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