We are talking about those days when Sultan Hamid armed the Kurds, allowing them to rob and kill Armenian peasants. Bloody hordes filled the mountains around our and neighboring villages. A handful of selfless brave men entered into a desperate battle with them. Days passed and the fighting continued. From early morning until late evening we heard rifle shots. Who knows when this might end? New groups joined the Kurds, and although the number of our daredevils also grew, they were too few compared to the enemy. Only old men, old women and children remained in the villages. The young women themselves did not fight, but day and night, sleepless and tired, they carried food to the soldiers, cared for the wounded, and cleaned weapons. Frail old men, sitting under the walls of the church, muttered prayers and with bowed heads they kept thinking and thinking, and the old women, wiping their dry eyes, took care of the house. We, the children, were also sad, although we did not really understand what was happening and what awaited us, but the deep sadness of the elders was passed on to us. Sitting on the flat roofs, we silently watched the battle, otherwise we played war, divided into two groups, and the Armenian group always emerged victorious. Only one thing really surprised me: my brothers fought, my mother shed tears all day long, and my father, taking an old plow, sharpened it, repaired it, and sang something monotonously. Only sometimes, when the shooting intensified, he raised his head, put his palm to his eyes, peered into the nearest mountains where the battle was taking place, then, wiping the sweat from his face, he continued his work with the same song. The mother said to her father with annoyance: “Your heart is made of stone.” The sons have entered into mortal combat on the mountain, the whole village is in mourning, your comrades are thinking about the fate of the village, and you know, you are repairing the plow, and even - as soon as your soul bears it - you are humming a song. Someone would ask, for whom are you trying? Tomorrow a wild Kurd will come here, he will kill you, and us, and take the plow. - Eh, woman, what are you saying? They'll kill us, but won't they kill the plow? I build - I don't destroy. The world rests on the plow: if we stay alive, the plow will be useful to us, but if we die, perhaps the love of work will awaken in the one who carries it away. He will also bless me. We don't know what's what in this world. The mother shook her head and left. Author: Avetik Isahakyan.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru