The imagination of our people had reached a hideous idea: that our land has grown old, cannot stand under the feet of our heroes, is giving way. it was only conjecture, it was not supported by facts or these confirmations were minor incidents against what would be called 1915. Our last battles were lost with a crushing defeat, military geniuses became poor generals, the last small groups of our fighters drowned in blood in the ravines, the flags commemorating new regiments were torn, and the splendor of the dreams that fed generations and generations turned into a miserable reality - ten thousand versts on the river and seven hundred thousand orphans. That is, a state in which one wants, in itself, wants the patient to die, and this wish is more than humane, because healing will not make the patient healthy.
And glory to the excited generation that, like the Creator God, created a homeland for us. It was the glorious generation of Alexander Myasnikyan, Aghasi Khanjyan and Aramais Yerznkyan, Charents and Maharu, Kojoyan and Saryan, Toramanian and Tamanyan, Acharyan and Abeghyan, Alexander Spendiaryan and Arshak Chopanyan, a regiment that went into battle at the most tragic moment for us, when we could lose the last chances of being a nation and a country as well. Apparently, the suffering people also remembered the powers of their future, otherwise the two decades would not have given us so many great ones. It was a heroic generation of pioneers, and as true pioneers their dense ranks have reached our days thinned, torn, torn, torn, pilfered from behind and, amazingly, re-enthusiastic. Mahari was still on her feet and didn't notice that she was barely on her feet. That's how people of great purpose are. The goal was to charm him. His exhausted body struggled to keep up with his aspiration, then lagged behind, then somewhere in his fifties, his spirit left that treacherous body and soared towards the goal without a body for years. And reached and nailed high literature to great patriotism. The god of poetry, when our dreams were crushed, in those distant years, Maharu whispered a great secret: we must take back with literature what we cannot keep with regiments of warriors. Sometimes with "guerrilla fights", sometimes with false retreats and finally with a brilliant battle, he snatched his Van from obscurity and returned it to his homeland, and that Van of the great writer and thus the great patriot Gurgen Maharu is already indestructible. It is not only an inalienable part of Armenian literature, but also of Armenian future reality. It's a launchpad to the real Van. It is the valley freed from the great darkness of Western Armenia by the light of Maharu, which will attract generations and generations.
The curly-haired young man, Mahari, had a textbook "Meghraget" and his father's gun while migrating. changed his father's gun for bread, and his childhood "Meghraget" was taken to the Bandimahu waters of Berkiri. At that time, he took and delivered to us through difficult roads a bag of soil to spread under the feet of our compliant hikers.
Taking advantage of the shrill atmosphere of the inauguration, he never uttered the solemn texts of the oath, did not become, thus, a patriot, he joked, mocked, laughed, ignored that ceremony, because the new recruits and the once-betrayed take the oath, and he was an old pilgrim of the heavy covenant of Armenian patriotism. He did not feel the need to beautify himself with patriotism, but he felt the need to relieve himself from the heavy suffering of difficult patriotism.
Beneath his mask, his mockery and laughter, is the constant murmur of his longing, and the sum of his murmurs is a horrified cry of pain against all of us, guilty and innocent, foolish and intelligent, decent and ambitious;
- Where is my irreplaceable, where is my Motherland?
"Republic of Armenia", 16.07.1995