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Instead of an Epilogue, an Obituary [January 19, 2005] Nubarashen Cemetery , Yerevan -- 6 January 2005 , the day that Armenians celebrate Christmas. The gravedigger leads the way to where, in the section of the Nubarashen cemetery reserved for the dispossessed, two homeless people were due to be buried. Due to heavy snowfall, however, the vehicle that should have brought the bodies from the morgue could not make its journey on this particular day. Not that anyone will notice the delay. There will be no names or the date of their birth and death marked on the graves as nobody really knows who is in the coffins. The gravedigger admits that sometimes the friends of the homeless come for the burials but even then, they often don't know the real names of those being buried. Instead, there will just be a number. Back in the centre of Yerevan , in the park surrounding the Chamber Music Hall , the snow that fell the previous evening lies heavy on the ground. The homeless in the park were freezing. "Will you give me one glass of vodka," asks Bash as he shivers from head to toe -- it's the only way they can "warm" themselves up. Noro says that Bash was feeling bad that night. "Yes," he admits. "I am not well. If you can, please take me to a hospital." When someone like Bash, who spent 25 years of his life in prisons, says something like that it means you have to listen. "He has never said anything like this," says Noro in a low voice. It means that he is very bad." But attempts to have Bash admitted into a hospital proved futile. The hospitals refused to examine him. On 6 January 2005 , 1,703 years after Armenia adopted Christianity as its state religion and on the day Christmas is celebrated in a country so proud of its religious heritage, not one institution was willing to take in or provide shelter to the vagrant. Eventually, On 10 January, representatives of the French wing of the international medical organization, Médecins Sans Frontières, visited the homeless sleeping in the park near the Chamber Music Hall . With their assistance, Bash was finally admitted into the Burns Centre and Raffik received some medical help before being sent back to his former "place of residence." The hospital charged 15,000 drams for bandaging the hands of a man with no money. Bash is dead
Bash, whose real name is Samvel, died on 14 January 2005 . A week earlier while preparing the first draft of an article about him on the occasion of his birthday, I had written that this was definitely his last. My colleagues, however, suggested that to say such things about the living was inappropriate and so, I took the line out. Nevertheless, the feeling that Bash had only a few days left to live still remained with me. Not unexpectedly, Bash died in hospital. His body was languished. For eighteen days he hadn't eaten anything. In hospital Bash couldn't even sleep on a bed. Instead, he put the bedding on the floor and lay there. This person, who had slept on the ground for nine years, couldn't even lie on a bed. "I am falling down from the bed on to the floor without even trying," he said. Yet, on his last day on earth he finally lay on what would become his death bed. Gasping and helpless without any energy at all, doctors tried to revive him so that they could operate on his frozen feet which needed amputation, but with no success. On that same day I had been writing an account to represent to the New York Armenian Student Association who had donated $200 to help the homeless in Yerevan . I had already bought underwear and clothes for Bash and had taken food for him to eat at the hospital. Unfortunately, he still wasn't eating and he only wore some of the clothes I had brought only once. All our attempts to save him were in vain.
Later, I didn't know what to say to Ruzan, Natasha, Rafo, Noro, Miko and Gor who were sitting in the park near the Chamber Music Hall. I didn't know how to tell them the news and so I started talking to Natasha who had bruises under her eyes. According to Natasha, a friend had told her not to have any connection with "that prostitute, Ruzan" and when she defended her friend's reputation she was beaten. She had come to the park to spend the night. "Bash died today," I finally said. Nobody said a word as they looked grief-stricken in my direction. "You know, I spent five years with him," Gor eventually cried out loudly, breaking the silence. And then, everyone started to remember Bash, sharing their memories with each other and with me. He was a kind person, they agreed, who helped everyone and was well respected. He had a son, they said, although none of them knew how to find him. Now, if his son isn't found, Bash will be buried alongside the other unclaimed dead in the cemetery for the homeless in Yerevan and all that will mark his grave will be a number. "A few days ago he said that he'll live to be 104 years," said Noro before the group drank to their dead friend's memory and so that his soul would finally find some rest. "Please, take me out of this and help me overcome this situation," said Rafo as he took me to one side. Bash's death had sobered him up but all I could do was say goodbye and promise to visit the next day. As I left, the group continued to drink vodka to resist the evening cold and also, I suspect, to come to terms with the death of their friend. Edik Baghdasarian |
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