Tragedy, tradition, and gender roles
“You gotta write a blog about this,” Stefanie said as we were waiting for the water to boil and the coffee to be served in our landlord’s antique first story apartment. So, here it goes.
It was about 9:14 pm, and I was about to unlock the door to our apartment, when coincidentally, Stefanie had just arrived and was patiently waiting outside. I hastily let her in and was rushing out to catch the showing of the Karabakh documentary. “Hurry, it already started. You are going to be late,” she said, as the entire CYMA group was already at the Nayirie Theater on Mashdots.
For the record, I never made it there.
I was having issues of my own, which is why I wasn’t already out with the group. Thirty minutes before, I had severely burnt my finger on a sweltering jazzve full of boiling sugar water. So while everyone was feasting, I was pathetically sitting on the wooden floor of my apartment with a cube of ice and a tube of toothpaste. All I wanted was a cup of soorj.
Anyways, I broke a sweat hurrying out and Stef remembered, “Oh yeah, find out what all those white carnations are for downstairs.” Okay, I thought. What else could possibly be happening on the infamous corner of Tumanyan and Alaverdian?
Stef then decided that she wanted to visit the world wide web, so we ended up climbing down the poorly lit staircase together. Apparently, our corner is even less innocent than we suspected. There were hordes of smile-deprived men standing there surrounding the white carnations drooped by a thick jet-black tape from tree to tree. There was rusty orange lift truck parked adjacent to a light post. Two men climbed into the lift holding a black banner on which gold Haygagan letters were intricately painted. They unraveled the long white string, and proceeded to tie it to the tall dark post.
Curiosity got the best of us. The men had a certain vacancy in their faces, but we nonetheless began asking questions. Apparently there was a fight the night before at 10 pm. While we were enjoying the sites of Garni and Geghard, two seventeen-year-old boys engaged in mischievous and fatal activities outside our apartment. Right in front of our corner store, that has ceaselessly provided us with Allo cards, Noy, and Tamara ice cream. We were in shock, while everyone else stared blankly into space, emotionless.
We were receiving ambiguous, hesitant answers from the mourners, naturally, as the last thing one would desire while mourning is to answer the interrogatory questions of inquiring diasporans. Even our corner-store-owning lady was questioning our interest in the subject. “Why do you want to know?” she asked, perplexed. So, we decided to look elsewhere for information. Armanoush, we thought. The neighborhood all-knowing woman, our sweet landlord.
At this point it was about 9:33 pm. We stumble into her apartment complex and lightly knock on her door three times. No answer. After anxiously ringing the doorbell, the door creeks open and Armanoush’s husband answers with drooping, wrinkled eyes. We had woke him up. Nonetheless, he was pleased to see our probing faces. We apologized profusely for disrupting his sleep, but he firmly slapped us with a “votch eench” and invited us inside.
He was not the slightest bit phased or confused as to why we had showed up on his doorstep. He just invited us in with open arms, not even questioning our purpose. But, we did have a purpose. So, we grilled him with questions about the night before. Levon, 17, was stabbed in a fight with another neighborhood boy. He was rushed to the hospital and died at 5 am the next morning. He lived with his mother, grandmother, and younger brother in our apartment complex, who are all in terrible mental condition. According to our friendly neighbor, Levon was a good boy, had finished school and was about to join the work force. It is a shame that a neighborhood fight had to take this poor child’s life.
Over coffee and fruit, generously served by our landlord, our conversation progressed into an explanation of his own life story, his family, and his working conditions. It is times like these where we are able to truly understand the lifestyle here and observe the difference between living here and merely being a tourist. One of those moments where when you take a second to observe yourself, it is so randomly right.
When conversing with Yeretzgin Paula, Stefanie found out some more information about handling death in Armenia. Stef questioned the lack of women mourning in public. Apparently, when there is a death in the family, it is tradition for women to stay sheltered and accompany the open casket in their homes. Friends and family then have the opportunity to share their condolences. Only men are able to attend the funeral and burial. Women are forbidden to attend because they are stereotypically known to weep, which is a sign of weakness. Men on the other hand, are able to keep their feelings under control.
I don’t think we were out of line or inappropriate being so curious about the incident. I think that in order to really understand the culture in which we have been living for the past six weeks, it is crucial to inquire about your surroundings and observations. Otherwise, you will be full of unanswered questions.
August 3rd, 2007 at 12:12 pm
Wow! That’s very tragic, but interesting. Thanks for sharing that with us, Alene.