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..."