“Yerevan Is My Hometown”
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“Live Concert”
Books lay in disarray on the floor of the empty room. We were busy repainting the walls of our house. We were newcomers but knew nearly all the neighbors by face. To tell the truth, that was not too hard a thing to do. Our apartment was on the ground floor with an open balcony. Our curious neighbors took advantage of that fact and often peeped in to see what we were busy with.
“Have they added anything new today?” an old woman asked and took a seat near the others. They had even put a long bench under the balcony to be able to follow every step of ours and analyze whatever we did.
“Nothing new, I think,” answered another old lady, who was cleaning green beans and placing them in a pan full of water next to her knees. “They are just painting walls over there”. “Are they?” asked the newcomer.
I glanced around and caught some tension in the eyes of the workers. Judge for yourself, is it pleasant to work knowing that you are being watched, and having people discuss whatever you do? “I wonder why they paint the walls white,” mumbled an old woman sipping her coffee. “Green, dark red, but never white. White is not for walls.”
My father blushed in anger but didn't utter a word. He is a patient man.
“Renovations, renovations!!” exclaimed an old man coming out of our exit. “The renovation has started and I wasn't told, what a shame!”
In a minute he was gone but then was back again with some buddies of his. They hadn't forgotten to bring the backgammon, a couple of chairs and a table. “Hi, everybody,” cried one of the old men, waving at us. Old men are different; they don't just sit like the old ladies do. They take active participation in all the repairs -- sharing opinions, giving advice, talking directly to the workers, the main characters in the spectacle.
“So, you are painting the walls today? You'd better ask for advice, we may be of help,” said an old man shaking the backgammon dice in his fist.
“Oh, you are so kind,” mumbled one of the workers to himself but he only smiled to the old man in response.
“I don't think you hold the brush the right way,” cried one of the old men in a high tone.
“Thanks a lot, I think I do things the right way,” answered the house painter, smiling.
“The right way, hmm…,” smiled the adviser in a self-contained manner.
The advice sessions followed one another until the evening. The best thing about old people is the fact that they go to bed early. It is only after their departure that we could take a breath.
“I'll move from this flat as soon as an opportunity arises. These people think they have come to watch a performance which we are the main actors of”, father said.
“We are fish in an aquarium with fish for them would say,” mother added gloomily.
I was about to say that a zoo was the most suitable description for the situation, but the sudden sight of a stranger standing in the room scared me to death. He gazed at the walls with a master's calm look, and then added quietly but in an even tone, “So, you are renovating,” he said. No one answered. We were horrified. “Oh, please don't answer. I know everything. You look tired,” continued the newcomer and smiled. No response followed.
“I knew it, I knew it sirs. I have fish… just caught them. Do you want some? It's cheap, 100 drams each.” He showed us the product and continued talking “Quite the wrong idea about the oven. Instead of switching it on to cook this delicious fish, you are sitting on it.”
Our cries full of indignation stopped the man from talking more and he left the same way he had come, i.e. the balcony.
Similar stories accompanied our work throughout the renovation. We still live in the flat but father closed off the balcony. We barely talked father out of concreting the windows shut.
Gor Baghdasaryan
15 years old
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“Fatty, Lendroush and the Death Fighter”
“Dave, would you like to go out to play with the other children?” mother asked, not believing I would take her up on it.
“Have I ever gone out, Mom?” I asked. “But… well, I think I will go out for a second.”
I opened the door. It was as though they were shooting a film. Everyone was busy doing something -- some were playing hopscotch, some were teasing kittens, and some their children. Some young people were even trying to show they were stronger than the little kids.
“Fatty! Hey, Fatty go and fetch a cigarette from the shop over there,” said a boy looking at Fatty.
“I thought you had outgrown doing things like that,” reproached Fatty's mother. “Go and fetch a cigarette — what does that mean?”
Suddenly something else caught my attention. At end of the street there stood a car. Some naughty children were playing behind it and two of our neighbors' kids were among them. I was surprised when I understood what they were doing. The children were trying to organize kitten fights.
Suddenly there came the angry voice of Ann's mother, “Ann, what are doing?”
“Yeah, Mom, Narek is here with me.”
“Did I ask where Narek is? I want to know what you are doing.”
“I see, Mom, that's right.”
Perhaps you understand already that Ann is a strange girl and her mother is even stranger. From God knows where Nacy the dog was heard barking and there appeared the eldest resident of our street, Mr. Lendroush. “Nacy, Nacy,” shouted the old man, who had been fighting death for many years.
Margo's cries got mixed with dog barking. “Sister Sonig, Sister Sonig!” Margo is our street BBC. “Do you want watermelon?”
“How much does it cost?”
“One hundred drams a kilo.”
“We are neighbors. Can't you sell it cheaper?”
“Dogs are your neighbors,” mumbled Margo with an artificial smile, and added “Sister Sonig, I am sorry but I can't do that.”
To cut the story short, I returned the way I had gone out.
David Babayan
15 years old
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“Summer Evenings in the Park”
I was still at home. The phone rang. My friend was calling. I chattered with her a bit and told her I would meet her in the park. It was June, my favorite month. June is fun. I like it when the holidays have started and people haven't left for other places. I don't miss my classmates in June as I can see them in the park and talk for hours on end without having to think about lessons. My sister and brother were ready. Father was not coming with us; he had decided to stay at home and enjoy reading quietly, in peace. Mother put on her shoes and we went out. Everyone thought we were going out for a walk. Please don't tell anyone but I am going somewhere else. I am going to catch a miracle. I take pleasure in watching people walk calmly in no rush.
It was a bit dark in the park, the trees were high and it seemed we were in a crowded wood. I saw an old woman selling sunflower seeds and wanted to buy some from her. I was sure she would ask to weigh myself for a price and I would agree. She would repeat my weight in a gentle voice for the 7th time in a week, 30th time in a month. I wish all people were as kind as this woman. People talk to one another in calm voices – discussing their concerns and everyday difficulties. Sometimes they seem not to listen to one another as they talk and it seems as though they get relieved simply by talking. Maybe only the trees, the Hrazdan River, or the wind listen to them. That's not what matters. Everyone around is calm, very relaxed and that's the most important thing.
Naneh Sahakyan
15 years old
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“Mosaic”
This is our neighborhood. So what if the swing is rusty and it's hard to guess what color it used to be? So what if only bent iron strings are left of it and so what if even repairing these strings wouldn't bring it to life? I like my neighborhood. I like the old orchards with trees that don't give fruit anymore, except for the mulberry tree. Usual trees are so old they don't even give buds in the spring. We have a lot of mulberries in the summer, a lot for everybody to taste. The old and the young gather under the tree, and hold a sheet under it. The mulberries first fall slowly, then quicker and quicker onto the sheet, on our heads, and on the ground like hail. The old don't eat the mulberries from the ground; they say they are dirty and muddy, but we don't pay attention to mud and dirt, so we eat a lot.
By the way we, the children, have much to be proud of. We have come to know one another and make friends all by ourselves. In this sense we have had little to learn from the old. The old are not communicative at all. The old men only gather outside to play backgammon. The others are rather cold people. You can never ask them for eggs if you don't have any at home and want to make an omelet. How can they? What a shame!
Our neighborhood is full of strange and interesting people. Look at that tall man standing by the garbage. He is searching for rusty iron pieces that he can get money for. Besides, he fixes all the cars in our neighborhood.
Now, look left. See that man in an old black suit? He is from our part of the building. He always greets everybody in a polite way, even if they fail to do it first. Sometimes it seems to me that this man hates me because he makes a fool of me. whenever I greet him in Armenian he answers me in Russian, but when I speak Russian to him first, he gets insulted and says, “Do you think I don't know Armenian?”
Do you hear the sound of flowing water? Our neighbor is washing his car again. He washes it more often than he drives it. He is a very strict man, and the only man able to control the naughty children of our yard.
Then there comes our “favorite,” Mr.Gerasim. He is a bit strange, and not only the children have noticed this, but also the adults. He buys a newspaper everyday and puts it fourfold under his arm. He is short, walks with a quick, bent-over pace, has a smile on his face, and two agile eyes that move strangely quick for his age. It is not surprising in this context that we strain ourselves at his sight, greet him politely and mock him behind his back. I know this is not nice but he takes us for little kids and we just try to behave like them.
In a word, our neighborhood is a good one.
Anoush Mouradyan
14 years old
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“Gloomy People”
My street or, better to say, my neighborhood, is made up of rows of similar and gloomy houses, and people living here are also gloomy. In the morning the house yards are empty, some people can only be seen yawning and trying to catch a taxi. After a while, the trade booths standing along our street start to open. One can hear the voices of children having come to buy bread, “Mr. Sourik do you have bread.” “For you I have bread, dear,” replies Mr. Sourik heartily, passing the loaf.
In a minute the street is filled with children coming with school bags. Senior students without backpacks, just a copy-book and polished shoes, slowly follow the hasty crowd of juniors. Some senior students come to school by their own cars with music loudly playing in them. They drive their cars breaking all the possible traffic rules and hooting at the girls who c ross the street.
The shoe man, Arsen, wearing an apron opens his orange booth which looks more like a gathering place for backgammon players.
At noon, fat granny Arev appears and she sells fruit on the sidewalk. She always smiles and tells me every time she sees me in the street, “Let God's blessing be with you.”
I forgot to mention the fire station, with high buildings and a square which is also on our street. The station has a large area where children usually play football. The match is interrupted from time to time by the fire-engine horn. These big red cars sound menacing. When they pass along the streets it feels like an earthquake.
There are many children in our neighborhood in the afternoon. One can hear Manan shouting, “You don't play the right way.” A child stands under our balcony and cries out “mom, mom” constantly. To tell the truth, I don't even know who this child is.
I always go out with my dog. It is very kind, but looks very scary. We are walking along the street. A woman is standing afar with her baby in her arms and is crying to me, “Take your dog away!” Old women are sitting on the bench gossiping about this and that. I am passing by these women and hear them say unpleasant things about my dog. I try not to pay any attention. It is so typical to hear them say things like this. What can I do? These people don't like animals and this is perhaps why they look so gloomy.
Elen Gyoulnazaryan
13 years old
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“I feel at home here”
The school bell rang and I got up. Then I heard noise coming out of the bakery. In my dream it sounded like the menacing school bell ring. I approached the window sleepily, opened it and leaned out. I could smell the newly baked bread in the air. Then I heard another ring, it was the honk of the green car.
Now I am on my way to school. The road looks like a construction place full of stones, and there was water coming out of the damaged pipes. Many children pass along this green path leading to the gates of knowledge.
“Hello,” a rusty haired face looking like a burnt corn greeted me. “Is Sona coming to classes today?” It was a classmate of my sister, Sona. “She'll be here in a second; she is busy combing her hair at the moment.”
I keep walking. Here, in this place, I usually run into my friend with a sparkling face. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I greeted my friend sleepily. I respect and love my friend very much. He is my best friend.
Now I am back at home, calmly having lunch in the kitchen. I hear people talking under our window, “Father, tell Ashot to let me ride the bicycle.”
“Hey, you, give the bicycle to Gevorg.”
I finished my lunch. Now I am standing by the oven making coffee. I hear them yelling outside, “Tigran, come home. You have homework to do” our neighbor's voice broke the air and it seemed she was about to fall down.
“Coming, mom!”
Then came the most interesting moment, the moment when I was to take Moush out for a walk. Moush looks mad, then I put him in his stroller and took him around our neighborhood to try and introduce it to him. Then come the ten top guys of our yard: Tsit, Mkho, Bidza, Abo and some more. Abo leads these ten and I don't like him. I think this place should have been taken over by the shop owner, Aro.
I went on pushing my brother's stroller crazily. At this time in the kindergarten playground, I always meet Mrs. Arous, the queen of fairy tales and kindness. When she smiles, her wrinkles remind me of “Tsilimon Tale” which my parents used to read to me at nights. I love Mrs. Arous a lot. Now she tells stories to other children but I don't know what kind of stories exactly- fairy tales or the adventures of Zorro.
“Car,” Moush pointed his finger.
Moush's voice wakes me up. I am at home, it's six o'clock . I am in the kitchen doing my homework for tomorrow. At least the books are spread on the table and this means I am supposed to learn. “Dad, tell Gevork to give the bicycle to me.”
“Hey, Tiko, I am counting to three and you are supposed to be home by the time I finish,” cried out aunt Nara .
“Sorry, but I am not coming, Mom.”
“Not coming?”
I looked back at my books. The pile was still on the table. The only difference was that it was eight o'clock now.
“Know what is waiting for you here at home, Tigran? Just come home, yeah, just come… ” I can't tell you much about my street. Perhaps you already figured out that I am too busy with my lessons all day long. I don't have time to go out or tell you a lot. I have much homework to do. I know we are going to move from this place soon and I am sure I'll be missing this boring and gloomy neighborhood.
Maneh Tonoyan
14 years old
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“Neighborhood of my dreams”
Our street is very noisy; it's full of all kinds of people who come here to eat barbecue. There are many restaurants on our street and it's normal to hear the drunks fight at night. There are often cases when the police arrive and take a guilty person to the police station.
The yard is on the other side of the street but I've only been there once. There are so many cars there that it is impossible to play.
Here there are neither old men playing backgammon, nor old women serving coffee to one another. I do not like my neighborhood, I feel like a stranger there.
In the neighborhood of my dreams, children will be busy with their games, and the old men playing backgammon. I wish there were many trees and flowers in our neighborhood. I wish the rustling of leaves were the only noises troubling people at night.
Narineh Daneghyan
12 years old
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“Self-portrait”
Mrs. Anik is the oldest resident on our street. She lives opposite our house on the other side of the stream. The stream divides our street into two. Many of those who live here have stories about the stream. I can't imagine our neighborhood without it, or without Mrs. Anik. The stream, Mrs. Anik, and her bench form a unity, a part of the street. I think Mrs. Anik looks like the mulberry tree in our yard. Her face and hands look like the tree bark. They are brown and wrinkled. Mrs. Anik lives alone, but her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren are her frequent guests.
Then there are Mr. Zhora and Mrs. Olga. Grandpa Zhora came to Armenia when he was 27. He had spent his childhood and youth in Greece . Grandpa Zhora has a cow with a broken horn. The cow had once fallen into the stream and broken its horn. Mrs. Olga had once fallen there, too, but didn't sink because she was so fat. Only some strong men were only able to take her out of the stream.
Sister Eran lives on the other side of the stream. To tell the truth, she is an aunt and even a grandmother but makes everyone call her sister. Sister Eran lived alone or, to be more accurate, with some ten cats. The name of these cats' grandmother was Maneh. My sister, though younger than the cat, had the same name. When Maneh the Cat died Sister Eran buried her and put a stone over her grave. My sister, Maneh, reminded Sister Eran of her dear cat and she used to cry every time she saw her. Some of Mrs. Eran's cats had fallen into the stream and sunk and for that reason she didn't like it.
Uncle Yervand and Mrs. Lilik also live in our street. Once I used to play with their calves, which are now big cows whose milk we drink.
Uncle Samvel is another member of our neighborhood. He lives here with his family and a dog called Vanda. Once Vanda scared me, and I scared it back. After that incident, Samvel would take Vanda out only when I was at home so that we wouldn't meet.
Next comes my grandpa. My grandparents visit us nearly every morning and leave our place in the evening. Grandpa is a jack of all trades, and that's the reason people love and respect him. When any problem arises with someone's phone, Artsroun is ready to help. If an animal or even a child is sinking- no problem if Artsroun is somewhere nearby. In a word, he is always of help to everyone: to my brother whose bicycle has a flat tyre, to the neighborhood children who need a swing.
Sometimes it seems to me that all the people round are wicked. But at those moments I remember my grandfather. He is the kindest person on the earth.
So this is how people look in our neighborhood.
Lusine Hakobyan
13 years old
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“The best is still to come”
I still don't know my street well because I just moved here in the fall. At first glance it is just another boring place. It is really not pleasant to hear people shout all kinds of things at you as you walk along the street every day. “Who is she? Looks short, yeah? Her clothes… look at her clothes…”
You enter a shop to buy something and the neighborhood guys manage to check you out up and down before you do the shopping. Then they exclaim to one another, “Serob, come here, have a look at her socks…”
I have only written bad things about my street because I know very little about it, and I hope the best is still to come.
Naira Isahakyan
15 years old
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“We are not alone”
Our neighborhood is very noisy as we often go out to play. The garden overlooking our yard is a favorite place for children, as well as the football field where boys hold matches. Once, I remember, the ball rolled to the garden. A kid picked it up to pass it to the football players and dropped the ball in the mud.
“What are you doing? Didn't you see I was running after the ball?” yelled one of the players. The kid burst into tears as a result. In a minute, all the neighbors were looking out of their windows.
“Hey, boy, aren't you ashamed? ...making the kid cry?” echoed the voices of women hanging out of the balconies.
The players left the garden with their heads down. As for us, we continued playing peacefully under our mothers' watchful looks.
Anna Masouryan
13 years old
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“Lizok”
I live in a 12-story building and my only friend in this huge building is Liza, an eleven-year-old girl who lives next to us. What would the kids of our neighborhood do without Liza, or Lizok, as they warmly call her?
It was a pleasant summer day. We were out pouring water on each other. Lizok wasn't there. She was ill, lying in her bed. It was sad without her.
Suddenly we saw Lizok coming. Though she was ill, she agreed to join us. I think she shouldn't have. A high temperature and long hours in bed followed these few minutes of fun. All of us visited her in groups until she recovered.
Maneh Tsatouryan
11 years old
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“Gluttons”
Our yard is so big that my sister's classmates are afraid to stay there alone. Lots of kids want to go there. They usually follow us and then hide somewhere. These kids know where everything is in our yard and often come in to steal our apples and eat them.
Arpine Aghayan
10 years old
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“Quiet neighborhood”
We live on the ground floor of one of the houses situated near the Liberty Square. Can you imagine what it means to live on the ground floor? All the time, from morning till evening, our neighbors bounce a ball on the first floor. Thump, thump…the ball makes much noise and we hear the old woman living on the upper floor cry, “Tatevik, hurry up. Your homework, dear, your homework!” Then she yells at her other granddaughter, “Luso, come up, eat something.”
Noises come from everywhere, cars honk, people sell bleach calling out “Bleach, the best bleach today!”, others offer to try their tasty sour cream, or to buy their brooms.
We couldn't stand the awful noise of the street, so we moved to a quieter quarter. We don't regret having moved here from the noisy city center. From time to time I only hear Maneh- Mrs. Ofik's granddaughter read the letters aloud at one o'clock in the morning, “Capital letter A, small letter a, Capital letter B, small…” She reads until both me and her are asleep.
Garoun Partakchyan
13 years old
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