TO MY MOTHER…
Terrified of the thought that your very memory could wither, be forever lost, in the twilight of the infinite, I searched for you, mother…
I wandered from country to country, from desert to desert. I passed through our unfortunate and devastated homeland’s cities and villages, mountains and valleys…
In vain were all my searches… Everywhere I went, what appeared before my eyes was the dreadful panorama of desolation. Life as we knew it, all that vibrancy, the charming image of the fields, the babble of the brooks, and the merry chirping of the birds, were no longer there…
Everything, everything had vanished, as a result of satisfying the bloody hyena’s beastly appetite.
Our homeland was now ruled by the kingdom of owls…
Desolation… desolation…
The Euphrates was furious at the sight of your savaged corpses, for the disruption of its timeless course… Only roars of protest and rebellion could be heard from its swells. The river, too, was mourning its past.
The crystal-clear waters were now painted with the innocent blood of Armenian mothers, children, youths, and old people… The river’s soul, too, was indignant after having witnessed the horrendous tragedy of the Armenian nation…
The distant and unfamiliar deserts were silent in their ruthlessness — as though sated by the human bones that were strewn across the scorching sands…
I lamented bitterly at the sight of the most harrowing of the calamities that have taken place in human history. I had moments of vacillation that took me to the inglorious spheres of despair. But the grief, the appalling scenes of the tragedy, shook my soul and inspired me with hope and vigor, empowering me with the eagerness to stay alive, to go on living — perhaps so that I would have the chance to fulfill my duty, the duty of an Armenian child, toward you, mother, and toward innumerable Armenian mothers who were crucified alongside you at the Armenian Golgotha... to perpetuate, in some way, the memory of the rivers of spilled blood…
You, mother, who have given me life, kissed me with tearful eyes and a bitter feeling that we would not see each other again. You were right. You were as prescient when you sighed and told me, “No sooner have I raised you than you took wing and now you’ll fly away from me.” Yes, I left, never to see you again. But the milk you have nurtured me with, and your boundless motherly affection, had left such deep roots within the core of my soul that it was not possible for me to forget all that, to be indifferent, especially after your tragic death…
Today, like a mystic believer, I wanted to build a “tomb of the unknown mother” in my soul and piously prostrate myself before that edifice, as though it were an age-old altar… I wanted to spread the mysteries of my pagan prayer, mixed with the fragrant smoke of incense, and make them reach the inscrutable heights of the infinite, as my heartfelt worship of your unforgettable memory, mother, as well as that of the thousands upon thousands of the immolated, who were martyred for our nation’s liberation struggle and have vanished forever, without a pile of earth, without a grave…
Soghomon