A Grieving Mother’s Lament: `He didn’t listen to me…He went away’
2009/05/09 | 16:05

important society
Lilit Nurijanyan

Today, May 9, is Shushi Liberation Day. There were more crowds than
usual at the `Yerablur’ memorial for fallen soldiers. Black-clad women
could be seen sitting at various grave sites.

For Mrs. Pirouz it’s just another Saturday. She comes here every
Saturday and Sunday where the grave of her son who died in the Artsakh
is located. The white-haired women, dressed in black, was tending to
flowers and brushing away the dust from the grave of her son,
Edvard. As she sat at the grave, looking into the eyes of her son’s
face sculpted on the grave stone, she let out a huge sigh. For 17
years, this 61 year-old woman has opened her eyes every morning
knowing that her son is no longer here with her. Edvard Kamsari
Gharabaghtsyan was only 21 when he died in the war.

`His war buddies say that he fought on till the end even with injured
hands. I told him not to go, nut to no use. He told me that if he
didn’t go, who would. He said all of us must go,’ Mrs. Pirouz noted.

Edvard’s mother went on, `He’d always be playing with his toy
soldiers. He was a different sort of child, never going outside. But
he didn’t listen to me when I told him not to go. They tell me I
should be proud. But why? Because he left me in such torment? I was an
orphan from the age of two. My sister and I grew upo alone. We went
hungry and slept on the streets. I raised three kids by myself. I’ve
seen my share of hard times but the longing for my son has broken
me. It’s easier to grow up without parents then to grow old without
your son. Yes, I have another son but Edvard was special, not like the
others.’

`I want to leave early so that I don’t see the government leaders. It
was the birthday of Ashot Navasartyan. They had come and brought tons
of flowers. No one approached me; no one offered me a flower. Not even
a hello.

I don’t see any sign of respect. They now sit at their high posts
because of the blood shed by the sons and husbands of mothers and
wives like us. One day Vazgen Sargsyan saw me sitting at my son’s
grave. He approached me and said, `Is he your son?’ I answered that he
was my son. He then turned to me and said, `Mother, always hold your
head up high with pride in the knowledge that you riased such a son.”
In a low voice Mrs. Pirouz told me, `Leave me child. Leave me here to
bake in my misery. Nothing makes sense. My heart is breaking…He
didn’t listen to me. He went away.’

The black-clad woman was kneeling with difficulty as she removed some
weeds from between the roses. Tears cascaded down her cheeks and the
same words were uttered from her lips. `You didn’t listen to me…you
went away…’