Life and Freedom. The autobiography of the former president of Armenia and Nagorno-Karabakh. Роберт Кочарян
to everyone's surprise, transferred to the distance learning program. I passed my fourth year finals ahead of schedule and went to Karabakh. The department head, the dean, and some of my professors begged me not to do it. They couldn't understand why a bright student – with great potential to stay at the department and pursue his doctoral degree – would drop everything and leave for Karabakh. They wanted to hear a compelling argument. But there was no specific reason, even though there was a combination of factors behind that deliberate and rational decision. By that time, I had already completed the basic course in fundamental sciences, and the next two years were meant to acquire a narrow specialization in electrical machines. There were no jobs for that in Karabakh. It meant that I would either have to stay and work at the Electrical Engineering Department or at some factory in Armenia. I didn't like either option, as I didn't plan to move to Armenia for good. Besides, I realized that I learn quickly and have a lot of spare time on my hands. My personal pace was faster than the one laid out in the academic curriculum. I figured that I could accomplish a lot more in those two years in addition to the academic program.
I continued my college education remotely: I self-studied in Karabakh, then traveled to Yerevan for a month. I took all my exams for the year – most of them ahead of schedule – and then returned home again. I graduated with honors, but not without a single B – in Thermal Engineering. I remember the Yerevan Polytechnic Institute of the 1970s as a top university with a solid teaching staff. To this day, the head of our department, who couldn't convince me to stay, believes that I left to organize the Karabakh movement. I wasn't able to convince him otherwise…
Moving back to Stepanakert very quickly led to another important event in my life: marriage.
I had attended the same preschool with my future spouse. After that, we went to the same grade school, where we were in the same group for four years. Then we split up for a while but ended up at the same school again, this time in parallel groups. I had always liked her, but there was no tender teenage connection between us – Bella hardly noticed me. I was overly quiet and didn't get involved in school activities. She, on the contrary, was very active and an exemplary straight-A student. After graduation, I lost sight of her, but fate brought us back together when I came home for my college break with a firm decision to enroll in distance learning. We met in town accidentally. I was driving my car and noticed her going up the street. I was happy to see her, so I stopped and offered her a ride home. We hadn't seen each other for a long time, and I didn't know anything about her life or what she had done after graduating from school. We talked for a while and decided to stay in touch, exchanging phone numbers.
We got married in the fall of 1980. I proposed, we got engaged, and then came the memorable wedding. At its very start, Victor, my already tipsy brother-in-law, opened a bottle of rosé champagne and spilled it all over the bride, from head to toe. Bella was upset, and I got pretty angry. The only way to save the wedding and Victor was to party all night.
We lived at my place – first with my mother and Valera's family. Then Valera, who worked at the Soviet Karabakh newspaper, received an apartment and they moved out. Our older son, Sedrak, was born in 1981. Our daughter, Gayane, and our son, Levon, were born at two-year intervals.
Bella turned out to have an exceptionally strong character. She never complained and went through the toughest of times silently. Sincere and affectionate, my wife always made an effort to help others. She knew how to build relationships and ensure a peaceful atmosphere at home.
I have always had a happy family life. Why? I never asked myself that question. I believe that there is no point in scrutinizing relationships or analyzing them. If you're comfortable, if you don't look for reasons to come home late, if you're ready to dedicate your Sundays to the family and don't consider it a great sacrifice, then continue living your life as you are, without overthinking what's good and bad about it. Take it as it is; otherwise, you will imagine problems that don't really exist.
It was 1980. I got a job as an engineering technologist at the electrotechnical plant (during Soviet times, we had this type of a plant that produced lighting equipment). But I didn't get to work there for too long – less than six months. One day, I got a phone call from the director's assistant, who said, "You have been requested at the Komsomol city committee. The first secretary wishes to see Kocharyan urgently." "Me? He wants to see me? Why? How does he even know about me?" I asked. It turned out that the Komsomol city committee was looking for new cadres, and the plant recommended me.
I had nothing to do with Komsomol, really. Of course, I was a member of Komsomol, but so was everyone! I was never civically engaged. Moreover, I never liked Komsomol's leaders, as I considered them careerists. I always had a strained relationship with the leaders of the Komsomol organizations. I even had a conflict with one of them at the Yerevan Polytechnic Institute. Once, he and his entourage entered my dorm room without knocking. It was some sort of an inspection. I was sitting on my bed reading and, apparently, gave him an unfriendly look as I didn't appreciate the intrusion. The Komsomol leader noticed it and barked in a commanding tone: "You need to get up when your superiors enter the room!" I ignited instantly, "Listen, chief, didn't they teach you to knock first? It's not going to end well if I get up!" One of his men whispered something in his ear. He threatened to summon me in front of the committee to discuss my unbecoming behavior and left. Of course, he didn't do it; the guys told me that the discussion was deemed unnecessary. The Komsomol bosses behaved overly politely around me after the incident.
Interestingly, despite my bluntness and negativity toward the Komsomol bosses, they didn't express any resentment toward me. On the contrary, they always tried to get me involved in civic activity, saying, "You are a straight-A student. Students respect you and listen to you. You could be a good Komsomol leader!" True, I always excelled at my studies. I enjoyed math, analytical mechanics, and physics. I solved all the problems in the textbook with ease. Other students asked me for help, and I always helped them. Besides, I had a good company of friends at the dorm. We combined hard studying with active free time. We poked fun at each other and made our lives enjoyable. I could sense that my classmates respected me for my knowledge, actions, and character. But civic activity? Why do they always try to get me involved? I didn't want it at all! I never liked public visibility. Even as a child, I was shy, never took part in any school plays, and avoided loud gatherings. I would rather spend time hiking in the mountains or walking around in the woods with a rifle, alone or with very close friends.
In summary, I had never been attracted to Komsomol work, and yet, suddenly, I was being invited to the city committee. I had to go.
I went to the office of Komsomol's First Secretary Victor Kocharyan, and he offered me a job. He told me that they were looking for cadres, I was recommended, they saw a fit, and there was an urgent vacancy for a Komsomol secretary at one of the local enterprises. I declined categorically. "No way," I said. "I am an engineer by training, I've never done any Komsomol work, I have no idea what it is, and I don't want it – it's not for me!" He replied, "Well, think about it. It's a good career opportunity. Don't rush to say no. Think about it and tell me in a couple of days…"
Of course, I thought about the proposition. I understood that it was not only a new path for me, but also a good opportunity for career growth. My work was calm and boring; it wasn't straining or exciting. What does a technologist usually do? He spends several hours on the production floor, ensuring technological compliance. I tried to diversify my work, to think about production changes and improvements. I wanted to do a bit more than what was required of me.
Within a month of our conversation, Victor Kocharyan, with whom
All-Union Leninist Young Communist League