and white movies, memories displayed themselves on these wooden walls: The trouble my friends and I had with the taxi drivers, who either did not know the way to our intended destination, or just circled around the city for more drams; the village people with their wide open and welcoming arms, who greeted us from their almost tumbled yard gates; the price negotiations with salesmen at the Vernisage; the Bellagio-like water springs at Republic Square, which danced way better than me; the love that some fell into under the melodic ambiance coming from the curbside musicians; the Karabagh mountains and their magnificent, grand structure that bring forth a whispered prayer for the souls of those who died for these lands, our lands; the green Aparan scenery; the stunning panorama of Lori; the dazzling vista of Goris; the eloquence of Aragadz; and the bittersweet prospect of Ararat.

Liken autumn leaves, the chapters, incidents, and recollections softly and quietly fell onto me. Covered by these layers of happiness and exhilaration, I swam in and around those moments as if present. Smiles, grin, and chuckles sailed across my face as comical nostalgia captured me. And, far away, a million miles away, under cloudy skies of home, my trinity inhaled a breath of energy: After some time apart, my heart, soul, and essence reunited in me. I was, to some extent, whole again.

The films on the timber walls were approaching the credits, and fewer memory-leaves were falling onto me. Hence, with a beam that was newly reinstated, I stood, went to the door, and turned to look back one last final time. This cabin and all in it would be greatly missed, but it was time to desert this space of consoling isolation, and maybe, just maybe, hand it over to another fellow who might need it to get over his own melancholy after leaving Armenia.

The journey back was easier than previous times, maybe because I had let go, to some degree. As I reopened my eyes, I was hit by fierce sunlight, which would not be felt on an Armenian August morning. The fog, the mist, and the cold had passed on.

What gets me through is the hope that next year, I will return to her.