Robert
The evening before we'd met Artur in his friend Yervand's (our guesthouse host's) kitchen and got to know each other over a couple of glasses of vodka.
"I'm so sorry to greet guests like this." Artur kept repeating.
"Like what?" We kept replying. He was referring to a great sadness he, his family, friends, and the country were carrying - the war with Azerbaijan in 2020. "My son..." he'd begun and his voice cracked and his brown eyes filled with tears.
"His son, Robert, was killed in 2020. Nineteen." Yervand finished for him. "We just really feel bad that we have to greet you guests with this sadness, but this is what we're dealing with right now in Armenia. War has broken us."
With us was a German boy, also nineteen, who was volunteering for six months with an organisation in Gyumri and staying in Yervand's guesthouse as well. He spoke excellent English, a smattering of Armenian, but zero Russian and we had to keep translating much of what was being said, particularly the bits directed at him. The sentences Yervand was spouting were hilarious, sentences like: "you're my son now", "since you support Liverpool, we can never part", "you will never leave here" to which Ferdinand would roll his eyes, a mixture of slightly playful and slightly alarmed. He had that uncertainty of a nineteen-year-old, reserved yet smiley, and bewildered at being in a room with some Armenians and Brits announcing convoluted toasts in three different languages. He also had a depth of bravery and pride in creating a life abroad. I'd liked him.
We had then gone over the street to see Artur's son's memorial. It was a stone fountain with a carved cross above it, the Armenian flag and a vase of fake peonies to the right, and a pot of frankincense to the left. Robert's black-and-white portrait hung behind, attached to the black stone walls of Artur's house.
"Tomorrow at 9 o'clock I will light frankincense. I do this every Sunday, join me." Artur had said; it was an invitation we couldn't refuse.
We entered his house and piled onto a sofa in the sitting room. His wife and mother has joined us too. Coffee and paper-wrapped chocolates were brought and Artur, his big, brown eyes shining with tears, told us about Robert. He was a leader, active, tall, popular, number one a thousand, always finding ways to help, always finding ways to improve people's lives. He was a patriot, he fiercely loved his country. He was a hero and he died heroically.
Artur didn't want to use the word "accustomed to" about their grief, however great or small, but said that it's a pain that they must carry and continue life with; it now defines their everyday. They are currently building a guesthouse and will name it after their boy, continuing his name and memory. Apparently, in the summer, the smell of Karabakh roses fills the air and hits your nose the moment you enter the courtyard. It was a nice image, to remember Robert accompanied by the scent of roses.
Sunday morning came and we gathered in silence, breathing in the frankincense. Passersby nodded to Artur and one added some more to the pile. The early hour and colourless morning intensified our silence and no one wished to talk. I was thinking about last night, about Ferdinand's fact that frankincense in German, Weihrauch, means 'holy smoke'. I thought about what Artur said, about how his door was always open, rain or shine, noon and night, 24/7, that we didn't even need to call or knock if we wanted to visit, that he and his wife would always be there and waiting, welcoming. Such immediate warmth and friendship from someone we hadn't even known for 24 hours was touching but not completely unexpected. My time in the south Caucasus has shown me the open hearts of these people, who may be ground down by emotional and economic hardship but are so rich in love for their friends. For friends (as well as family and God), I am often told, are all that matter.
Soon it was time to move on. I glanced at Artur. He was looking at the memorial. He then gave a sigh that seemed to rip him in two, staring at the memorial as if he couldn't believe his son was dead. As if he was looking at it for the first time. Brown eyes, deep with grief.
"I'm very happy that you came." He said. "Please come back in the summer when Robert's guesthouse is finished, it would be a great pleasure to see you again.
"Of course we will! It would be an honour!" We hugged him, and turned to go. As we walked to our car, I saw another memorial opposite Artur's house; yet another young life, another broken family.
