Every murder is disgusting, and the murder of an intellectual has no adverb. Turkish high-ranking officials assigned the black case of killing Armenian intellectuals, I think, neither to their officials nor even to their relatives.
An ugly, very ugly, despicable thing happened, it's hard to imagine something more despicable. The killing of any director, any minister, any owner is given some logic - they kill in order to take their places with them - this is a murder that does not fit within the limits of thought and even black imagination, this is delusion. Who are they going to fill the place that was called Vardges Petrosyan? There was no such status, how will they fill it, there was no such place? He himself was a place and a position and a job. Or was the goal to eliminate that unique figure, that brave, mobile, sober, indomitable person who was able to create a business every day and everywhere and seal "Vardges Petrosyan"? This is an open robbery of our republican, nationwide socio-political life, this is an open challenge to the very foundation of our existence.
A couple more such dull thuds, and the lid of our time will be nailed down prematurely, and you will have no more sane men among you.
A thousand years ago, our historian, based on what he heard, mentioned a far-eastern land of myths, whose inhabitants gather with their relatives and eat the head of their deceased elder. It would be strange, delusional, unnatural for the elders to devour the younger ones, it would mean the self-destruction of the tribe, and it would be worth it for such a tribe to disappear and not exist, but for us this is also immoral and inhumane. In front of our perception of the Armenian man, this is a nightmare, regardless of what they think the murderers got away with or what they possessed.
Freed from his sobering presence. They have taken over a square whose order is now madness.
Perhaps they really got free, but here we are deprived of his confident, at least outwardly calm, creative presence.
A few more conspiratorial clicks and the signs of a familiar country will disappear, and this will not feel like a homeland, and this will not be a homeland. This will be foreign to us, alien, but also an enemy, a territory of Far Eastern myths, about which as not children, but strangers, not by hearing, but by seeing, they will testify that reason was banished there and their leader was feverish panic.
It's a pity, his "Yerkir Nair" was hoping that the Vardges of his youth has returned and will fill our day with the same ruthless malice, the same stubborn jealousy, the restorative anxiety of the son of the house and the moderate conservatism of the host, using the means uniquely known to him.
It's a pity, another one of the familiar, intimate signs that make this space and this time truly ours has gone.