My first contacts with Vazgen Sargsyan refer to his 30-year-old age and my 55-year-old age. Thirty years is the most beautiful age of a man, but fifty-five is not ugly either, because he has not forgotten his thirty-year-old age, but he also has the weighty merit of the path he has traveled: who knows, no matter how successful the physical and mental structure and how slender the process, who knows if he will have his young friend, does anyone have it?
While talking about one of the pioneers of the movement and conflict, where was my suspicious and reserved attitude towards that person and that type of person who only cares about his game and does not think about serious and destructive consequences, Vazgen suddenly, like him, kind of, not allowing me to be narrow-minded and narrow-minded and not allowing me to see a flaw in a person, rolled quickly like him.
- You know what kind of guy he was... he cheated, he sold a talking sheep to the Georgian, as if he were the lost sheep of the circus. You know what guys are like... He died in my hands, he was testing a mine.
All I had to do now was to laugh at the "talking sheep", withdraw from that conversation, keep silent and then understand that Vazgen and I are different people, that he stands at the head of the human mass with open arms and outstretched wings and sees and perceives each individual and personality in that mass as they are, with all human vices and virtues, and I, on the contrary, hide, fear, repel from me anyone who deviates from my ideal of a human being. it is a little different, and it is so, because Vazgen sees himself as able to embrace, include, subjugate all of them to one will - they are controllable for Vazgen. In short, Vazgen was a man of princely, commanding temper and charges, and I could only be a soldier in his regiment, a law-abiding inhabitant of his world, leave the reading of my destiny to him and be sure in everything and with everyone that the direction of his gaze becomes a ray of light and hope and the step he takes is the beginning of the road, his outstretched hand turns the enemy into a friend and his gaze cast into the black wasteland unites multitudes of friends.
He was that, he was a master of weapons.
If his powerful person and course of the Caucasian, pan-Caucasian black bear did not grow into the white horse Saint Sargis, if his bright and bright reflection had a black spot on him tomorrow - we, his contemporaries, are to blame, you and I. tomorrow's generations in their past, which is ours today, if they didn't have that holy commander on a white horse - their march will be scattered and stopped, just like Vazgen himself and we would panic, if we didn't have the luminous images of Vardan and Nzhdeh at the head of our march.
Of course, knowing the history of your race is a virtue, even more so if you see yourself in those whirlwinds and consider the brave and the stubborn, the submissive and the unyielding, and the enlightened unique ones, everyone, but the great virtue is to see today's history, to see today's hero as great and flawless and bright and beloved as the heroes woven from historical conversations.
And so today's speech, mine and all of us, will be a word of blessing and praise... glory to Vazgen, glory to this believing people who gave birth and nourished him and believed in and enlightened him.
March 5, 2001