There is nothing left for me to do, but with my story I must try to break the weakness that lives in each of you and hinders you, cutting you off from your goals.

Remember, winners are worshiped even by their enemies.

A just victory is the sum of the bright colors of power. WIN, and you will be honored when you break the barriers woven from difficulties.

Tigran the Great’s Armenia in my heart, I will not be defeated … But if I am not a miracle other than my family, relatives, I want all of you to carry the LIGHT inside you …

Forgive me, MOTHERLAND, for the unglorious pace. Forgive me for not being able to build your triumphant march, and forgive me for not being able to take all your wounds on my body as a consolation for your long-suffering days …

Forgive me, today’s wonderful children, forgive me for not having enough blood to save your lives and those of tomorrow. And forgive me, my NATION, for not giving you a harmless country …. Today’s dawns of Artsakh are the color of blood ….

These are your lines. And it seems to me that your father does not remember something. Vachagan was a lively, open-minded, curious child, everyone loved Vacho, he says. Open-eyed, lively, curious. I read the story of your heroism, your thoughts that you had before you went to the front on your Facebook page, and I think your childhood should have been extraordinary. That your father should remember unique and shocking stories, but he says the most common words, for example, he was very caring for his brother, and when he remembers your childhood, he smiles for the first time during the whole conversation. It is difficult for a father to tell about a son who is no longer in our domain. The guys stayed higher, in my mind the horde lines sound like a requiem, repeated over and over again.

And your father says that Vachagan lived in a different reality. To reach the stars, you had to go through a journey that began with that other reality. Vachagan lived in the homeland of Tigran the Great, your father continues, and where should I go to look for the homeland of Tigran the Great, past or future? You hardly lived in the past. At what time did you find the homeland of Tigran the Great? How would you suggest that we find the way to a dream country? …  Now I know how. Everyone knows. But then you were in search. And the army answered many questions. The journey from junior sergeant to platoon commander, earning all possible rewards and the Garegin Nzhdeh Medal, was the state’s appreciation of your military biography, but there was another appreciation, perhaps more important, because it is not mentioned in the stern lines of the service description but they describe a person much better. They pass from mouth to mouth, from heart to heart, absorbed by the narrator’s emotions and feelings, become a story and a legend. For example, I do not know the names of the soldiers who took leave through the mediation of your platoon commander, but I know that you first asked for leave for those whose parents could not come to the place of service often or send money to their hildren to use the buffet regularly. Everyone knew that Vachagan Manukyan was the defender of the poor, he was next to the weak. Or rather, there was no poor and weak soldier next to the platoon commander Vachagan Manukyan. Everyone knew that if you were with Vachagan Manukyan, you would have to dedicate yourself to military service, you would have to be selfless, because the duty to the homeland is not tolerated. Another woman says that love, kindness and caring were just a way of life for you. The word lifestyle is mine, and that unknown woman says you brought medicine for her from Germany. Your father does not know that woman either, that is, she is neither a neighbor nor a friend, she is just a person, a compatriot, who now mourns for you like a relative.

In any case, I think that with all the virtues, yours was the defense of the homeland, and you were preparing for this war for a lifetime. No, I’m not saying you knew you had to die in this war, your mission was to fight the ancestral enemy that entered our land, on October 22 and lasted for about 15 days. …. Patriotism will become a subject of ridicule, and the youth will be gently dressed in the clothes of a world citizen.

Many Christs will come to carry the burden of humanity on their shoulders, and you will be deceived again… The cosmopolitans of the free world will crush the cultures of nations, injecting into their veins the poison of self-destruction that seemed vital, you wrote and dreamed of creating a party to defend national values. And you united your fellow students and army friends around that idea. You wrote, you wrote articles, you managed to publish a book. Coming from the homeland of Tigran the Great, you were looking for your territories in the real homeland when the war broke out. You went straight from work to the military commissariat. Be ready, we will call, said the military commissar. You were ready and started to prepare your father by saying heartfelt words about the homeland, a man’s duty to your father, one of the best Armenian poets, whose poems are imbued with patriotism and are a wonderful hymn to the homeland. But there was a real need to prepare, because when you wanted to go to the front during the April war and join your brother Aram, a soldier defending Artsakh, your father said, “Kill me, then go. If my two sons are at the forefront, what is the point of my staying?” Aram returned from the April war with the Marshal Baghramyan medal on his chest. On April 5, the battle ended and you did not have time to go to the front. And during the last war you persuaded your father so skillfully that he called me and asked me to help send you to the front. He said that you applied to the military commissariat, but they did not call you from the military commissariat. Is it possible that our journalists will take you to the front with them?

The military journalists did not take you to the front, and you went to the military commissariat. The eyewitness describes in detail your dispute with the military commissar. He says he shouted that no one has the right to deprive me of the duty to defend the homeland. I have excelled in the army, I need to be on the front.

They did not deprive him. At the Armavir training military unit, you asked to reduce the training period, said that you were ready to fight, and left for Artsakh. You were given a detachment, appointed a commander, and sent to the rear of Martuni. But it was quiet there, the fighting was not active, and you asked to be sent to the hot line with your detachment.

It was Vachagan’s choice, I am saying to his father. I think it’s a consolation, maybe a small bandage on his big wound. You were not accidentally hit by a bullet, you did not find yourself in the line of fire against your will. It is your desire, your choice, moreover, the purpose and mission of your life. No, I’m not saying you were going to die, you were going to win at all costs, and there was death in it all, you knew it was there. You said that embracing the missile sent by the enemy is not heroism, heroism is living and winning. The boys say that at your command they were constantly digging hiding places, trenches for you to live and win. … I’m telling you about my Nigerian poet friend. He says, but he neither lived nor won. And I laugh at him. I tell him, you are not Armenian, that’s why you will not understand that Vachagan has won. He shows the map, slides his finger across the border of our lost lands, but I still laugh and repeat your lines, I will break your weakness with my story, and if I am not, keep the Light in your soul … My Nigerian friend says: There is crying in your laughter. He is a poet, he can see crying in laughter, but he cannot understand your victory. Our victory. … I do not want to tell in detail the story of your heroism. Let time pass, let it crystallize, let everything be clearer. They say the battle was fierce, the forces unequal, but you did not retreat, stay in Karintak, say we can still resist, and continue fighting.

And you keep fighting. And you will continue to fight until the map you cherish in your soul becomes a real homeland for us. You will continue to shout at the gun. I do not know how many generations your call will ring in your ears, but you will not be silent from your height. And the pain of the lost homeland that we will taste every day, like a murmur spread on our bread, will become strength, devotion and victory. Your victory. Our victory.

By GAYANE POGHOSYAN