The reason is that our poets who make verses have little to do with science and education.
They have low consciousness, their eyes are closed and our troubles do not seem topical to them and are not suffered by them. For instance, it is known that in Baku, no night passes without assaults on people, beatings, robberies and even murders on the streets of the city.
It is often very difficult to speak about memories. Especially when it is about childhood. Memories have their own taste and even their own smell. By catching the trail of that smell, you can go back to some ten and even twenty years ago. Sometimes that smell easily takes you to the joyful past. Sometimes, it is so sharp that it pierces one’s heart and like a piece of dry bread, sticks in one’s throat, causing distress. Those who were born and grew up in Sumgait know that it is the country’s most war-affected city. Built and beautified with the incredible labor of Russians and Armenians, from 1992-93, the city was gradually turning into hell before our eyes.
While our neighbors were doing things the size of a mouse, we were sleeping. Then their things grew to the size of a goat, but we were sleeping. Then they started doing things the size of a donkey, but we were still sleeping. In the meantime, our neighbors' things moved forward and grew as big as a buffalo, but we were sleeping. When the buffalo turned into a camel, we were still sleeping. We woke up only when our neighbors started doing things the size of an elephant.
Perhaps it is the "disease" of the CIS countries or even a plague affecting the entire world.
But, regrettably, its existence cannot be denied, with so many mothers around us, setting themselves the task to bring up morons capable of nothing.
They think that to bring up a child means to keep him satiated, clean, dry and warm. That is why children are fed under the lash, with a scandal, or each of their meals is turned into a theatrical performance.
It seems that even fools would be stupefied. First of all, I would like to say that the village is like a well-groomed district of Tbilisi. Beautiful mansions, clean streets, many big and beautiful bridges, a great number of schools, libraries, reading halls, enlightenment buildings and constructions with an amazing decoration. I swear by Allah, I froze.
People are absolutely unrecognizable – they look like as if they have just arrived from France, their clothes, behavior, impeccable cleanliness (by cleanliness, I mean people's appearance, don't imagine anything different). Indeed, I was astonished.
On holidays, we played our favorite game – Armenian slaughter. Stirred up by racism, we lost our heads and sacrificed Tamara to our enmity and hatred that passed on to us from our ancestors. At first, we groundlessly accused her of killing the Tatars and happily shot her several times.
We feasted our eyes upon the sight of her blood and then, to kill her by conventional method, we resurrected her, tied up her hands and legs, threw her down on the ground and first cut off her tongue and head and to show our hatred towards her Armenian body, we cut out her heart and internals and threw them to the dogs.
My friends’ reaction to that song did not differ at all from the fearful reaction of my five-year-old daughter. “The author of that song is Armenian, I cannot listen to it,” they say.
How is that? An intellectual of the very same people that “cut off the Armenian’s head” and “pull out his heart” in schools, kindergartens and sketches is so much scared of an Armenian song?
When will our Armenophobia, our fear and malice towards Armenian song and literature be broken?
The “izvanok” [bell] rings at that moment and the lesson ends…
This is how the Turkic language and shariah are studied at that school. There is no need to be surprised that school graduates, trying to read an easy text in some book in Turkic, stammer so often that the listeners have nothing else to do but waggle their heads and say…
About two hours had passed after sunset. On entering the room, I found my daughter lying on the bed. She turned out to be asleep. However, what bewildered me was that the other bed was made, with not one, but two pillows placed at the head of the bed side by side, looking like it was intended for two persons, not one.
I found it inappropriate and removed one of the pillows. Then I awakened my daughter. With a great effort, she opened her eyes and reluctantly sat up in the bed.read more...
- “Of course he will be glad,” he was suddenly interrupted by his countryman, one of the pupils of Akhund-Alesker, he often comes to Tiflis on business and stays with them. “Why shouldn’t he be glad?!” The guest was angry and it caused an oppressive silence in the room. “Because he is Armenian! Why should he be worried about our Muslim affairs?”
“I would not exchange one Armenian like him for a hundred of my countrymen!” Fatali protested. “Even the Sheikh ul-Islam of Tiflis, Muslim leader Akhund Molla-Ahmed Huseynzade, is more progressive than you!”
For me, “Armenian” meant the same as a pig for a Muslim. It seemed to me that starting any kind of relationship with him was inadmissible under any circumstances.
Having been brought up under the influence of such kind of spirit, I could never understand my compatriots who did business with the Armenians or even were friends with them in Russia as they were presented to us as the most filthy people. I considered my compatriots traitors.
In this way, they fundamentally destroyed any kind of craving for knowledge and sciences and the children grew up as devoted “fedais of faith.”
My grandfather was worried about where to hide me so as not to send me to “ishkola” [school]. In the meantime, the grandfathers of Hakob and Vazgen were thinking about where, to which higher education institution to send their grandchildren so that they could get quality education. This is where lies the foundation of the reasons why we toady to the Armenians…read more...
She was only four, and that did not allow me to collect my thoughts and give the right answer.
Taking into account her age, I said, picking the words carefully,
"You see, my little one, when a person has a filthy and nasty heart, that passes on to his entire body through his blood. No matter how much they wash their hands and face, they do not become clean. For water cannot cleanse any kind of dirt."
Yes, for some reason, all our wins and successes are measured by a single criterion – to be higher than an Armenian. In any kind of tournament or championship, we rejoice heartily at our sportsmen’s victories only when their rival was an Armenian. I assure you that the victory of our boxer over an Armenian in 1/8 final makes us much happier than the champion’s title of another boxer who won the gold medal without Armenian rivals.
Such victories are marked with grandiose and pompous titles in the mass media: “Azerbaijani brings Armenian sportsman to his knees”…
Sometimes I think to myself, probably Allah has given some mission, some historical task to all peoples and nations of the world. Then I start sorting it out and find the missions God has given to almost all peoples. Except one. However hard I tried, I failed to figure out what is the historical mission of the so-called Armenian tribe (I cannot bring myself to call it a nation).
Stealing? Lie? Barbarity? No, although these features are characteristic of that tribe and have stricken root in their blood, it can hardly be said that Allah has given these missions to the Armenians…read more...
Excerpt from Uzeir Hajibekov's article "Ordan-Burdan" written 105 years ago
The article is written in the form of a dialogue between Uzeir Hajibekov and a young man, a Muslim.
Young man: I am astonished that in the same “ishkola” [school], with the same teacher, the Russians and Armenians, as you fairly noted, become true people, while our Muslims, graduating from the same “ishkola,” maintain their old habits and remain ignoramuses. Is this because our blood is spoiled? What’s wrong?...
In one courtyard, an Armenian woman was feeding the chickens, in another courtyard, more exactly, in the street near the “arkh” (canal), a Muslim woman was washing clothes.
In one courtyard, several Armenians were having dinner under a big mulberry tree. The priest stood up, raised his right hand and started his speech. I was about to pass that courtyard, but on hearing one word from him, I stopped my horse. Since I knew Armenian, I decided to listen to what the priest was going to say. “Hayreniq, hayreniq, hayreniq,” he said three times, in a loud and firm voice (which means “homeland” in Armenian).