Dec 8

One of my friends Meri has sent me this very touchy story.

It was on the 7th of 1988 December…

Prayer …..The pain has many faces and voices, but the time often makes us forget about it… We tend to put a band-aid on the bleeding scars, yet the epistle gets messaged to the forgetting sections of our minds, coming to us as dreams, deja-vue… In the Armenian reality for those witnessing The Earthquake of 1988, the horror is still quite breathing with paranoia. When we are inside apartments, we do scrutinize all the possibilities of getting out of it, every December 7th each and every self-conscious Armenian lights a candle, but to me, the most every living moment occurs every weekend when passing by Spitak to go home…. Yes, the city center is built, though… Not far from the center, I used to notice a shiny church built of a thin metal. Later during one of my field visits several years ago when I drove closer to the place the view nailed itself into myself forever: the small church was surrounded with vast cemetery. When the Earthquake happened, people had nowhere to bury their family, friends, neighbors… memories, pain, disaster. They had no place to pray for God’s mercy, for His caress, for His forgiveness… They built the Church, and they call it Earthquake Church. The tranquility of the scene brings quite a fatigue to one’s soul, and gets one thinking: “I wonder why I survived. This grave’s ownder is exactly my age…”

This year the weather was quite warm around late November, and early December, it still is. People are scared for the Armenian existance, and the ill presence or absence of it…

Yours fondly and as ever,

Lord’s prayer in Arameic
Father our Who is in Heaven Art….