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| Leo's passport photo |
January 18th is a very special day
for me and my husband Leo. In 1991, on this day, we arrived in the United
States. Every year Leo and I celebrate January18th as our own Independence Day.
Between the two of us, we carried
$260 in our pockets, all that we were allowed to take with us, two small suitcases,
and an unbreakable will to be free and happy.
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| Stella's Passport Photo |
But first, we had to survive.
Literally. Yes, life was a precious commodity in those days. You see, we are
Armenian Christians, who were born in Azerbaijan, a Muslim country, one of the
former republics of the former USSR.
In the late 1980s there was a national
and civil conflict largely provoked by the government. A conflict about a spec
of a land that two nations, Armenians and Azeri, had argued about from the dawn
of time. That land was called Karabakh.
Located in South Caucasus, this tiny space was always home for the Armenian
people. They call it Republic of Artsakh. But located on the Azeri territory, this region was a sore
spot, and a reason for a long-lasting dispute between two nations.
That slowly-brewing disagreement
finally erupted into a riot, and then war.
Since then, several wars were fought,
and a sea of blood poured over Karabakh. The two nations, that were friendly once
upon a time, became the worst enemies. Hatred replaced love, lies replaced
truth, and white became black.
The horrors of those days are
impossible to describe. Chaos. Fear. Death.
Friends and neighbors became
adversaries; many mixed-race families were destroyed, and peace was replaced
with war of the worst kind: racial/religious war.
Even though we lived in the capital
of Azerbaijan, Baku, long away from that disputed land, we, Armenians, became
the enemies simply because of our nationality. Blood-thirsty crowds of fanatics
boosted on alcohol and narcotics, ran around our beautiful city, vandalizing,
destroying, raping, murdering.
At first, people couldn’t believe
that this situation would last. Everyone waited for the government to step up
and put a stop to it. But…
I don’t want to go into a political
aspect of that horrible war. I’m just saying that somebody higher-up— somebody
evil— needed it and made those atrocities possible.
When it became obvious that no one was
going to interfere and help us, people took matters into their own hands. Many
ran away, but even more died trying.
My family was very fortunate. We
didn’t lose anyone, and we were able to run away first to the former republic
of Georgia, and then to Moscow. We still harbored hope that our government, not
the local but federal, would somehow help our situation. Guess what? No one in
our nation’s capital cared that millions of people were left homeless,
penniless, and victimized. And no one cared about the dead.
At that time, when hope was the only
thing that keep us afloat, the United States officially recognized the
situation in Karabakh as war against humanity, acknowledged Armenians from
Azerbaijan as political refugees, and opened the doors to my people. And that’s
how we first met, my then future husband and I: in line in front of the
American Embassy in Moscow. That day fate was hard at work. She brought us
together, and opened the doors to our new life. Thirty-six years later, we’re
still living that life, and couldn’t be happier.
But back then, it would be another
year of hardship before we landed at JFK airport. A horrible year of struggles,
sacrifices, humiliations, and personal tragedy.
That year we lost my mom just a few
months before we were due to leave Moscow. We are still not sure whether the
surgeon who performed her simple procedure made a terrible mistake, or it was a
broken thrombosis, but she died overnight in a hospital. The autopsy was
inconclusive. But what does it matter? We lost our anchor, our rock, the glue
that kept our family together. She was just 48 years old. In a matter of days,
my dad, a vibrant man of 53, became a shadow of his former self. Our family was
shattered.
Scared and emotionally beaten, we resembled
a bunch of survivors of a terrible disaster. And that’s exactly who we were
back then. We all went through hell and back, but somehow our spirits weren’t
broken. Even dad managed to drag himself from the abyss of grief. We all were determined
to survive. Freedom was our mantra and our God. And so, with my mom’s ashes, we
finally left the old country.
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| New York 1991 |
And every January 18th I
remember my first glimpse of New York, and those first scary and confusing emotions. We were so young, but my hero was confident.
At first, there was the
nerve-racking illusion of being deaf because I couldn’t understand a word
spoken all around me. I remember people, so many people, laughing, moving,
eating, talking… And the noise! The lights! Everything so bright and sharp and
loud. I remember clutching my husband’s hand like an anchor and afraid to let
go. But most of all, I remember Leo looking at me with his dark tired eyes, and
telling me, “We’ll make it, you’ll see.”
And we did.
Every year Leo and I celebrate
January 18th as our own Independence Day.
Even though the events that brought
us here were tragic and horrible, we look at it now as a blessing in disguise.
If not for that bloody war, we would never cut our ties with the old country,
and would never know what true freedom is.
We would never know what it is to be
true patriots, and to love your country with everything you are. And it doesn’t
matter that we weren’t born here. The old wisdom says the real parents are
those who raised you, not who birthed you.
Such a simple and untarnished truth!
We are proud to be American
citizens.
God bless United States of America.
God bless my wonderful beloved
country.
Talented author
Stella May is the penname for
Marina Sardarova who has a fascinating history you should read on her
website.
Stella writes fantasy romance as well as time travel romance. She is the author of
'Till Time Do Us Part, Book 1 in her Upon a Time series, and the stand-alone book
Rhapsody in Dreams. Love and family are two cornerstones of her stories and life. Stella’s books are available in e-book and paperback through all major vendors.
When not writing, Stella enjoys classical music, reading, and long walks along the ocean. She lives in Jacksonville, Florida with her husband Leo of 35 years and their son George. They are her two best friends and are all partners in their family business.
