Tsitsernakaberd. My tongue curls itself awkwardly around the letters. I’ve been away from Armenia for nine whole months – long enough that I can no longer sound out the original phonemes without difficulty: Ծ – ի – ծ – ե – ռ – ն – ա – կ – ա – բ – ե – ր – դ. This is the hill of the swallow’s fortress, and since mass demonstrations by Soviet Armenian citizens in 1965, the site of the Armenian Genocide Memorial. When I left Yerevan last summer, my only real regret was that for various reasons, both personal and practical, I had not made it to this site. I’d glimpsed it often from across the valley, and promised myself I would go there on my return. In Spring, this promise became as sharp as a knife, as I watched from afar the centenary commemorations of the unspeakable catastrophe that began in April 1915. I felt it in my guts: the need to stand face to face with history; the need to pay my respects to the many who had died, and the many who survive.
The route I took to Tsitsernakaberd was long and circuitous. Yerevan’s centre is a grid, the main arteries of which form a diamond around Freedom Square, where the Opera House is situated. A short distance away, one can climb the 118 metre Cascade and look down on the circular road that wheels in an almost unbroken arc around the city centre, pinpointing the various monuments along its spokes – from Matenaderan, home of unique and ancient manuscripts, all the way around to the Hovhannes Tumanyan museum, an edifice built in 1953 to honour Armenia’s national poet, who lived most of his life in Tbilisi. I skirt around the south eastern portion of the circle, past the Church of Grigor Lusarovich (Gregory the Illuminator, who is said to have converted Armenia to Christianity in 301 CE), and hold my breath as I move through the dim underpass beneath the bottom of Meshrop Mashtots Avenue (named for the monk who invented the Armenian alphabet in the early 5th century). From there, I exit the circle and walk over Victory Bridge, finished in 1945 at the end of a war in which survivors of genocide fought for Uncle Stalin against fascism.
I did not come to Armenia to research long ago massacres in the Ottoman Empire. For a long time, I felt a childish resentment towards the way in which genocide – the word and the deed – intruded on my studies of the much more contemporary, and thoroughly post-Soviet, war over Nagorno-Karabakh. I refused to delve into history, to dig up the atrocities of what to me seemed like the distant past. There is no excusing this blindness, given the parallels that exist between the formation of the Irish state from the ashes of the 1916 Easter Rising, and the independence of the first Armenian Republic in 1918. In the back of my mind, I saw the similarities, but for almost a year, I had not been thinking like an Irish person. My first glimpse of Armenia was from across the border in Azerbaijan, where the provinces of Gazakh and Tavush meet. The bluish mountains loomed in the distance, and the mother of a friend told me about gathering mushrooms on those slopes in her childhood. My friend told me of her earliest memories: streets torn apart by bombs, a small girl with her limbs blown off. For twenty years, the border has been sealed, but stray bullets still fly across, causing a perpetual sense of insecurity in the villages on either side.
From Victory Bridge, it’s a short walk to the monument, but mostly up a steep hill. On my left, I pass the reddish brown facade of the Ararat Cognac Factory, and on my right, an abandoned service station overlooking the tangled overgrowth of the Hrazdan gorge. All along the sides of the valley, abandoned construction sites are slowly being reclaimed by nature. The scorching heat wraps itself around my arms and legs, and the only bit of relief is the breeze that comes from the cars whipping past along the highway. The air is heavy with exhaust fumes and strange pollens. If there is a signpost for the Memorial Complex, I don’t notice it. I turn right and cross an almost empty parking lot. A single tour bus rests there, looking as though it might have been deserted twenty years ago. Away from it stretches a narrow road bearing more of a resemblance to a country lane, than a tourist destination. The only person who passes me on this road is a woman who, like the battered old bus, strikes me as a relic of the Soviet era. I think she must live in one of the small houses set back from the laneway, behind tall, inscrutable fences topped with vines. I feel that I am journeying back in time.
When I lived in Baku, I would sometimes walk to a place called Martyrs’ Alley, which stands on top of a hill jutting out over the Caspian Sea. The “alley” is really a solemn avenue, lined with black marble headstones. Etched on these are portraits of the Azerbaijani citizens killed on Black January, the day in 1990 that Soviet troops entered the city and violently repressed a popular uprising. My landlord, who would sometimes take me for a beer at the seaside and talk about religion and politics, was an eyewitness to that day’s events. There is a general consensus among peacebuilders that this generation – today’s 50-something year olds – are the hardest to reach, having been young adults at the outbreak of the war. Away from Martyrs’ Alley sprawl neat rows of gravestones, marking the final resting places of thousands of Azerbaijanis killed in the conflict between 1988 and 1994 – at least, those whose bodies were recovered. At the far end is the Eternal Flame, housed in a tall temple of sand-coloured marble. Another common way of reaching the memorial is to take the funicular which runs from the sparkling steel and glass station at the bottom of the hill. Speakers blare out too-loud pop music. I still hear the echoes of Rihanna, singing about love in a hopeless place.
Before I come to the top of Tsitsernakaberd, the path turns left again and circles part of the way around the hilltop. The sounds of summer – birdsong and insects buzzing in the long grass – are roaring in my ears, drowning out the distant hum of traffic. All at once, I come to a wide flight of stone steps, and find myself climbing up towards a building resembling a small fortress. The museum is built into the back of the hill, and a narrow outdoor staircase leads me up onto the roof of the building, which is perfectly flat and merges seamlessly with the landscaped gardens around it. A manicured lawn stretches away to the right, becomes concrete again, and there on the smooth grey surface is the monument I have been waiting to see. In the foreground as I approach is the tall sliver of granite striking up and up and up, until its tip dissolves into the clear blue sky. Behind it are the twelve slabs, arranged in a circle, to commemorate the twelve lost provinces of what many still refer to as Western Armenia. The slabs bow down towards the inner circle, at the very centre of which is the eternal flame, surrounded by a ring of white carnations interspersed with red. From the same source as the flame emanates the sound of Armenian voices singing in chorus. I do not understand the words, but the effect is haunting.
One and a half million Armenians are thought to have died between 1915 and 1923, and another five hundred thousand were permanently displaced. For more than half a century – since the adoption of the Convention on the Prevention and the Punishment of the Crime of Genocide – a debate has raged over the correct interpretation of these events. The story that the museum on top of Tsitsernakaberd tells is the one that Armenians remember, and it uses the word genocide unapologetically. At times, its evocation of the bloodthirsty Turks and the pious Armenians seems like a pastiche of World War I propaganda. More often than not, however, the crude stereotypes simply fall away in the face of so much human misery. The cruelty seems wanton, but the destruction is systematic. A quote from Armin Wegner, a German medic who witnessed the massacres, leaves a deep impression on a long white wall: “They died all of the deaths on earth, the deaths of all the ages.” In between tightly packed blocks of text in Armenian, English and Russian, are the photographs I don’t dare to look at for too long. The emaciated children on the death marches into the Syrian desert. The priests whose bodies swing from the gallows. The women with the tattooed faces, marking them out as captives of Turkish or Kurdish traders. The Ottoman soldiers who pose around the piles of white, grinning skulls.
In Azerbaijan, I spoke with countless men and women who had lived through the war over Nagorno-Karabakh and remembered it as if it were yesterday. More than half a million Azerbaijanis are internally displaced persons, meaning that their homes are still officially considered to lie upon the territories now controlled by the de facto republic of Nagorno Karabakh. A quarter of a century ago, the movement to unite that region with Armenia – a desire which was repressed throughout the Soviet era – recast itself as a war of secession, in which hundreds of thousands of Azerbaijanis were driven from their homes. When it comes to peacebuilding, the proportion of IDPs increases, as one encounters more and more Azerbaijanis who are desperate to achieve some small degree of progress towards peace, to recover both the land and the dignity that was lost. The organisers of such meetings are almost unanimous about the success they have had in re-humanising the relationships between young people from both countries. Yet, for the most part, Azerbaijanis and Armenians seem to come to these meetings with cross purposes. Each side tries to convince the other: ‘Let us have our home! Let us live in peace!’ For both groups, these words have different meetings.
I could not make sense, when I first arrived in Armenia, of the way the genocide would spill its bloody history into the pages of my field notes, the transcripts of the interviews I recorded. I was prepared to meet the Armenians who had fled from the pogroms in Azerbaijan, who recalled with a mixture of nostalgia and fear their homes in Baku, Sumgayit, and Kirovabad (now known as Ganja). I was prepared for the defiant stance of those who supported independence for Nagorno-Karabakh – which was everyone I asked – and those who referred to the ‘liberation’ of the territories my Azerbaijani friends considered occupied. I was prepared to accept the validity of their views – or to borrow a lofty phrase from Northern Ireland, the legitimacy of their aspirations. In my own head at least, I could reconcile these mirror images and cultures, but what I could not understand was the way in which 1915 cast its long shadow over the region, and how the Karabakh question came to be identified with the hundred year thirst of the Armenians – was it for justice, or revenge? Whatever it was, it seemed to me that my friends were fighting two separate wars, a hundred years apart.
In Azerbaijan, I had walked among the ruins in Fuzuli, a south western region lost to Armenian forces in 1993, then partially regained after the 1994 ceasefire. I had stood on the overgrown railway line that once connected Baku and Yerevan. I had turned my face towards mountainous Karabakh and felt a fleeting curiosity about the people living there, before being plunged back into the reality of the Azerbaijanis living in impromptu settlements and growing their gardens along the frontline, just a few dozen kilometres from their former homes. In that moment, I felt the impassibility of Time lodge itself in my heart. Now, on Tsitsernakaberd, history began to shrink, until I was standing at the epicentre of a vast conflict that spread its tentacles across fifty years in either direction, and hundreds of miles to the west and the east. I felt the present in the past, and the past in the present. What had once been in monochrome was now in colour. The marble and steel of Baku, the desert and the deep blue sea; Yerevan’s rusted pink and brown buildings, the luscious green mountains capped with glistening snow – it all swirled together as on an artist’s palette, and what I saw was not a problem to be solved, but a landscape of time and space to be observed and pondered.
After three years of witnessing setbacks and struggles, do I still believe that peace is possible? Yes – because I have glimpsed some sort of order in the chaos. Peace is not built between nations and governments; it is painstakingly achieved through the work of neighbours and communities. It requires climbing to the top of those hills and surveying all that lies around, with eyes that are constantly straining to see from the Other’s perspective. It means attending to the Other’s hurt, even as we hunger desperately for justice to be served to us. It means the freeing of our minds and our bodies, so that they can begin the journey across borders and towards a deeper understanding of both the Other and Our Selves. This is an act with both personal and political ramifications. I have seen many people try, and fail, and try again to comprehend the nature of this conflict from all its aspects. I too have failed, time and time again. There are hills and mountains left to climb, there are a million voices yet to be heard. Yet there is inspiration everywhere, if we dare to look around.