Sako Arian
The Vernissage Market is that tiny part right in the heart of Yerevan
where one can find a collection of books, gifts, silver, and Armenian
souvenirs. This is where I first meet the prose writer Levon Djavakhyan.
“Vernissage was mainly set up during Armenia’s years of transition,” he
tells me, “when people were forced to bring their belongings and sell
them at accessible prices to make a living.”
Melik Arsinyan makes a living selling plates, Armenian-style hats, and canvases painted by his friends to make a living. He welcomes all with a smile, and dispells the idea that Yerevan residents are a sullen lot who do not know how to smile. He is not disappointed with the business he does, and compliments his wife. “I am very thankful to the people from the diaspora,” he exclaims when shaking my hand. “They are very pleasant. They come and make their purchases. We are very happy.” He then adds a loud, “Long live our nation!”
Melik Arsinyan makes a living selling plates, Armenian-style hats, and canvases painted by his friends to make a living. He welcomes all with a smile, and dispells the idea that Yerevan residents are a sullen lot who do not know how to smile. He is not disappointed with the business he does, and compliments his wife. “I am very thankful to the people from the diaspora,” he exclaims when shaking my hand. “They are very pleasant. They come and make their purchases. We are very happy.” He then adds a loud, “Long live our nation!”
Before visiting Melik, I passed by a few booksellers. They all refused to answer my questions and to be photographed.
On one end of Vernissage is a section devoted to booksellers where
Edik, a Yerevan resident around 65, is selling a copy of Gostan Zarian’s
The Ship on a Mountain for 1,000 AMD (US$ 2.50). Here, you can
find works published by HayBetHrat (*) on sale for decent prices. And
volumes by Terian, Charents, Shiraz, Sahian, and especially Sevak lined
up in neat rows.
Edik says these are the works that people look for the most. Unlike
Melik, Edik isn’t happy with the way his business is going, and tells me
he has to pay 10,000 AMD ($25) every 2 days for his stall spot. At the
end of our conversation, he forgets his complaining, and wishes us all
well. “The most cherished thing is life is your health,” he says.
My next stop is a stall run by a 70-year-old woman selling hats, army
clothes, shoes, and other items. She refuses to talk to me and somewhat
angrily warns me not to photograph her. “I don’t want to say anything
to you. I know nothing about this place,” she declares, adding, “Go talk
to the boss.”
There is such a class of people in Armenia, people getting by on
30,000-40,000 AMD per month (the average monthly pension in Armenia),
and they must become worthy of our attention and care. We can’t tolerate
that 22 years after independence, Armenians still face such daily
problems of survival. With these people, patriotic exhortations fall on
deaf ears. So you just hang your head and walk by.
It’s not surprising to meet people who once were professionals in
their fields and have now been relegated, through the exigencies of
time, to selling books and other items at the market.
One of them is Babken, who didn’t want me to take his photo. Babken
sells a variety of new and old books, especially art albums. “The
general impression that people don’t read is incorrect,” he says, adding
that people from all over the world make a beeline to Vernisaj to buy
books at highly competitive prices. Babken then tries to convince me
that he doesn’t like to give interviews, even though he says he highly
respects the diaspora and appreciates the role Armenian Diasporans play.
At every turn, one hears people haggling over prices: 3,000, 2,000,
1,000. Buyers and sellers usually agree to something in the middle.
The next man I meet is roaming the market looking for a bargain. “The
Vernisaj prices are quite low. Our people live poorly and can’t afford
expensive stuff. Here, the prices fit our budget,” he says. Turning to
the diaspora, he expresses the hope that ties between Armenia and the
diaspora grow stronger. “We lose out and so does the diaspora. I regret
the fact that there are so many intelligent people in the diaspora,
successful people, but there is no organization or leader that can unite
us all.” The man doesn’t want to give his name. Smiling, he adds, “Is
my name so important? Just say it’s an average Armenian, an average
Yerevan resident.”
In this part of Yerevan, it easy to spot foreign tourists. One is
Pierre from Belgium, who has come to Armenia with his Armenian
girlfriend. He tells me it’s his second trip and that he’s here to buy
old books. “You can find very rare books. Just today, for example, I
found a book on rug making written by Manya Ghazaryan.”
I talk with Kolya Andreasyan, who sells minutely detailed musical
instruments. “I made all this by hand,” he says. As I look over his
work, he continues, “I’m not complaining but the business here is
seasonal. Our business really picks up when the tourists arrive.”
Vernisaj’s only writer
It’s not easy talking with Levon Djavakhyan. He starts by asking what
I’m writing about, and then complains, “My boy, how can you write about
such a topic?” As I try to explain that I would like him to say a few
words about Vernisaj, one of his friends chimes in and speaks his mind.
Everyone in Yerevan seems to have an opinion on just about everything.
To regain control of the situation, I pull Levon to one side and try to wring a few words out of him. He says, “Life must be lived little by little. It’s not like drinking a glass of water in one gulp. I have just turned 60 and realize that you have to drink water by sipping it. I enjoy life the same way, little by little. People try to find happiness in life and have thousands of things to say about this. They search for happiness within happiness. If you set goals for yourself and try to achieve something, that itself is happiness. Life is all about resolving problems.”
To regain control of the situation, I pull Levon to one side and try to wring a few words out of him. He says, “Life must be lived little by little. It’s not like drinking a glass of water in one gulp. I have just turned 60 and realize that you have to drink water by sipping it. I enjoy life the same way, little by little. People try to find happiness in life and have thousands of things to say about this. They search for happiness within happiness. If you set goals for yourself and try to achieve something, that itself is happiness. Life is all about resolving problems.”
“If you write, you are setting down a series of issues. If you live
and see a ceiling in front of you that you’d like to reach, that too is a
miracle. One must live before dying and a writer, a good one, lives
until immortality, and only after does he die. That isn’t happiness but
paradise.”
Djavakhyan, who sells silver crosses, chains, rings, and earrings,
didn’t stay cooped up at home during the years of transition, lazily
boasting that he was a writer and that the nation was obliged to take
care of him. Instead, he struggled to maintain his dignity.
The first drops of rain begin to fall, wetting the pavement of
Northern Boulevard as I walk its expansive length. I sit down at my
favorite spot and begin to write. My keyboard isn’t angry; there is no
ire hidden beneath my words and sentences. There is no political message
or superfluous angst. Just a search for love in a city destined to be
ours. You must snatch the first and last words of love from its
residents, from its blackened and rain-soaked faces, from the mouths of
the people who call it home, struggling with the tribulations of
surviving in it.
Sure, there are people here who barely get by from day to day. Sure,
there are people here whose poverty and pain belongs to us all.
But, it is ours.
At first glance, this city is crude, Caucasian, with a pronounced unappealing streak. But, deep within, it is different.
It is important to enter its depths. There are great reserves of love to be found there.
One must knock on the door and enter inside. After a tiring day,
sweaty, burdened with all the emotions of longing and having a morsel to
eat, when you turn the key in the door of your house…
Yerevan is inside you.
Inside are friends and family. Inside is your world. With all it
possesses—its history, struggle, its emigrant past, quests, and most
importantly, its word.
This is Yerevan.
With great dreamers ready to greet winter with a cup of tea.
This is how I spent my one day in Yerevan.
"The Armenian Weekly," November 26, 2013
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