Private Martyrosyan, Mrdo, my bro,
Today, after work, the family dinner,
Putting my boys to bed, watching my series,
I generously tried to find some time,
Opened a new Word doc, picked my favorite font,
And wrote this careless eulogy
With metamodernist ambitions for your death.
Private Martyrosyan, Mrdo, my bro,
Once I’ve written your name,
I can easily copy-paste it—
Once in every quintet, in every holiday,
in every parade, every obituary,
For all our other bros…
To cut it short, let me say right away
That there are plenty of hashtags ready to mourn you.
For example: #Homeland #Soldier #Hero #Martyr
Glorious #WeBowInRespect #TheyGaveTheirAll
Or #ForeverInOurHerats. Let me say it outright —
There’s a precise protocol for grieving you,
And a temporary commission
That has never disbanded since its creation.
There’s even an employee whose job it is
To remain solemnly silent and shed a tear at the right time.
Private Martyrosyan, Mrdo, my bro,
There are epic precedents to justify your death,
Engraved in this stones by your vague ancestors,
And a conspiratorial pleasure
In licking poison on the calloused tongues
Of these chroniclers.
And the silent conspiracy for cowardly snobs like us,
To keep scrolling and scrolling this toxic feed
leaving you behind, deleting you, forgetting.
Private Martyrosyan, Mrdo, my bro,
You’re unaware, but your small death creates potential for movement in this vast world—from the local housing office to the UN headquarters in New York. One says, “There must be a Kingdom of Heaven; otherwise, where would our kingly bro go?”
Another says, “I’ll find no peace until I drink the blood of that bastard Turk.” Someone else says, “Elect me, and I’ll significantly reduce the mortality rate among conscripts.” Another offers, “Take this money and plaster your city walls with art projects promoting peace and tolerance.” Yet another declares, “This is the victory of the Armenian spirit; we’ve survived millennia through such sacrifices.” And still another doesn’t say it outright but makes it clear: “Hey, don’t stir too much in my empire’s province, or I’ll come for your boys too. For you as well…” And we don’t stir.
Private Martyrosyan, Mrdo, my bro,
sorry, but my wife and I keep checking, before bed and throughout the night, our doors that open toward Ararat and our windows with a view of the mountain. Quietly, we envision our sons’ future in a peaceful seaside town, far beyond the reach of the bullet that struck you—though it keeps flying, keeps piercing, through space and time, the humble, departing battalion of martyrs like you.
Private Martirosyan, Mrdo, my bro,
the truest response to your death is the sorrow of these virgin sparrows, who will wither flowerless without your love, who, even in their dreams, will not taste the honey of your thighs nor fall pierced by the glory of your spear. The peach blossom pink dies on their lips as they whisper your name. They want life, they want children, they want a house on a mortgage, a trip to Egypt, and they want to be tired of you, disgusted by you, worn out by your hands, exhausted by your helplessness, but… they do not want to bury you, my bro.
Private Martyrosyan, Mrdo,
The heaviest burden is your mother’s broken heart.
No poppies will bloom in the ruins of her gaze,
No matter how many posthumous medals they bring to your home,
No matter how many fundraisers they organize in your name,
No matter how many shabby classrooms they rename,
No matter how many campaigns they drag her through,
No matter how many concerts in operas they hold—
Forcing her to always be bereaved, always grieving,
Always in black, always heroic…
We’ll keep scrolling and forget,
But the coldness of your forehead
Will keep burning her lips—
With a terrifying hint of the desolation beyond,
With a terrifying hint that she has left you
Forever alone.
