A door that was always open to every Armenian was closed, a vibrant existence was extinguished, a creature of God with a fragile heart collapsed - Ludmila Motalova, our sister, our friend, our encourager, died in Prague. He was whispering to Prague, he was whispering to Prague, he was whispering in general, it seems that he did not dare to enter the Armenian language loudly and he was whispering next to the Armenian language with fearful respect, he had been in the deepest depths of Armenian language, Armenian literature and Armenian history for a long time. Conscientiousness had taken him to the depths of his subject, and the subject had made him its advocate. He started as an Armenologist working for the Czech language, he ended as a Czech patriot and an Armenian patriot. He did not know that he was graduating, they say that the page of an article about us was half-finished in the typewriter. You could warm your heart in his hearth, you could learn Armenian and learn patriotism from him. Across states and seas, he showed his people heart and hand to us in pure brotherhood. Our losses were his, he paled from our losses and shone from our successes. People like him begged for conscience from the thrones during the Armenian slaughter, they put plaster on wounds and hearts in Der-Zor, perhaps we are their saviors, and he was their rare descendant, he was just one of them in new conditions. He knew what was left and that's why our republic was alive for him. A mark with which he wanted to endow his people, to enrich his Czech language culture. And because he, perhaps, was the only one who communicated Armenian to everything that can be called Armenian in one word, and because transferring that charming, elusive, elusive Armenian to the cultural treasury of another language was not a matter for one person and every person, and he was only one, a Motalova, he worked with fanatical devotion, he tried to replace with himself the many who, according to his deep, truly bone-marrow conviction, should be, obliged. they were supposed to be, but they were not - they left everything to the hope of a Motalova, a fragile girl. And he tortured that fragile girl under the burden of being a Czech citizen and a literary honor. He believed in literature as blessed in those times, if such times certainly existed, when it was done as it was written, when it was written simply to people's open hearts.
At whatever age they die, the death of such people is always premature. Life needs them a lot, life is hungry for such people. She is also needed at this moment, to be able to feel the loss of our sister, our translator, in a warm country, in a small country that warmed our love with her own short and full life, our ambassador, Ludmila Motalova, as deeply as she felt the loss of Sevak and Minas, as she trembled for the lives of each of us and all of us.