Black January

The Twentieth of January is a special day in Azerbaijan, a national day of mourning. It is the anniversary of the deaths of 130 men, women, and children who died when the Soviet army invaded Baku, having declared a national state of emergency. These people are memorialized by a monument in Baku, Martyr’s Lane , a walkway lined by their graves, at the end of which is a monolith covering an undying flame. Many towns and cities have their own smaller Martyrs’ Lanes, including Ismayilli, which memorialize those from the area who have died as martyrs, mostly in conflict with Armenia.

I awoke to discover it had snowed lightly over night, coating the ground with a white dusting. Last night as I went to bed, I realized it was actually hailing tiny ice balls. After breakfast, I prepared to meet my school on the way to Martyr’s Lane. It was still foggy and very lightly precipitating, and here and there it was possible to see people walking here and there, most heading towards the south of town, towards the monument. On the balcony of the Culture House in the center of town a speaker stood, loudly playing ghostly, mournful Azerbaijani music, all tars and sazes.

There I waited, trying vaguely to be obvious and inconspicuous at the same time, so that when the teachers arrived, they would see me, but at the same time, hoping I wasn’t being horribly awkward. A man stood at the corner selling artificial flowers to take to the memorial. Most people bought red rose, but every so often someone would walk by carrying a handful of lilies or bright orange flowers that cannot exist in nature.

Eventually I was joined by Humay Muellim (Humay Teacher) and Sakit Muellim, and we stood, the two of them conversing while I mostly listened, periodically receiving interpretations from Humay Muellim. And then out of the fog came the school, a mass of people strolled down the street. They quickly ushered us along, urging me along with the director and other male teachers, who led the way, periodically reminding the students to stay behind them. We took up the entire street, and cars were forced to park while we passed before driving again.

The snow picked up as we marched down the road, and finally up ahead we saw the hill where Martyrs’ Lane sits. Slightly below it stands a World War II memorial. Stairs led up to the platform where a soldier memorial stands and then further up the hill towards Martyrs’ Lane. We gathered at the bottom of the hill, at the steps to the World War II memorial, surely over 500 people. Police stood on the platform and allowed people through in large groups. The police briefly held me back while my school’s director went on, but he and another teacher stopped and called for me to come with them.

Slowly, as a part of the long procession, we entered the gates. More roses lined the path we were to circumambulate. The families of Ismayilli martyrs solemnly stood by their graves as passersby placed flowers in front of them. The director took several pictures with me as we walked, and instructed me where to place my flower. A man named Mayil, who died in 1993. There was not much time to stop and savor the moment, as more people were eager to visit.

And that was that. That was Black January. It was surprising to see how much smiling and laughter there was on the way there and back. For a country that is probably nowhere close to being over the traumas they’ve faced, it was relieving to see some happiness on this day. The event was free of political diatribes and posturing, no one lectured me about the events or the conflict; it seemed mostly to truly be about visiting and honoring the dead. A little pushing and shoving while we awaited entry kind of took some of the power out of the occasion, but by and large it seemed heartfelt.

I consider the recent understanding of death in America. Those Americans that we have lost in war have all been far away and out of site. Here, death is an immediate issue. On just the other side of the country, a country the size of Maine, people still die periodically. It is an entirely different situation and reality. The conflict and the deaths as a result have become a very strong part of the nation’s cultural history and identity.