¿En qué medida nos mueven y nos desplazan los lugares?
Hace dos años y medio nunca había oído hablar sobre la República de Artsaj, o del Alto Karabaj, ni tan siquiera un nombre que sonara parecido. Menos aún podía localizarlo en un mapa.
Hace dos años y medio es probable que hubiese pasado la noticia por alto. Sin embargo ahora veo el nombre en los titulares, leo que el conflicto ha estallado y noto algo dentro de mí que se encoge.
Desde la guerra de 1994, hay un alto al fuego, durante el que hubo varios brotes de violencia que se consiguieron contener. Pero hace un mes el conflicto ha empezado a escalar y ha alcanzado las grandes ciudades.
Pienso en Karina y Raffo que conocí en Stepanakert. Pienso en escribirles.¿Se acordarán de mí? Rebusco en los diarios algunas notas que había escrito sobre aquellos días. El cuaderno número 13 empieza con el primer día pedaleando por Armenia. Paso unas páginas, llego al 30 de junio de 2018 y rescato algunas anotaciones. Disculpadme que lo deje tal cual en inglés con pocas modificaciones :
Escribo sobre el extraño proceso de conseguir un visado para un país que no existe – o mejor dicho, que no es reconocido por ningún miembro de las Naciones Unidas, ni siquiera por Armenia, que lo apoya y al que está muy unido.
First day. Riding down into Nagorno Karabakh..amazing, the mountains! I got my passport checked at the border post but not stamped. In fact I am entering illegaly in Azerbaijan from Armenia. I am given a piece of paper with an address where I have to go once I reach Stepanakert, the “capital” to get the visa. The fact that I am traveling independently on a bicycle and that I am still some 80 kilometers away from the city- I could easily sneak in – does not seem to be a problem. I am already in Artsakh land.
Escribo cosas que ahora al releerme no entiendo y me pregunto de dónde salen.
Test on concreteness: egg, bride dress, moon, car in front of me, Tibetan scarf, butter, milk, tomatoes, cucumber, cheese…
Escribo sobre estrategias vergonzosas y que dejan mucho que desear:
I usually don´t drink alcohol. But today strangely I found myself ordering a beer just as a reaffirmation and evidence that I am not in Iran anymore. I have low tolerance to alcohol and after a few sips I feel a little bit drowsy!
Escribo cosas banales y poco glamurosas:
I stink. I have been sweating a lot in the suffocating heat, and I have been wearing the same dusty clothes for days. My feet feel imprisoned inside my sneakers. I would love to manifest a shower, right now, or a nice river spot, as it magically happened many times before.
Escribo listas de cosas que hacer cuando llegue a la ciudad de Stepanakert, con opciones!
–Visa 3000 dram
–Fix the zips of the tent (need to get this fixed or I will have an ant invasion soon)
–Do laundry
–Optional: honey, olive oil
Escribo momentos, impresiones y reacciones de lugares que acaban de ser bombardeados en Nagorno Karabaj, como la catedral de Shashi:
10h30am: sitting inside the cathedral of Shashi, bells tolling, call for the mass.. . People lighting orange candles, altar girls with long blue robes wearing a white scarf on their head. Women entering the church to attend the mass, they have their head covered, but many wear short skirts and have their shoulders uncovered . Instantly I catch my own reaction of astonishment : Is it really me being surprised -almost shocked- at how permissive the dressing code is in the Christian Orthodox Church! Certainly a sign that I have been in Muslim countries for too long!
Escribo sobre pequeñitos movimientos que me llenan de asombro:
What a strange way of sitting whole days or afternoons in a café in remote corners of the world?
Escribo anotaciones sobre lo que creo entender del conflicto de Artsaj en el segundo día de haber llegado :
Stalin really messed up when he divided the land! In the URSS configuration of the 1920´s, the land was divided in autonomous Soviet Republics, SSR. The Republics increased in number within the years of the Soviet Union existence. Each SSR had some autonomy in its internal administration. Under Stalin, the land of Nagorno Karabakh was created as an oblast inside the Azerbaijan SSR, despite the large majority of Armenians, in an attempt to undermine and counterfeit the Turkish influence to spread and build a corridor of influence between Turkey and Azerbaijan. After the collapse of the URSS, each SSR became an indepedent country and Nagorno Karabakh, not willing to be annexed to Azerbaijan, proclaimed itself as a de facto Republic in 1991. Nagorno-Karabakh or the Republic of Artsakh remains to this date a disputed territory between Azerbaijan and Armenia.
Y entre las futilidades del viaje encuentro también cosas que todavía me remueven:
The scars of the war are still present. We don´t see it, it´s not visible and I seem to pedal efforlessly through Nagorno Karabakh without any sight of tanks or armed soldiers, no noises of the shootings… but it´s happening right now, right here, in the border line.
Karina is moved when she recalls episodes from the war and I can see tears forming in her eyes. Yesterday we had our last coffee together before I left the hostel. I stayed in all day to avoid the midday heat. She speaks good English.
Her brother was killed during the war and also her cousins. Raffo, her husband, has lost his right arm fighting as a fidayin with the Armenian troops. Everyone has lost someone here.
Karina is a teacher in high school, but now it´s summer vacation so she stays all day at the guest house looking after the guests. She´s been running the Guest House for 20 years now. She´s dynamic and cheerful:
I love it, she says. Sometimes I start having ideas for remodeling the old building.. I want to paint this and renovate that…But then, I catch myself thinking: Karina, no, that´s enough, no need to have more..
And she recalls the war, and how all her renovation efforts could be swiftly taken away. Why care to improve her guest house when the conflict is so latent?
My son looks like my brother, she says. Every time I see my son, I remember my brother.
***
The three men from the large family staying on the first floor of the GH are back. They had been away for a couple of days, but the children and the wives all stayed back. Karina tells me that the family comes every year to Nagorno Karabakh and stay in the GH for an entire week or so. They travel from Russia to visit their village they were forced to abandon during the war.
The village has been trapped inside the occupied line of fire between Nagorno Karabakh and Azerbaijan. They have made contacts and every year they call and arrange with the army to go to the border line and stay there and have a look at their village from the distance, through binoculars.
Year after year, they keep coming back in an almost ritual trip to their land, a no-place today. They bring gifts for the soldiers they befriend, and they stay there for a couple of days. And then they return.
I am deeply moved.
No puedo evitar estar en Nagorno Karabaj estos días. A veces pienso que lo profundo de no pertenecer a un solo lugar es que sientes que podrías pertenecer a todos ellos.
*Coincide que estoy leyendo Prisoners of Geography de Tim Marshall que trata sobre cómo los lugares y lo que los dirigentes han decidido para sus territorios a lo largo de la historia determinan nuestra existencia.
Wabisabi Cycling 