We (with my father and a group of friends) left almost at once.
All this time (and even before) I was corresponding with Yuri Pavlovich Zhdanov, although I write to other people, too. I need to keep censoring myself: can I write this? What about this? Will it get there, won’t they return to sender? I write about little things, how the summer went, the main events remain outside the frame. The people I write are already steeped in horror, why add mine to the mix? And when I read, “Bari luis (1), Lusia”, I feel joy.
(1) ”Good morning” in Armenian.
“In these 163 days, I, for the first time ever: picked apricots, tried SUPing, was fired, walked thousands of steps, was and keep learning a new language, let my hair grow long, drew, helped with a movie club/exhibitions was with friends, found myself in a city I knew nothing about and in a country I knew little about, hope and love are forms of resistance, trying to be useful, I remember and I wait and I write letters”
Translated by Tatiana Rudyak