Sukhumi

«Sukhumi”. Immediately it conjures up images of the BlackSea, palm trees and dolphins in my mind. It was here, in a picturesque village on the outskirts of this resort‑style town, where we lived. Our house stood on a hill, the panorama below, breath‑taking.

Every morning it was as if the sun magically floated in from the sea, and every evening, majestically returned to somewhere far beyond the horizon, leaving a slowly dissolving golden trail, upon the velvet surface of the sea. Vineyards and orchards, the fragrant scent of citrus, hills, lush greenery, all overflowed my senses. Eucalyptus, magnolia, cypress, acacia, mimosa…wonderful aromas!

Almost an entire street in the village was occupied by my relatives, distant relatives or almost relatives. People there were very open and friendly. Without invitation they would visit one another, just for a cup, two or three, of really, really, strong coffee. I don’t remember much from those years, but all my memories are warm and soft, bringing a slight ache to my heart.

One of the most vivid memories is the day I first went to school. I was so happy I couldn’t sleep the night before. I remember my first teacher, a kind, smiley, mature woman with large‑framed glasses. I was her favourite student (this was the first and last time that was the case). After school, we scurried around the village barefoot, catching fish in the river with our bare hands, or building cubby houses. I was six.

Then came Easter…At that time I had no idea what the real reason was for this holiday.Then again, neither did most adults. However, the celebration was always memorable: cakes of various sizes and shapes with sultanas and icing, and of course, coloured eggs. We, the kids, competed knocking our eggs against those of another to see whose was the strongest. Some kids were very sneaky.

They would buy coloured, wooden eggs in advance and beat those of us who were more naïve! It was fun. According to culture and tradition, at this time of year we were also supposed to honour the memory of relatives who had passed away. My family, along with some other close relatives, had gathered. We proceeded in two cars to the local cemetery. I remember we had to persuade my mother to come with us because, for some reason, she didn’t want to. It was as if she sensed something badwasabout to happen…

Turning down a narrow, country road, we stopped to open the wooden gate blocking the path. Then, going up a slight incline, we drove towards an oncoming, yellow car. Then, from that moment, everything happened as if it was straight out of an action movie. My father gets out of the car and opens the door of the yellow Lada. He waved his hands and was saying something to someone in the car. I later learned that there in the car sat my cousin, my uncle’s son, who disappeared from home about a month ago. His parents were by this time already desperate in their quest to find him.

My dad tried to convince my cousin to go with us and then home to his parents. I then saw the other doors of the car fly open and four men jumped out. They started beating my father. There was only one man still with us. He ran to the rescue and there, practically in the middle of nowhere, a fierce fight broke out – two middle‑aged men against five, burly young guys. The noise, the cries of women and children, the sight of faces, fists, violence – it was horrifying. I threw my Easter eggs and lollies at the enemy…

Suddenly one of the passengers of the yellow Lada, took out a rifle and began shooting. One shot fired into the air and people panicked and fled in all directions. In the end there were only the raging youths and my parents left centre‑stage. The armed guy pointed the rifle at my father. My mum rushed over to his aid. A shot rang out. My mother stumbled a few steps towards our car and then sank to the ground in a crumpled heap. Clouds of dust rose as the wheels spun and the car sped away, taking my parents away to find emergency medical assistance. The “yellow Lada people” left in a hurry. I gazed around and saw the stunned expressions on everyone’s faces. I was shaken out of my shock by the overwhelming reality of continuing screams and the non‑stop, ear‑piercing cry of my two‑year‑old brother, and the monotonous wailing of my grandmother, “Oh… Astvats, Astvats…» (“Oh… Lord, Lord”) she moaned.

For four months my mother was in hospital in very serious condition. She endured four operations, and miraculously, survived. As soon as she was discharged from hospital we sold our cosy home on the hill, and drove as far away as possible…

This was the first time I experienced fear. My childhood ended abruptly.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 631