— Mr Matevosyan, some years ago an interview with you appeared in a Moscow journal and was received in Armenia with bewilderment and alarm. Speaking of the genocide of 1915, you said there that enough had been said about it, that it was time to stop rubbing salt into old wounds. Years later, seemingly taking his cue from this and developing your argument in his own peculiar way, Anar called the Armenian people “masochists”. Knowing you and your work, I am more than convinced that this was a painful misunderstanding…
— I understand what you mean. My interviewer was Alla Marchenko, and the interview appeared in Voprosy Literatury. I said there that I feel physical pain every time the genocide is mentioned, that these reminders make me ill. The final text was not cleared with me, which is why it contains several regrettable errors. I claim my people’s past as my own, including the genocide. What I meant was this: one should either write brilliantly about the genocide or not write about it at all. I know of only a few fully realised works of high literary merit about the genocide of 1915. They are Franz Werfel’s The Forty Days of Musa Dagh, the Armenian-American writer Leon Zaven Surmelian’s I Ask You, Ladies and Gentlemen, and Gurgen Mahari’s Burning Orchards. Perhaps these are the best works. Moreover, while Werfel and Surmelian were in a sense observers, since the genocide was their object of description, the same cannot be said of Mahari. He seemed to show it from within, because he himself had lived through it. It is like describing the sickness of your own body, your own gangrene. In the novel, the author is both the small, defenceless creature burning in the flames of genocide and the eagle soaring above those bloody events.
— But how do you reconcile that view with the accusations established in literary criticism that Mahari’s novel contains numerous errors, including political ones? The writer has even been accused of a pro-Turkish approach…
— I agree that the novel contains inaccuracies, and they can be explained by the writer’s party allegiance and outlook. Setting aside the many existing points of view, he clung to just one, the one closest to his heart. And he made all the immense documentary material at his disposal serve that point of view. As for Mahari’s pro-Turkish position, that is a very complex question and must not be reduced to something simplistic. Let us try to understand him. As a native of Van, he had the moral right to tell us: whether your intentions were good or bad, you enraged the Turks, and this is what came of it. My birthplace has been demolished, my home destroyed, I have been forcibly driven from my ancestral house, my family and loved ones have been murdered and tortured…
— The situation is repeating itself remarkably. Today we hear once again: well, is this what you wanted? If it were not for you, we would be living in peace and harmony with the Azerbaijanis… I agree that these people have lost a great deal and suffered many privations; they too must be understood. But there is another truth as well: Karabakh was an abscess that sooner or later had to burst…
— Some Western Armenian political figures—Ormanian, Otian and others—favoured reforms; their aim was to secure autonomy for the Armenians within the Ottoman Empire. They worked with like-minded Turks and hoped for a peaceful, political solution to the Armenian Question. But to assert that the genocide resulted from Armenian provocations, that the massacres of Armenians in Sumgait, Kirovabad and Baku, or the blockade of Armenia and Artsakh, can be explained as a natural Azerbaijani reaction is, to say the least, immoral and absurd. It is an explanation imposed by the Turks. It is as though a murderer, seeking to justify himself, said that the victim was to blame for behaving badly.
— A few years ago there was talk that you were unable to write after “Sumgait”, that you had not written a line since then. Many of our writers were in a similar state. Yet today the people need the writer’s voice more than ever. Many have returned to literary work and active involvement. What would you say about this: does your depressed state still persist?
— Yes, it does. Sometimes I feel it will never pass. But literature did not begin with me, nor will it end with me. The genocide destroyed Tumanyan, but that same genocide gave life to Charents. It was during those terrible years of genocide that Charents began creating his masterpieces, began writing the literary chronicle of his age. So I place great hope in our young writers, who look with open eyes at the cruelties and barbarities inflicted on their compatriots and loved ones…
— Yet particular hopes were placed in you, since your authority is especially great. Please do not take this as a reproach, but I could not help thinking of Aitmatov: he never missed an opportunity to approach the microphone, explaining, clarifying, commenting, teaching, offering advice…
— That too is not difficult to explain. The thing is that my right to speak on television had been handed over to Aitmatov. In other words, he spoke for me, for Vasil Bykau, Nodar Dumbadze, Oles Honchar, Justinas Marcinkevičius—in short, on behalf of our multinational brotherhood of writers. On the one hand, Aitmatov was a son of the empire; on the other, a committed advocate of decentralisation. And finally, he was one of perestroika’s devoted supporters, Gorbachev’s right-hand man and the man who put his ideas into practice.
In any case, I was never on an equal footing with Chingiz Aitmatov. It was easier for him to speak of friendship between peoples, because the characters in his books were Kazakhs and Kyrgyz, and those peoples are very, very close in ethnic and ethnographic terms. Now imagine my position: I had to find common ground between Armenians and Azerbaijanis, portray their friendship. Yet that friendship was highly artificial, held together with spit, and often led to sad incidents and failures. What is more, I was firmly convinced that all Azerbaijanis, young and old, were sharpening their knives against us.
— As a result, the Armenian people’s pain remained unexpressed, locked inside itself, alien and incomprehensible to the other peoples of the world. In any event, how did you respond to the collapse of the empire?
— The empire collapsed, came crashing down on us all; its collapse passed through every one of us and, whatever we may say, caused us great pain. And I ask myself and others: was there really no way to avoid so many losses, those countless lives wiped out?
— But the empire would have had to collapse sooner or later in any case. In my view there is not much to regret.
— Today we are settling our accounts with the empire after the fact, but that empire fed and clothed us all. We smiled, we laughed, we were content with life, we were masters of our own lives. We made fun of our leaders and their lavish kisses, encountered political and everyday duplicity, hypocrisy and sanctimony everywhere, yet somehow we lived. And I say: long live our life of yesterday, with all its shortcomings and distortions. Incidentally, perhaps our only gain today is the truth. Though even that sole gain can be called into question if one wishes. We have paid very dearly for it: around us are chaos, decay, hunger and privation, the dead, hostages, refugees… Around us is a bleeding Armenia; Georgia is in the flames of civil war; Azerbaijan is enraged, lashing out at itself and others; and… everywhere bewilderment, dejection, a sense of hopelessness… You may find this absurd, an anomaly, but long live yesterday’s empire! Russia has its interests and its mission in the Caucasus. You may say what you please, but the fact remains: for two hundred years people here did not tear out one another’s throats.
— But why did you not speak about this earlier, during the first stages of perestroika or the early period of the Karabakh movement?
— I opposed the empire’s collapse because I understood that the winds of change might sweep away my small people. I opposed Gorbachev’s perestroika because I foresaw the inevitable, irreversible consequences with which that “perestroika” was fraught. But you must agree that it would have been an act of enormous audacity and sacrilege to declare at a rally that raising the question of Karabakh’s self-determination was very, very dangerous and premature. Not just I—no one would have dared say it. Before, I was a master of the empire. I was a master of twenty-two million square kilometres. Today Sevan and Zangezur face a very real threat. Before, I could afford to intervene in Russia’s internal affairs: in my novellas and stories I could criticise and express dissatisfaction, and I was taken seriously; no one said to me: who are you to teach us how to live? Get back to your Armenia. Today I hear that at every turn.
— How do you see our present social situation?
— May God protect us. What social situation can we even speak of?
— Can we draw closer to Turkey?
— As they say, everything is in God’s hands. Sometimes I think it is possible, but when I hear Özal’s or Demirel’s anti-Armenian speeches, it becomes clear to me that we Armenians have nothing to seek in Turkey. And I turn towards Russia again. Let it be a ruined Russia, a Russia of Cossacks, alcoholics, drug addicts and syphilitics; once, however, something like salvation came from there, and that gives me hope.
— But surely it was Levon Ter-Petrosyan himself who said, with Turkey in mind, that there are no eternal enemies or friends…
— At the time I regarded the rally speeches of Levon Ter-Petrosyan, Vano Siradeghyan and others as a children’s game. They reminded me of boys who have an interesting book at home: after reading a few pages, they rush out to tell their friends what they have learned, then run home to go on reading. And I waited for a higher intelligence to appear from somewhere in the form of a powerful man and order the square to be cleared. But he never came. Reason never prevailed, and the theatre of the absurd continues to this day.
— What is your attitude towards the republic’s leadership?
— Our existence rests on the trinity of “country—people—state”. By country I mean the territory with its natural resources: soil, forests, lakes and rivers. I am not speaking of an Armenia “from sea to sea”, but a country needs a critical mass. We do not have that country; in other words, we lack the necessary quantity of critical mass that can turn into quality. And there is no need to cite Luxembourg: these are incomparable categories. The absence of a country destroys the trinity. Let us try together to answer the question of what our government can do in the present situation. Suppose we have enough food for two months. With proper management, meaning proper distribution, it could last not two months but six. So, looking at the root of the matter, our present difficulties and privations are due less to a government unable to manage the republic’s economy than to our being cut off, torn away from every context, both the Union and the wider world. Before, we lived, and lived reasonably well, because an immense state fed and supplied us. We represented that state, spoke in its name; we did not feel orphaned or abandoned. On the contrary, we felt strong and confident because behind us stood an immensely powerful country, ready to defend us and our interests. Our migrant workers went to different republics for seasonal work; scientists were sent to Moscow to conduct research and improve their qualifications; people sought protection and justice in Moscow against the injustices of local authorities. You can curse the Soviet period in the harshest terms, paint our people’s life during it in the blackest colours—that is your business, your right. But do not forget that many of the greatest achievements of Armenian culture, art and literature were created in those very years. And now we find ourselves in a wholly unnatural situation: every sphere of our life is endangered—social, economic, political, cultural… Our gene pool is endangered, as is this small fragment of territory called Armenia. Many questions trouble and torment me, questions I would like to put to our government, to our president, Levon Ter-Petrosyan. I will ask them those questions, but only when I myself have the answers.
— Mr Matevosyan, how do you explain the fact that you have never once spoken in parliament? Correct me if I am wrong.
— No, you are not wrong. I was wrong to agree to become a member of parliament. I simply had an outdated idea of what parliamentary work involved. In reality, it turned out to demand great energy, an immense effort and undivided commitment. I understand those who had previously achieved nothing in any field, had been unable to find their place in life, and then in parliament discovered their talents and found themselves. But I had more or less established myself in literature; I had my regular occupation and a definite range of interests. So I should not have taken up work that was not mine. I repeat: I imagined parliament would meet three times a year for two hours to approve all decrees and decisions unanimously. Since my imaginary model of parliament bore no resemblance to the real one, I shall be glad to end my parliamentary work and return to writing.
— Which Russian writers could you call your friends?
— For a long time I thought Valentin Rasputin and I would become friends, but our closeness never developed into a true friendship. Nor can I call Viktor Astafyev my friend, though I value his work very highly. Sometimes I even feel as though I had written his works myself. Perhaps the word “friendship” would be more fitting for my relationship with Andrei Bitov.
— And one last question. What awaits us in the near future?
— You know, I have never assumed the pose of a prophet, never considered myself all-knowing. The one thing I can say with certainty is that I believe unconditionally in my people. I believe they will find the right path, find within themselves enough vitality and moral strength to overcome the present difficulties and emerge with honour from all the cruel trials raining down on them.
Interview by Gurgen KARAPETYAN
Urbat, 30 October 1992.