ՆԻԿՈԼ ՓԱՇԻՆՅԱՆ. ԵՐԿՐԻ ՀԱԿԱՌԱԿ ԿՈՂՄԸ (մաս 10-րդ)/THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD (PART TEN)- Pashinyan

[English is below] from payqar.org

11. ի՞նչ է անունդ, բանտապահ

Գերապպայի երկրորդ բաժակից հետո հիշեցի, որ ֆուտբոլի 2008 թվականի Եվրոպայի առաջնությունը, ախր, այստեղ է տեղի ունենալու` Շվեյցարիայում եւ Ավստրիայում: Մի երկու տեղ, կարծեմ, ինչ-որ պաստառներ ընկան աչքովս: Բայց մի տեսակ չֆիքսեցի, չնկատեցի, երեւի շատ էի լարված: Սատանան գայթակղում է ինձ. չմնա՞մ էստեղ ու մի կարգին ֆուտբոլ նայեմ: շարունակություն

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD (PART TEN)

11. What is your name, prison guard?

After the second glass of Carrabba, I remembered that the 2008 European Football (soccer) championship will take place here in Switzerland and Austria. I think two billboards caught my eye. But somehow I didn’t really focus or notice them; I must have been really wound up. The Devil is tempting me: shouldn’t I stay here and watch some decent football? But what would my friends in prison think? I don’t know what they’ll think, but I know that Ararat Zourabyan will never let me hear the end of it: “We were sitting in prison, but you were enjoying the “Euro 2008” for yourself,” he would tell me incessantly. And I would never be free of it. Ah, dear Ararat, you can’t even imagine how much I miss you, how I miss Davit Matevosyan, Petros Makeyan, whom I still call Mr. Makeyan, but regardless, we’re still close friends. Not a day has passed that I haven’t visited your cells in my mind, felt their heroes’ breaths. Sitting in prison is hard, very hard, but it’s not easy to be free when your friends are in prison. Death with friends is a wedding, but there’s something humiliating in showing up alone to a European football championship, distinctly humiliating.

Not a day has passed when I haven’t wished I could appear at your sides; I shouldn’t think about it. But I can only get there by an honorable path. I did everything, to the point that finding me would become a matter of pride for the Serj-ite National Security Service (NSS). Once I even tried to help them, I cued the NSS, I offered them 50-50, phone a friend, or ask the audience.

As a result, I’m sitting in a cozy Swiss bar-café in Lausanne, downing Carrabba…how humiliating…

In the past 10 years I haven’t been in any bar in Armenia, I couldn’t take any of the restaurants; I was disgusted by the cafes. My comfortable office as chief editor had become a prison cell for me; at least that’s what it often felt like to me. Tens of times I’ve tried to escape that cell, and I have, but for one hour at most, with some Invisible hand grabbing me by the neck and bringing me back to my cell. Some Invisible hand has nailed me to the armchair that signified my position.

For every omission, every error, every misprint, every inaccuracy, for every bit of carelessness I have been ashamed, I’ve wanted to hide. With every one of these occurrences it has seemed to me that I’m standing naked in broad daylight at Republic Square, where people are paying 100 Drams to watch my nudity, to mock my grotesque appearance. I can’t bear this; I’ve wanted to escape, and I have.

But that cursed Invisible hand is not the NSS, it’s not possible to escape from that. Each time it has brought me back to my cell and put an Invisible guard by my door. What is the name of that Invisible guard’s name? Could it be Ambition, Arrogance, Careerism, Ignorance, and Profiteering? Or perhaps a sense of Honor, Responsibility, Love, Fatherland, Citizenship, Service? And maybe in front of my door stand not one, but tens of Invisible guards and by my door exist, side by side, in peace and harmony, Ambition and Service? Perhaps not so much in peace and harmony, for they break each others’ faces every day; they struggle to forever drive the other away from my door, and for the right to be my prison guard. Whatever may be the name of my Invisible prison guard(s), I have given my signature that I will not be absent. In the late evening, he has allowed me to visit with my children. But often that visit did not take place: either my children were asleep or I have been torn to pieces by internal agony.

Sometimes at night I have startled awake, having realized that I had allowed yet one more mistake, one more misprint, yet another literary error. I’ve gotten up and run, but the clock has caught my eye; it’s too late, the tickets are all on sale and with the dawn, I display my own nudity at Republic Square, for 100 Drams.

In the morning, at the prescribed time, I presented myself to my prison guard(s). I’ve gone into my cell, been embarrassed, gone mad from powerlessness and assaulted those who have arrested me. Later, I’ve been more embarrassed, I’ve sobbed out of powerlessness, escaped from powerlessness…But the Invisible hand has gotten me, the Invisible prison guard has trampled on me; and I have obeyed, I have obeyed…

The State of Emergency was a salvation for me, the criminal charges against me were my hope, and the investigation announced on my person was like liberation. But my expectations were in vain; and as you can see, I am now not only obliged to drag myself across the world, but also my cell, my shame.

And despite the fact that I am in Switzerland now, even now from time to time my nudity is bared at Republic Square. For 100 Drams, a mere 100 Drams.

I am sitting in a cozy bar-café in Swiss Lausanne, and feel that my Invisible prison guard(s) is watching the door, all the doors that I enter, dragging my cell with me.

Is there no escape from this cell, from this prison guard(s)? There is, and the liberation is the isolation cell of NSS. Only the prison guards of the NSS can snatch me away from my prison guard(s), only under their boots can the Invisible hand be destroyed, only under their blows will my prison guard(s) run away from me, whatever its (or their) name may be—Ambition or Arrogance, Careerism or Ignorance, Citizenship or…But no, if its (or their) name is Citizenship, or Love, or Fatherland, or Service or Freedom, I won’t be free of them, they won’t leave me regardless of internal agony or physical torture or even under threat of the death penalty.

“Who are you, my prison guard? I want to know you; I want to know your name.”

“My name is written under the boot of the prison guard at NSS. You’ll see my name when you see the underside of the boot.

(to be continued)