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You may have noticed that when entering the administrative building of the military unit, the flag of the military unit greets us with combat vigilance. Day and night, the soldier is standing next to him, holding the flag in a deep, thoughtful silence, continuing one by one… The flag is the same, and the soldiers are naturally different, they watch in turns… But it always seemed to me that he is the same soldier to be in the military unit The same tension, the same vigilance and the same high counsel of pride throughout the posture. He is the soldier who is mischievous in the daily life of the military unit, lively, maybe even deserving of the commander’s strictness. But here, next to the flag, he is unrecognizable.… What magical power does the flag have in it, the red cloth that has nailed the soldier to itself in unfounded fear? That flag is the regiment itself, the document of honor of the regiment. If there is no flag, there will be no regiment. So, the soldier standing by the flag controls the honor of the regiment, the existence of the regiment.

Have you seen how the spirit of the fighting army falls with the flag that falls during the battle, and the breath of defeat falls on every soldier? And vice versa, the waving flag sows fire and heroism in the soldier’s heart, intoxicates him with the inspiration of victory.

The flag is the most dominant symbol. The state flag condenses the country, the regiment flag the regiment, the battle club flag expresses the club spirit and honor… And so on. It is said that group leader Cholo, seeing a red flag, knelt in fear, kissed, thought it was the flag of the party, Dashnaktsutyun. Someone else suggested that it was the flag of the Bolsheviks. The poor man, it is said, had been washing his lips for weeks, and it seemed to him that all four of his mouths were swollen from the dirt.

The regiment’s flag, the soldier next to it, the deep, thoughtful silence of the flag. Let us believe that this soldier, this charm and advice, lives in all Armenian soldiers. And let us also add that for these unexamined moments, for taking from the flag and giving the flag, it is worthwhile for a person to become a soldier.



How many borders there are on the earth, how many valleys, mountains, forests and rivers are called border, remaining almost inaccessible to the enemy… Every line of the borders embossed on the map of the Earth hides incredible human tragedies.

In all centuries, the borders of our homeland have been largely stretched by the waves of the Armenian language. Where the waves have weakened, Armenia has ended there. Armenia was not beyond those borders, and we did not need a foreign territory. Our fathers understood that a foreign territory will not become a homeland, even if a millennium passes.

If we take an imaginary journey through the ancient world with the Greek Xenophon and Strabo, as well as Assyrian and Arab historians-geographers, we will see the sweet smell of the Armenian language in that world, from Anatolia to the Syrian gates, from Aghvank to the Pontic coast… It is a sweet past from which we are not cling, which, however, we will not forget.

We are talking about the greatest tragedy of Armenians, the genocide, and we do not mention that in 1915-23 our country lost not only its homeland, a million and a half Armenians, huge cultural monuments, but also the Western literary Armenian and many dialects. They were uprooted from their nature, torn to pieces all over the world, threatened with somehow surviving or assimilating-disappearing… Our language has in fact lost its priceless ups and downs, unique heights, unique colors and shades…

We have lost linguistic spaces, vast cognitive worlds that have formed over the centuries, summing up irreplaceable colors in their vibrant domains…

So, let’s conclude that our soldier, guarding the borders of his homeland, keeps his language with his father and mother, his land and water, the treasure of the treasures of Armenia, keeps the wonderful Armenian language in the language of children, its soaring in the crater of intellectuals, its playful reciprocal tenderness in dialects, in the mouth of the people…


The weapon

The weapon is a continuation of the soldier’s hand, his agility, strength and imagination. The soldier and the weapon are the truest friends, longing for each other’s support. There is an unwritten condition between them not to insult each other, to treat each other carefully and with dignity… The weapon becomes a weapon when the soldier is with it, otherwise it is a piece of metal or a mass…

Years ago in the “Sisakan” regiment I met a soldier, a young boy with clear eyes. I saw what a great rfespect he had towards the weapon. It was his important testimony of a man and a soldier that is not given to everyone. The boy secretly, without showing his surroundings, rejoiced in his special condition. But that joy was passed on to friends… Everyone in the boy’s deed even imagined a possible and cherished hope of becoming a hero.

The command noticed the boy’s deep attachment to his new friend and allowed him to be together day and night, inseparable.


Category: #06 (1377) 17.02.2021 - 23.02.2021, Army and Society, News, Spotlight