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THE LANGUAGE WAS UNIVERSAL
By Donna Gorman
Christian Science Monitor, MA
Sept 10 2006
Making friends and learning the language in Armenia took longer than
expected - until the terrorist attacks of 9/11.
The house we moved into was huge and beautiful. The neighborhood
was supposed to be one of the best in all of Yerevan, the capital of
Armenia, but it didn't impress me.
Our elegant house was surrounded by an eight-foot wall topped with
gleaming metal spikes. The neighboring houses were large, and while
many were walled like ours, others were protected by flapping plastic
tarps or corrugated metal sheeting that rattled ominously in the
wind. Stray dogs roamed streets full of potholes. Soviet-era cars
careened down the hill, with no sidewalk separating pedestrians
from vehicles.
In the Monitor Monday, 09/11/06
Across the street was a small cinder-block building, a shop that had
been tacked onto the front of a house as an afterthought. The windows
of this squat little place were covered with bars. The walls were
crumbling, the paint peeling. Two scrawny cats groomed themselves at
the entrance.
Every day I walked past this little shop on my way down the hill to
work, and the laughter I heard from within seemed directed at me,
the foreigner. The metal shop door slammed closed behind customers
who exited with loaves of bread tucked under their arms, hurrying
past with surreptitious glances.
I couldn't see past the bars and the dusty glass, so I avoided the
store, choosing instead to frequent a larger one near my office,
even though I had to lug bags of groceries home on a rickety bus.
Then one day, I ran out of bread. I gathered my courage and opened that
creaking metal door, squinting into the shadows. Makeshift shelves
stretched from floor to ceiling, piled high with candy, shampoo,
and flour, among other necessities. A glass case filled with cheese
and sausage separated the customers from the cash register.
Another glass case, which ran the length of the shop, was filled with
ice cream. I stood cautiously near the door, looking for the bread.
The woman behind the counter smiled at me. In Russian, she greeted me:
"So you're the new neighbor. We've been expecting you. I'm Anna.
Come in, come in."
She called into a back room, summoning the rest of her family from
the house for introductions: her white-haired husband, Gevorg;
daughter-in-law, Hasmik; three sons; and two small grandchildren,
who hid behind their mother.
They all lived together in the house behind the shop, and they ran
the store together. They peppered me with questions, all speaking at
once in Russian, which I understood, and in Armenian, which I didn't.
It took 30 minutes to get the bread and cross the street again, and
in that time, I realized what a fool I'd been to travel across town
twice a week when everything I wanted was in that store.
A few days later, I ran out of eggs. I grabbed some change and dashed
across the street. This time, Anna introduced me to some of her other
customers. It took almost an hour to buy my eggs, as the neighbors
lined up to meet me, to ask me about America. These same neighbors
had seemed so unwelcoming, hostile even, just one week before.
On my third visit to the store, I confessed that I was studying
Armenian. So Anna switched from Russian to Armenian: "What do you
need today?" she asked me slowly.
The line behind me grew as I stumbled through my order, but Anna
wouldn't let me switch back to Russian. The store grew crowded as
my neighbors gathered to cheer me on, laughing good-naturedly at my
mistakes, pleased to hear me try.
Soon I began stopping by the store each day to greet Anna and buy a
crusty loaf of bread. One day I asked why she almost never took money
from anyone, choosing instead to write their totals in a dog-eared
book she kept by the register.
Her smile faded. "The people here, they are so poor, so poor. If they
can't pay now, I'll give them what they need. Some day, if they have
the money, they'll pay me back."
She pulled out her book. "This one here, she's a widow," Anna said.
"How will she survive without me?" The widow owed $75, an impossible
sum in a country where most don't earn that in a month. "This man lost
his job. But he has children to feed. They all have children to feed."
She put the book away, patting it carefully. "Some day, they will
pay me. And if they can't, well, I still can't turn them away."
When I had the time, I stood in the store practicing my Armenian with
anyone who stopped at the register. My Armenian improved slightly,
but it was still a struggle to speak and be understood.
I grew to love this place, so different from home. The people in
Anna's store seldom had any money, it's true, yet they weren't poor
except in the financial sense of the word. The friends I made were
loud and passionate people who shared what little they had with their
extended families. Families were close-knit, with several generations
under one roof - all pitching in to move each day forward.
On Sept. 11, 2001, I sat in my Armenian house and watched as the
faraway events unfolded on my television. I sat all afternoon and
into the evening - shocked, unmoving - eyes glued to the TV screen.
Although I'd lived overseas for years, I'd never felt quite so far
away from home, quite so lost in the middle of nowhere. The life I'd
constructed for myself in this land suddenly seemed lonely, and I
desperately wanted to be back in America, to grieve with people who
understood what had just happened.
The next morning, feeling a bit numb, I ventured out to work, past
the flapping plastic tarps and rattling metal fences - all familiar,
yet still eerie somehow.
On my way past the store, Anna ran out and stopped me. "We saw your
light on last night and wanted to come over," she said, "but we didn't
want to disturb you. Oh, I am so, so sad and sorry."
Behind her stood a small clutch of customers, my neighbors, all lined
up to offer me their condolences. Some cried when they spoke. They
spoke to me in Russian and in Armenian. And I understood.
By Donna Gorman
Christian Science Monitor, MA
Sept 10 2006
Making friends and learning the language in Armenia took longer than
expected - until the terrorist attacks of 9/11.
The house we moved into was huge and beautiful. The neighborhood
was supposed to be one of the best in all of Yerevan, the capital of
Armenia, but it didn't impress me.
Our elegant house was surrounded by an eight-foot wall topped with
gleaming metal spikes. The neighboring houses were large, and while
many were walled like ours, others were protected by flapping plastic
tarps or corrugated metal sheeting that rattled ominously in the
wind. Stray dogs roamed streets full of potholes. Soviet-era cars
careened down the hill, with no sidewalk separating pedestrians
from vehicles.
In the Monitor Monday, 09/11/06
Across the street was a small cinder-block building, a shop that had
been tacked onto the front of a house as an afterthought. The windows
of this squat little place were covered with bars. The walls were
crumbling, the paint peeling. Two scrawny cats groomed themselves at
the entrance.
Every day I walked past this little shop on my way down the hill to
work, and the laughter I heard from within seemed directed at me,
the foreigner. The metal shop door slammed closed behind customers
who exited with loaves of bread tucked under their arms, hurrying
past with surreptitious glances.
I couldn't see past the bars and the dusty glass, so I avoided the
store, choosing instead to frequent a larger one near my office,
even though I had to lug bags of groceries home on a rickety bus.
Then one day, I ran out of bread. I gathered my courage and opened that
creaking metal door, squinting into the shadows. Makeshift shelves
stretched from floor to ceiling, piled high with candy, shampoo,
and flour, among other necessities. A glass case filled with cheese
and sausage separated the customers from the cash register.
Another glass case, which ran the length of the shop, was filled with
ice cream. I stood cautiously near the door, looking for the bread.
The woman behind the counter smiled at me. In Russian, she greeted me:
"So you're the new neighbor. We've been expecting you. I'm Anna.
Come in, come in."
She called into a back room, summoning the rest of her family from
the house for introductions: her white-haired husband, Gevorg;
daughter-in-law, Hasmik; three sons; and two small grandchildren,
who hid behind their mother.
They all lived together in the house behind the shop, and they ran
the store together. They peppered me with questions, all speaking at
once in Russian, which I understood, and in Armenian, which I didn't.
It took 30 minutes to get the bread and cross the street again, and
in that time, I realized what a fool I'd been to travel across town
twice a week when everything I wanted was in that store.
A few days later, I ran out of eggs. I grabbed some change and dashed
across the street. This time, Anna introduced me to some of her other
customers. It took almost an hour to buy my eggs, as the neighbors
lined up to meet me, to ask me about America. These same neighbors
had seemed so unwelcoming, hostile even, just one week before.
On my third visit to the store, I confessed that I was studying
Armenian. So Anna switched from Russian to Armenian: "What do you
need today?" she asked me slowly.
The line behind me grew as I stumbled through my order, but Anna
wouldn't let me switch back to Russian. The store grew crowded as
my neighbors gathered to cheer me on, laughing good-naturedly at my
mistakes, pleased to hear me try.
Soon I began stopping by the store each day to greet Anna and buy a
crusty loaf of bread. One day I asked why she almost never took money
from anyone, choosing instead to write their totals in a dog-eared
book she kept by the register.
Her smile faded. "The people here, they are so poor, so poor. If they
can't pay now, I'll give them what they need. Some day, if they have
the money, they'll pay me back."
She pulled out her book. "This one here, she's a widow," Anna said.
"How will she survive without me?" The widow owed $75, an impossible
sum in a country where most don't earn that in a month. "This man lost
his job. But he has children to feed. They all have children to feed."
She put the book away, patting it carefully. "Some day, they will
pay me. And if they can't, well, I still can't turn them away."
When I had the time, I stood in the store practicing my Armenian with
anyone who stopped at the register. My Armenian improved slightly,
but it was still a struggle to speak and be understood.
I grew to love this place, so different from home. The people in
Anna's store seldom had any money, it's true, yet they weren't poor
except in the financial sense of the word. The friends I made were
loud and passionate people who shared what little they had with their
extended families. Families were close-knit, with several generations
under one roof - all pitching in to move each day forward.
On Sept. 11, 2001, I sat in my Armenian house and watched as the
faraway events unfolded on my television. I sat all afternoon and
into the evening - shocked, unmoving - eyes glued to the TV screen.
Although I'd lived overseas for years, I'd never felt quite so far
away from home, quite so lost in the middle of nowhere. The life I'd
constructed for myself in this land suddenly seemed lonely, and I
desperately wanted to be back in America, to grieve with people who
understood what had just happened.
The next morning, feeling a bit numb, I ventured out to work, past
the flapping plastic tarps and rattling metal fences - all familiar,
yet still eerie somehow.
On my way past the store, Anna ran out and stopped me. "We saw your
light on last night and wanted to come over," she said, "but we didn't
want to disturb you. Oh, I am so, so sad and sorry."
Behind her stood a small clutch of customers, my neighbors, all lined
up to offer me their condolences. Some cried when they spoke. They
spoke to me in Russian and in Armenian. And I understood.