Əsgər

Please introduce yourself briefly.

My name is Əsgər, I’m 47. I’m originally from Qaratəhlə; I was born there and grew up there. Now I live in Tbilisi with my family, because the work is here. But every weekend I go back to the village, to my relatives. I set off on Saturday morning and come back to the city on Sunday evening. That’s how it goes; it’s been like this for years.

What was your childhood in the village like?

I spent my whole childhood in the village; back then I didn’t know the city at all. We’d get up early in the morning, the grown-ups would go to work, and we children would help out in the orchard and the yard. We had livestock, and we’d take them out to graze.

In summer we’d go down to the bank of the Kura River, swim, play ball. In the evening everyone would gather at home; my grandmother would talk and we’d listen. Now I think that back then we didn’t have much of anything, but you felt your life was full. If you found an apple, we’d split it four ways and eat it. Kids today have everything, but they don’t know that taste.

What were your school years like?

I went to school in the village; we studied in Azerbaijani. Our teachers were from our own village, and I still know most of them. Lessons were serious, and respect for teachers was something else back then.

We learned Georgian too, but it wasn’t all that strong. Later, when I came to the city, I realised you have to know Georgian well, otherwise it’s hard. I learned it myself, while working. But reading and writing, arithmetic, all of that I got at the village school.

Were you able to continue your education?

No, I couldn’t get a higher education, and that has stayed with me as a bit of a regret. When I finished school it was the mid-nineties. You know what the situation was like then: everything had been turned upside down, no work, no money, you couldn’t be sure of tomorrow.

My father used to say: son, studying is good, but first there has to be bread. He was right. Back then, thinking about university was a luxury. So I went to work; I had to help the family. Sometimes I say to myself, if the times had been different, maybe I would have studied. But you can’t go back to the past. I’m not complaining, it just crosses my mind sometimes.

How did you come to Tbilisi, and what do you do for a living?

I came to Tbilisi for work; there was no other reason. It’s hard to find work in the village; there’s practically none. I was young, I had my strength, so I came to the city.

At first I worked in construction. It was hard work, but you put up with it for the money. Then I worked at the market, and now I’m in trade. I’m on my feet from morning till night. That’s the city: there’s no rest, but you earn your bread. If I had stayed in the village, to be honest, I don’t know how I would have made a living.

What draws you back to the village every week?

What draws me to the village is my relatives, nothing else. My mother is there, my brother is there with his family, my uncle, the neighbours. If it weren’t for them, to be honest, maybe I wouldn’t go so often. Maybe I’d go once a month.

You go so that you can see someone. To drink tea from your mother’s hand, to sit and talk with your brother, to ask the neighbours how they’re doing. Who goes to an empty house, after all? When your relatives are there, the village feels like home too.

How do you spend the weekend in the village?

I arrive on Saturday morning, and the first thing I do is go to my mother. She lays the table straight away and says, “You eat, and let me just look at you.” That’s what mothers are like.

Then there are jobs to do in the yard: I help in the orchard, my brother and I fix something together. At midday the relatives gather: tea, conversation. On Sunday I go to the mosque, then I meet up with old friends. Towards evening I head back to the city, and every time it’s as if a piece of me stays there.

What’s the biggest difference between the city and the village?

The biggest difference is in the people. In the city everyone is in a hurry; you don’t even know your neighbour’s name. In the village everyone knows each other; everyone knows who has what and who doesn’t.

If there’s a wedding, the whole village comes. If there’s a funeral, again everyone comes; they don’t leave you alone. The city has comfort, it has opportunities, but it doesn’t have that warmth. Sometimes in the city, even with so many people around, you feel alone. In the village you’re never alone. I’m used to that warmth.

What do language and identity mean to you?

At home we always speak Azerbaijani, with the children too. That’s important to me. They learn Georgian anyway; it’s the state language, it’s needed. But if you don’t know your own language, you’ll forget who you are too.

In summer I take my children to the village so they can stay with their grandmother and see the village’s language and customs. Once my son asked, “Dad, where are we from?” I said, “We’re from Qaratəhlə. Even though you were born in Tbilisi, your roots are there.” As long as they don’t forget that, it’s enough.

How do you see the future?

When I think about the future, my heart sinks a little. The young people leave, and most of them don’t come back. There are fewer and fewer people in the village. I’m afraid that one day you’ll be looking at empty houses.

But there’s still hope. The land draws you back, family ties draw you back. I’m an example myself: I live in the city, but I come back every week. Maybe my children will come back one day too; at least they’ll know they have roots. As for me, as long as there’s life in me, I’ll keep coming and going. You can leave the village, but you can’t take it out of your heart.