The Day My Dad Fooled The Russian Army

[RNajarian]

The Day My Dad Fooled the Russian Army
Dedicated to Dr. Vartkes Najarian MD FACS (1930-2023)

A true story based on a 1991 humanitarian mission to Nagorno-Karabagh

17 September 1991 Tuesday
I had just graduated from USC Dental School and was planning my first trip to Armenia with my parents. Mom and Dad had already been to Armenia eight times and were planning their 9th trip.

We were in my parents’ garage preparing for the trip. Dad was packing medicines, aspirin, bandages, gauze, surgical tape, splints, and sutures for the wounded soldiers. Mom was packing dolls, raisins, books, and small toys for the orphans in Nagorno-Karabagh.

The phone rang and we could immediately tell it was a long-distance call from the telltale sound of “click-static-click-static-click-static.” Renowned Master of the Arts, Dr. Zori Balayan was on the phone.

“Zori,” dad said loudly over the bad phone connection, “we’re leaving on Thursday, what do you need us to bring?”

“Guns,” Zori said, “Guns, the soldiers need guns.” Zori was referring to the Armenian soldiers defending Armenian lands from Azeri Turks who were attempting to conquer the small enclave of Nagorno-Karabagh.

Dad knew this. The Armenian warriors had the will, spirit, and determination to face the invaders, but lacked the proper equipment.

“Zori, I know, I know,” dad said, “. . . but where am I going to get guns from and how could I possibly bring them to you?”

Dr. Balayan responded, “I know Vartkes, but you asked what we needed. Have a safe flight. I’ll see you in Yerevan on Saturday.”

Dad hung up the receiver looked at my mom and said, “I wish I could get them some better equipment.”


21 September 1991 Saturday
Was it a coincidence or Divine foresight that when our plane landed at Yerevan International Airport on Saturday September 21, 1991, that Dad was the first visitor to the newly declared Republic of Armenia?

Meeting us on the tarmac were numerous Armenian dignitaries, Renowned Master of the Arts Dr. Zori Balayan, Vice Mayor of Yerevan Papkin Vartanian, and Professor Gourgen Melikyan, Honored Pedagogue of the Republic of Armenia. The four men greeted each other as family would, hugging each other and holding hands.

Dad immediately wanted to make sure the precious cargo of medical supplies and gifts for the orphans were properly removed from the airplane and readied for transport to the war zone.

Dad had a legal pad with him and made sure each of the 20 boxes he had packed back in his garage were accounted for. On the legal pad was the box number and a manifest of what each box contained.

Zori looked over my dad’s shoulders and asked, “No guns?’ Dad looked down and shook his head.

28 September 1991 Saturday
For the first week of our trip we remained in Yerevan, the capital of the newly declared republic. Dad and mom had meetings with the Defense Minister, the Health Minister and even the President of Armenia Levon Ter-Petrosyan. With him at each meeting was his legal pad. At every meeting dad asked, “What do you need?” He took copious notes in the hope he could deliver on the many requests the ministers provided.

Our trip to Nagorno-Karabagh would be by air. The only land route to Karabagh, the Lachin corridor, had long been blockaded by the Azeris, making the only means to Nagorno-Karabagh a dangerous flight by helicopter. The Azeris, realizing the only lifeline to Nagorno-Karabagh was by helicopter, strategically placed anti-aircraft weapons along the route.

Our departure to the war zone was delayed several times due to the weather. Too much fog and the helicopter could not navigate using VFR flight rules. (VFR- Visual Flight Rules; basically, this means that the pilot looks out the window and flies the aircraft without the benefit of instruments or IFR). Too little fog and the Azeri invaders would easily see and be able to shoot down our helicopter.

Several times we got to the airport ready to begin our journey to Nagorno-Karabagh only to have the flight cancelled due to too much or too little fog.

End of Part 1/6

[RNajarian]

Part 2

4 October 1991 Friday
Finally, the weather conditions were just right for our flight into Nagorno-Karabagh. As we approached the Soviet era Mi-17 helicopter I became alarmed. It wasn’t the overpowering smell of kerosine jet fuel that bothered me but what appeared to be leaking hydraulic fluid coming from underneath the aircraft. Zori assured me the dripping fluid was “normal,” but I wasn’t so sure.

Mom was reserved. She seemed cautious and was eager to get the trip to Nagorno-Karabagh over. She chatted with Zori while Dad reviewed the notes he had on his legal pad. Each of his precious 20 boxes were loaded and accounted for. None of them had been tampered with. There was little room in the helicopter once the 20 boxes and 8 passengers were onboard.

As the helicopter turbines came to life, I could hear my mom tell my dad “Vartkes, maybe we shouldn’t have brought Raffi.” This was my first helicopter ride; I began to think it may be my last.

The flight out of Armenia to Nagorno-Karabagh was probably pretty much what you would expect from a vintage 1975 Soviet helicopter. The smell of kerosine never left, and I could only hope the hydraulic fluid leak didn’t worsen. The sound Inside the helicopter was deafening. During the flight mom closed her eyes and tried to sleep, as dad reviewed his legal pad, perhaps already planning his next trip to Karabagh. Personally, I was beginning to wonder if there would be another trip.

Suddenly the seemingly smooth flight of the helicopter evolved into a series of jinking and zig zagging. The passengers were getting tossed around the inside of the helicopter like rag dolls and the boxes which had been tied down looked as if they were going to break loose and come crashing down on the rag dolls. A random wood dowel went flying and struck me on the side of my head.


Mom and Zori abord the helicopter enroute to Karabagh

I could hear the pilot and co-pilot loudly, excitedly, yet professionally screaming as they attempted to dodge wire cables the Azeri invaders strung along the canyon, we were flying in. The idea was the helicopter would run into the cables and crash.

Despite the best efforts of the Azeri invaders and because of the incredible skill of the Armenian pilots we were able to safely arrive in Nagorno-Karabagh at around 12:00 pm local time. Everything was still intact, except for our nerves.

Naturally I was expecting that we would be landing at an airport. However, imagine my surprise as we egressed the helicopter to realize we had landed in the middle of an empty soccer stadium. Professor Melikian excitedly exited the helicopter got on his knees, kissed the ground, grabbed a handful of dirt, stood up and proclaimed, “This is ARMENIAN SOIL.”

Dad still recovering from our harrowing flight forced a smile, nodded at Professor Melikian, and shot my mother a look as if he was saying “Maybe we SHOULDN’T have brought Raffi.” In turn I shot a look at my parents a look saying “Yes, maybe you shouldn’t have!’

Zori had prearranged for three pickup trucks to transport the 20 boxes of relief items. As they were being loaded into the trucks, dad, with his legal pad, meticulously made note of which box was going into which truck.

The process to transfer the boxes from the helicopter to the trucks took about 30 minutes. During that time, members of the community where we landed began to arrive, curious why a helicopter had landed in their soccer stadium.

After 45 minutes on the ground, we were ready to deliver the medical supplies and relief items that we had packed in my parents’ California garage. The only problem was that the once empty soccer stadium was now completely full of people. It was as if everyone from this small town had congregated to the soccer stadium to see what the commotion was. There must have easily been 250 people crowding around the helicopter.

Somehow within this crowd the word got out that one of the passengers was a doctor from America. Naturally, people gravitated towards the salt and pepper haired man in a suit for a medical examination. Dad was only happy to oblige and must have examined at least five “patients” before Zori insisted, he get into truck number one, destined to a field hospital treating wounded Armenian soldiers.

As I made my way to my vehicle, I noticed that there was no more leaking of hydraulic fluid from the helicopter, I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing but at this point it didn’t matter anymore.

The sea of people slowly parted as the three trucks and two cars slowly exited the soccer stadium enroute to our first field hospital.

The experience of travelling to and the experiences at the field hospitals and orphanages deserve a separate story in their own right. Needless to say, the amount of human suffering we saw only reinforced my dad’s desire to help these people so badly in need.

After visiting the first field hospital we made our way to a small private home located near the Gandzasar monastery, where we would eat dinner and spend the night. Arriving a little after sunset our original group of 8 people had now suddenly grown to 15.

Dinner was ghorovadz (shish kebab.) prepared by Professor Melikian. I stood with him as he cooked dinner. Our topic of discussions ranged from Asian languages to topics of a more philosophical nature. We did not speak of the horrors we witnessed at the field hospital, though the images, sounds and smells were still fresh in our minds.

Somehow our 15 people group was able to find sleeping accommodations for everyone. It had been a long tiring day; we could have fallen asleep in the noisy helicopter if need be.

End of Part 2

[RNajarian]

Part 3

5 October 1991 Saturday
Sunrise was 7:00 am. Most of our group was already awake eager to begin our day. Dad was looking at his legal pad. He had removed a few items from some of the boxes and was updating his manifest.

The goal today was to see at least two more field hospitals and at least one orphanage and if possible one elementary school. Breakfast was coffee, tomatoes, radishes, some type of green leaves and leftover ghorovadz from the night before. As we were finishing our breakfast Professor Melikian broke out into a traditional Armenian song. His loud voice carried from outside where he was standing to inside where my dad was reviewing his legal pad. In no time, my dad and Zori Balayan had joined Professor Melikian outside singing the traditional songs.
Five minutes later our group enter their cars with these three men still singing.

We were able to visit two field hospitals and an orphanage. Since it was Saturday, the elementary schools were closed. Nevertheless, Zori was able to arrange a visit to a small village where we delivered some of the relief supplies to the residents.

The entire day was exhausting. Any item from the boxes that had been distributed was crossed off Dad’s legal pad. He was pleased our group was able to deliver much needed medical supplies to the front line where they were needed the most.

As we pulled up to the small house near the monastery, I noticed our group of 15 had now grown to 25. I wasn’t exactly sure where the extra ten people came from but aside from the cigarette fog, they had created they were welcome.

Dinner was ghorovadz again with coffee, tomatoes, radishes, and greens. We mostly ate in silence. The only noise was from a Soviet era 15 inch color television set to a local news station. The broadcast was in Russian so the only the locals, Zori and Professor Melikian could understand the broadcast.

Sometime during the broadcast, we all heard the word “Amerika.” The group quieted down and began to pay attention to the television. Our group listened intently and suddenly became stone faced when the newscaster said the word “Najarian” and “ruble.” The group looked at each other then turned to look at my parents.

“Zori?? What?? What did he say?” dad asked.

Zori looked at Professor Melikian, the language expert who translated, “The Azeri’s have reported that a doctor Najarian from America and his wife have come to Karabagh to provide arms and weapons to the Armenians fighting the Azeris. There is a 100,000-ruble price for the assassination of the doctor and a 75,000-ruble price for the murder of his wife.”

The group was stone faced. I’m not sure whether it was worry or fear on my father’s face, but it was a look I had never seen. The room was silent except for the television.
My mother broke the silence. She stood up and declared, “These Turks are STUPID!! Everyone knows that I do more work on these trips than Vartkes. I should have the 100,000-ruble price on my head and Vartkes should have the 75,000-ruble price!”

The room broke out in raucous laughter. Professor Melikian, raised a vodka glass and shouted, “Mary is right, she’s worth at LEAST 1 million rubles!”

Dad forced a smile but that worried look never left his face.

Despite the addition of 10 additional armed men guarding our house we didn’t sleep as well that second night.

6 October 1991 Sunday
In the morning dad was consulting his legal pad. He was inspecting the remaining boxes and verifying the accuracy of the manifest. Zori thought since it was Sunday perhaps, we could go to a few churches to distribute a few of the non-medical supplies to the children. He left before dawn to coordinate the meetings. Our group of 25 had now grown to somewhere around 35, with several more armed men walking about.

Zori arrived a little after 10:00 am and had the same worried look as he did when he heard last night’s news report.

“Vartkes, he wants to meet you.”

“He? He who?” dad asked.

“The Colonel.” Zori replied.

“What Colonel? Who?” Dad was confused.

“The Russians have deployed a company of soldiers in Karabagh to make sure the war doesn’t get out of control. The Colonel heard you and Mary have brought weapons and he wants to meet you.”

Dad got that worried look again, he looked at mom, then me and asked Zori “What do we do?”
“We meet him,” Zori said.

So, we did.

End of Part 3

[RNajarian]

Part 4

8 October 1991 Tuesday
Meeting day. Zori had arranged lunch for the Colonel, his senior officers, and members of our group alongside a stream near the Gandzasar monastery. Professor Melikian, who was very familiar with the area asked Zori how we were going to get to the stream. The roads were in terrible condition.

Zori replied, “The Russians are going to take us.”
For the first time I saw a worried look on Professor Melikian’s face.

Prior to leaving for the meeting Dad took an empty box and began filling it with items from the remaining boxes. He updated his legal pad to reflect the items placed in this ½ full box then informed Zori he wanted to take the new box with us to the meeting. A group of ten people and my Dad’s newly created box went to meet the Russians.

We arrived at a predesignated location on the side of a road twenty minutes later. There waiting for us were three Soviet era MT-LB armored personnel vehicles. As we exited our cars a very large and imposing Russian, who ended up being “the Colonel,” walked directly to me and said, “NO PHOTO,” pointing to the camera around my neck. I was perfectly happy to oblige.

The Russian Colonel began to separate our group into the three armored personnel carriers. Dad went into the first one with the Colonel, I went into the second one and mom the third. The remaining members of our party were divided into vehicles number 1 and 3.

The inside of the carrier was dark and musky. I scrambled inside the vehicle and grabbed the first seat I could find as the top hatch slammed shut above me. The vehicle roared to life, and we were on our way. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the armored personnel vehicle I noticed eight soldiers, each with an AK-47, staring at me. I smiled nervously. It was going to be a very long, or short ride. Fortunately, Professor Melikian was assigned to vehicle #3 with my mom.

Our convoy rumbled on for about 30 minutes. Inside the armored personnel vehicle there were no windows and very bad ventilation. I kept hoping I wouldn’t get sick inside the vehicle. I couldn’t imagine trying to explain THAT one to the Colonel.

When we arrived at our final destination the MT-LB jerked to a halt. The top hatch opened, and the driver gestured for me to exit. The sunlight was initially blinding but the fresh air helped ease my queasy stomach.

We had arrived at an incredibly green meadow. A stream ran east to west with a cluster of trees on the other side of the stream. It was difficult to believe we were in the middle of a war zone.

As people began to exit the vehicles, I noticed that the soldiers from the three MT-LBs began to spread out as if they were securing a perimeter. Zori gestured for everyone to go to a long table set up along the stream. The table was set for 20 people and had dozens of plates full of various appetizers on it, very reminiscent of an Armenian wedding. Off in the distance I could see a fire where several men appeared to be cooking food.

The Colonel went to the head of the table and sat down. Zori, who would act as the translator sat to the Colonel’s right and my dad was instructed to sit to the Colonel’s left. The remaining seats closest to the Colonel were taken by his officers, leaving the rest of our group to sit at the end of the table.

As people began to settle into their seats, we heard a commotion from the head of the table. Dad, who doesn’t drink, instructed the vodka glasses all be filled. The table quieted down when my dad pointed his finger at the Colonel and asked, “How many Marshals were in the Soviet Army during World War 2?”

Zori translated to the Colonel, and he replied “Twelve.”

My dad slapped the table and said “CORRECT! But can you tell me how many of them were Armenian?”

The Colonel sat back and in a normal tone said, “None of them, all were Russian.”

My dad replied, “NO. only 8 were Russian, the remaining 4 were Armenian.” He stood up from his chair raised his vodka glass and said, “We will drink to the Armenian heroes of the Soviet Army.”

Standing erect with his glass raised to the sky my dad said, “To Marshal Hovhannes Bagramyan!” He then put the glass to his lips then sat down and waited for the Colonel to reciprocate.

The Colonel slowly got up and in a subdued voice said “Bagramyan” and drank his vodka. The rest of the table reluctantly followed suit.

Dad gestured for the vodka glasses to be filled again, rose from his chair raised his glass and said, “To Sergei Khudyakov, Marshal of Aviation!” put the glass to his lips but this time slammed the glass on the table as he sat down.

The Colonel, realizing my dad was a student of history, stood up with a little more vigor this time, raised his glass and said, “To Hero Marshal Khudyakov!” drinking the contents and slamming his glass on the table just like dad.

By now the attendants knew to fill the glasses around the table. Dad rose again, raised his glass, and said, “To the Hero of the Sea, Marshal Hovhannes Ter-Isahakyan!” put the glass to his lips then slammed the glass down as he sat.

By now the rest of the Colonel’s staff began to get into the spirit of things. As the Colonel rose, his eight senior officers seated at the table rose with him and they toasted Marshal Ter-Isahakyan.

Dad, with his vodka glass, rose once again with his arm outstretched to the sky and said, “To the tank Marshal who looked Hitler’s troops in the eyes and drove them out of the Motherland, Marshall Hamazasp Babadzhanian!” again putting the glass to his lips and slamming his glass on the table louder than ever.

By now the distrust that permeated the assembled people seemed to dissipate. The Russians stood and respectfully all shouted “Babadzhanian!” all downing their beverages and slamming their glasses on the table like dad.

The ice was broken, people began to partake in the appetizers, but dad wasn’t finished. He looked at the Colonel and asked if he knew who the chief designer of the MiG 15, 17, and 19 jet fighter was.

The Colonel a little more at ease after 4 shots of vodka said “Yes, Mikoyan, an Armenian.”

Dad bellowed “Correct! Artem Mikoyan.” He stood, raised his glass, and said “Artem Mikoyan.”
The Colonel and his staff all rose and repeated “Artem Mikoyan” drank their vodka and slammed their glasses on the table.

Up to this point the only time I had seen my dad put anything with alcohol in his mouth was mouthwash, and even then, he spit it out. This was a side of my dad I had never seen.

By now the main course was being served, plates of ghorovadz, fish and pork arrived at the table. The air of suspicion that hung in the air as the afternoon began had disappeared.

Dad began to engage the Colonel in conversation. He asked the Colonel where home was and about his family. From my vantage I couldn’t hear the conversation very well, but I could tell the Colonel was at ease and enjoying his time with my dad. Midway through the meal I noticed the soldiers who had set up the security perimeter were now all congregated together by the stream eating prepackaged food, seemingly unconcerned about the activities at the table.

The afternoon progressed amicably. To an outsider you would think the people at the table had been friends for a while. Dad recited several Armenian poems and encouraged Zori to recite some of his original work. The Colonel in turn told stories of his military career and personal stories.

By the end of the afternoon the Colonel took off his jacket and my dad began an elbow flexion test on him. Dad asked for his ½ box of supplies to be retrieved from the armored personnel carrier. Referring to his legal pad, he gathered some medications and orthopedic splints for the Colonel. He placed a splint to support a sprain on his elbow and showed the Colonel how to apply it.

As sunset began to fall, we slowly began to make our way back to MT-LB armored personnel vehicles ready for our trip back to civilization. The Colonel, in a much better mood than when we arrived, changed the seating arrangements for the ride home.

“Doctor, Mary and Boy here,” the Colonel said as he pointed to the lead MT-LB. We got into his vehicle, but the Colonel insisted dad take the driver’s seat. The Colonel sat to his right and the rest of the people assigned to vehicle 1 assembled in the back.
Dad raised his hands in the air and shook his head indicating he didn’t know how to drive an armored personnel vehicle. The Colonel, smiling and laughing slapped my dad on the back and began to show him the controls of the 12 ton beast.

Despite the language barrier, dad and the Colonel talked and laughed all the way back to the roadside where we left our cars. Dad seemed to do pretty well driving the MT-LB despite the 5 shots of vodka I saw him drink.

We arrived at our vehicles at sunset. Zori, Professor Melikian, the Colonel, and my dad all stood together in a circle as they said their goodbyes. Dad told the Colonel to contact Zori if he needed any more medications or splints. The Colonel then turned to my dad gave him a big bear hug and said “брат” (brother), my dad in return said “եղբայր” (brother.)

We got into our cars and went back to the small house where we had been staying for the past 4 days. When we arrived, our group seemed to grow again. By now the number was up to 40 people. More armed men guarding the two “gun runners” from America.

Dad was more at ease. I remember mom and dad taking a walk when we returned. Hand in hand they were reviewing the events of the day, with six men in tow, each with an AK-47, guarding their every step.

We slept well that night, unaware our adventure with the Colonel was not over.

End of Part 4

[RNajarian]

Part 5

9 October 1991 Wednesday
Despite the successful meeting with the Colonel our group did not let their guard down. Every time one of us went to use the outhouse we had an armed guard to accompany us. Mom wasn’t too pleased but realized she had no choice.

We spent the next morning regrouping. Dad, Zori, and Professor Melikian sat outside drinking coffee under a grape vine looking at a map of the area to try and plot our next step. Mom and I wandered, with armed guards of course, to a neighbor’s home where there was a tonir, an underground oven lined with ceramic tiles to bake bread. The smell of the fresh baked bread was so enticing that the three men under the grape vine found their way over to see if they could snag a little “taste.”

Professor Melikian proceeded to give a mini lecture on how the tonir was a symbol of the sun and ancient Armenians used to worship them as a symbol of the setting sun, eventually using these ovens to bake bread.
By now it was well after 1:00 pm. In the distance we noticed a cloud of dust and a car was rapidly approaching our group. The car screeched to a halt and an associate of Zori’s jumped out and took Zori aside. Excitedly speaking in Russian waiving his hands and pointing down the road. Zori looked astonished and proceeded to get into the car.

“Zori, what happened?” dad asked.

Zori shook his head and said “I don’t know. I can’t believe it. I’ll let you know.” The car raced off from where it came.

By now our group had swelled to probably over 50 people. People were huddled around the tonir, smoking cigarettes and eating bread. Dad sat down and began to review his legal pad. The pages were torn and dirty, he made notes on the margins and circled items of importance.

The second batch of bread in the tonir was nearly done baking when Zori returned an hour later.
Zori stepped out of the car with the biggest smile I had ever seen on a person.

Dad stood up and walked towards Zori and said “ինչ?” (What?)

Zori asked dad, “What did you say to the Colonel?”

Dad replied, “I don’t understand. You were there, what do you mean.?”

Zori gave my dad a huge bear hug and said “They are gone.”

“What? Who is gone?” dad asked.

“The Colonel, the Russians, they left this morning.”

Mom walked over and stood next to dad and asked Zori “What does this mean?” Worried their absence may lead to something bad happening to our group.

Zori smiled “Vartkes, the Russians are gone, but they left their guns and ammunition behind for our defenders to use against the Turks! Vartkes, you did get us guns after all!”

Our group excitedly talked amongst one another as the significance of what had just happened began to sink in. These weapons the Colonel left behind was the “shot in the arm” the defenders needed to push back the Azeri invaders.

As everyone celebrated the moment, I noticed mom had a look on her face. “Vartkes, you don’t drink. You NEVER drink. How did you have 5 shots of vodka yesterday?”

Dad smiled for the first time in weeks and said, “I didn’t drink any vodka yesterday.”

I said “What? No, we ALL saw you drink 5 shots of vodka.”

Dad sat down and demonstrated the trick he used to fool the Russian Colonel. Holding an Armenian coffee demi-tasse cup dad showed how he used his hand to completely envelop the cup. While standing up he placed his hand under the table and poured the liquid on the ground. Then extending his arm skyward, still covering the glass with his hands, dad made his toast and pretending to drink the nonexistent vodka, then slamming the empty cup on the table as he sat down.

Professor Melikian, as astonished as the rest of us somehow produced a 20-year-old bottle of Nairi Armenian Cognac. He gave it to dad who took the bottle, raised it to the sky and said “to Karabagh and the heroes defending her!” This time actually taking a drink.

Within minutes the bottle was empty, and we feasted on the freshly baked bread from the tonir.
At this point our group had swelled to probably over 75 people. As we slowly walked back to our house. Mom and dad walked in front, hand in hand, flanked by armed men, guarding the new Hero of Armenia and Karabagh.

Zori and mom with members of our group.

End of Part 5

[RNajarian]

Part 6

10 October 1991 Thursday
I wish I could say the rest of our trip to Karabagh was uneventful, but it wasn’t. We spent the remainder of our time in Karabagh visiting as many hospitals, schools, and orphanages as possible.

The word got out. Somehow the people of Nagorno-Karagagh heard about the savior from America who brought life and hope to the people of the region. By now I lost count of how large our group had become, but needless to say we travelled with numerous bodyguards anywhere we went. Changing our route daily and sleeping in a different home every night.

We were greeted by hundreds of people at every school, orphanage, hospital and community center we visited. The streets would be lined with people waving and cheering the Doctor and his wife. Wherever we went, Mom would be given so many flowers she could not hold them all. If you laid them flat on a table they would measure 1 yard long, by 2 feet deep by 2 feet high. Sadly, she used too many of these flowers to place on freshly dug graves.

Unfortunately, despite the triumph by the stream, the war continued. Dad spent our remaining time assessing the needs of the military hospitals and performing impromptu lifesaving emergency surgeries. Each day brought new challenges and difficulties. Dad’s legal pad was getting filled up and at this rate would need a second. Hospitals were in short supply of vital life-saving supplies. This only strengthened dad’s resolve to get the people of Karabagh what they needed to push back the invaders.

Dad before an unscheduled emergency surgery giving “that look.”


24 October 1991 Thursday
Our return flight to Yerevan from Nagorno-Karabagh was delayed several times due to weather and reports of Azeri troops in the area. We were exhausted, both emotionally and physically. Mom and I were ready to pass out, but dad seemed to have the energy of a teenager.
He had already begun to plan which of his friends he was going to contact, once back in California, to get the supplies that were requested of him. His job wasn’t done. He wasn’t done.

We arrived back at our hotel in Yerevan midafternoon via helicopter. For what we had been through I didn’t notice or care about the smell of kerosine or leaking hydraulic fluid during our flight.

Dad wasted no time getting on the phone to a pharmacist friend of his in Fresno. “Noubar, I need some statins (cholesterol medications). Can you mail me some right away? There is a Colonel who could use some, he helped us out a lot on our trip . . .”


Dad and I standing in front of “Dadik and Babik”

[RNajarian]

The Four Soviet Armenian Marshals of WW2





Gandzasar Monastery

[LWJ]

Speechless. That is amazing! Thank you for sharing.

[unclebilly]

Really cool. Most people who grew up in the west have no idea… I have friends who grew up in Soviet times and they have amazing stories.

Thank you for sharing.

[pwd72s]

Just wow...

[Skytrooper]

Wow...what an amazing adventure ! Your father should be on a stamp for his cunning and heroism ! May God bless him for his mission of mercy !

[masraum]

Great, post. Thank you for sharing. Any time you want to share more, please do. It would be greatly appreciated.

[E38Driver]

Great story. Thank you for sharing. I learned some history today.

Very well written. Have you ever thought of writing a book about this. I'm sure that there is more.

Again thanks for sharing.

Dave

[GH85Carrera]

Amazing story and adventure. So many stories like yours need to be told.

1991 was just another normal year for most Americans and we are lucky to have a large ocean to separate us from the Russians and the Chinese.

[Steve F]

Just wow!! Excellently written!!

[ErVikingo]

What a great human being!

[oldE]

Raffi,
Great job honoring your father and mother.
Your story telling does them justice.

Best
Les

[p911dad]

Thank you for that, amazing times and story!

[fanaudical]

Wow - Amazing story - Thank you.

[Tobra]

The Look, yeah, got the guns there after all.

Your sounds like an incredible man, thank you for sharing that story

Man, I hate helicopters, even no fuel or hydraulic fluid leaking ones.