Seta Kabranian Melkonian

I get on the black back seat of the taxi waiting in front of our house. I lean forward and tell the driver,

- Yerablur.

We are silent. We wait in the crowd of vehicles, in some areas we advance very slowly, the car wiggles left and right. We make a turn. An army of tricolor flags wag on the hill. In the old days, in this military memorial cemetery flags were used on special occasions.

As if just returning home my son and I dust the tombstone and sit in silence. I scan the surroundings. Kind people have brought plastic ornaments and fake flowers. I thank them in my mind. Unnecessary things added to the tombstone are incompatible with my late husband Monte's modesty. For years I have answered the same question:

-Mrs. Seta, why doesn’t Monte’s grave have his picture?

- When the last soldier in this cemetery has a picture, only then I will place Monte’s.

In my absence, well-wishing women initiated adding Monte’s picture on his grave. I am submissively touched by the attention.

I look around. I borrow a pail and head to the water fountain which is dry. My son brings a few buckets of water from the hose watering the grass. With our fingers we caress the letters of Monte’s name. I kneel in front of the clean stone and place a round piece of coal in a tin bowl. Grains of incense burn in the coals and the smoke glides.

I take a deep breath as if gathering strength and signal my son. Under the fading sun we walk through graves known and unknown to me. First, I walk toward the pictureless grave of a single mother’s only child. The tomb of the young man who died in 1995 remains bare. I think about the picture on Monte’s tomb.

I pass by the fading stones of old friends toward the new graves of 2020 war. I am stunned. There is no end to the army of flags. Many of the faces on the tombstones are familiar to me from the Internet. I notice the granite and marble sculptures, stones, heavy incense censers. Someone placed a similar one on Monte recently.

“I wish our people copied the modesty of military graves in the West,” I say to my son.

 I tell him about the needs of the front in the old days. About the few letters Monte wrote to me from Artsakh.

"My Seta Darling-

It's been such a long time since I've been able to write or contact you in any way. Finally, I have two minutes to write something. There is a real state of war in this place and there are so many "internal" disturbances that I often have no time to scratch my head, literally. And I miss you so much...

Okay, let me get to practical issues. I received your last short letter, as well as a longer letter sent earlier, and a half-English, half-Armenian letter before that. Also, Vazgen (Sargsyan, S.M.) explained some things to me. I would like you to well understand and explain, in case of necessity (if they need help) to the people in charge, that well-disciplined persons who had no fault can in the future come here again if need be. In other words, Hrayr (Karapetyan, S.M.) and Edo Baghdasaryan are decent.

Here, there is little AKM and Karabin ammunition, but most needed are heavy machine guns (KPVT, Desheka, Shilka). ... 82mm and 120mm mortars are also needed.

It will be very good if you come at least for a short while. You will see what’s happening here, what’s the mentality of the people, etc. I try to work straight, but as a result, I will gain enemies. It's fine, I'll work.

If you come (or at least send with someone else) you should bring the following:

1. Scotch tape
2. Toilet paper
3. Raisins (Mardo and Andranig know where from)
4. Medications
5. Glue
6. Plain paper (writing paper, but not too much).

Well, I will close here because there is no time left."

After visiting the new graves, we return to Monte’s. I add incense to the still smoking coals. I stare at the curling cloud of burning incense and ponder. I wonder, how many bullets would have been bought for the soldiers of the last war with the price of the thousands new and gigantic tombstones, how many bulletproof vests would have protected from shrapnel, how many helmets would have saved the bright heads, how many missing persons’ recovered remains would have had quick DNA tests, how many lives of the wounded would have improved, how many returned soldiers would receive psychological treatment for war trauma, how many... how many...

I kneel in the corner of Monte's tombstone, near his head. Over the years, sitting next to this fragment of Monte has given me long periods of contemplation. I ruminate. Priorities have become convoluted. In the old days, the little money we had and all efforts served to reduce and alleviate the consequences of war. The eternally waiting soul has no peace. Visiting Yerablur has become complicated now.

As if visiting a shrine, I kiss the tombstone.

"Many people don't even have this," I tell my son.

We walk to the exit of the cemetery towards the sun disappearing on the horizon. I search for the solace a liberated piece of motherland grants.