Heavenly and earthly love

Illustration to Khayyam’s Hungarian edition by Endre Szász

I am in debt with two images that I had not published among the illustrations of the Russian edition of Omar Khayyam, partly in order not to destroy the beautiful arrangement of four times four, and partly because I wanted to write about them something more anyway.


The one of which I write today follows the usual iconography of Khayyam: wine and woman, desire and transience. It is not much different, let us say, from picture twelve on the four times four table. The only important difference is the candle in the background which attracts with its flame the night butterflies.

The image of the butterfly immolated in the light of the candle is one of the most important motifs of classical Persian poetry. Annemarie Schimmel, the greatest Western expert of Sufism writes in her A Two-Colored Brocade. The Imagery of Persian Poetry, 1992 that there is no more popular poetic animal than this, except for the nightingale (about which we have already written a couple of times, but still we are in debt with the presentation of its Persian meaning). It is no accident: both are soul symbols. The nightingale symbolizes the soul longing for God, while the butterfly the soul which, annihilated in God’s fire, becomes one with Him and thus reaches the supreme goal of all Sufi.

For a thousand years several thousand Persian poets have repeated this motif from India to Istambul and from the 9th-century Sufi martyr Hallaj to 20th-century Surrealist poetess Forough Farrokhzad. A beautiful classical example is the ghazel of Hafez:

آتش آن نیست که از شعله ی او خندد شمع
آتش آن است که در خرمن پروانه ردند

âtash ân nīst ke az sho‘le-ye ū khandad sham‘
âtash ân ast ke dar kharman parvâne zadand

true fire is not the one dancing in the flame of the candle
true fire is the one harvesting the butterfly

The image of the butterfly burnt in the flame of the candle was also known in European classical literature. Erasmus in Adagia 1.9.51, Pyraustae exitus – “Death of the fire-insect” – cites a fragment of Aeschylus as its earliest occurrence, which has survived just because it had been cited as a proverb already in the antiquity and included in Greek proverb collections: Δέδοικα μωρόν (correctly μῶρον) κάρτα πυραύστου μόρον, that is, among all follies the greatest folly is the death of the butterfly in the fire. The less flattering this opinion is, the more it renders palpable the already mentioned difference of the Greek and Persian world views. Accordingly, Erasmus interpreted the proverb as related to hastiness and ephemeral things. And Sebastián de Covarrubias emphasizes in his great encyclopedia that the butterfly is “the most stupid animal among all”.


In the West this motif was connected with love only two thousand years after its birth. It was Petrarch who in his 141st sonnett compared the eyes of the beloved lady to the flame, and himself to the butterfly circling around it. This metaphor was made popular in the Petrarchist poetry of the 1500s, exactly when Europe got into contact with Persian culture.

A pictorial form was given to the idea for the first time by polyhistor Gabriele Simeoni, the alumn of the humanist bishop Paolo Giovio whose main work, the History of Italy was already quoted by us a propos of the destruction of the Pope’s rhinoceros. The other, much slimmer but the more influential main work of Giovio was the Imprese militari et amorose, first published in 1550, in which he collected the personal symbols – imprese – of the most illustrious people of the previous half century. An enlarged edition was published in 1574 by Simeoni, who added forty or so imprese of his own invention. Number 15 was the above image, provided by him with the following explanation (first we quote the short version of the 1585 English edition, and then the original 1574 Italian version with our own translation):

Vnder the figure of the butter flie, who so much delighteth in the brightnes of the fire, that of her owne accord she casteth her selfe into the same, and so is burned: may be signified, how that a man who goeth about, or affecteth euerie thing without deliberation and choice, getteth many times to himself shame, reproch and destruction withall.

Vn Gentil’ huomo amico mio mi ricercò di ritrouargli vn’impresa d’amore, ond’ io gli feci disegnare vna Farfalla intorno à vna Candela accesa con queste parole, COSI TROPPO PIACER CONDVCE A MORTE. seguendo la natura di cosi semplice animale, che i Greci dall’amar naturalmente il fuoco han chiamato πυραυστὴν auuertendo che’l senso di questa impresa può essere inteso doppiamente, conciò sia che appropriandolo al corpo, ei non è dubbio alcuno (secondo Platone) che vno innamorato è morto in se stesso, viuendo il suo pensiero (che è la propria vita dell’anima) intorno alla cosa amata. Onde il detto Filosofo soleua dire quand’ ei trouaua vn’innamorato, COLVI VIVE IN VN’ ALTRO CORPO. Ma attribuendo moralmente quest’ amore all’anima, egli è certissimo che mentre che l’huom si deletta intorno à vna bellezza corporale (figurata quì da me per lo splendore della Candela) dimenticando bene spesso il Creator per la creatura, e cadendo in qualche scandolo, vengono finalmente à perdere il corpo e l’anima. Il che accade ordinariamente à certi ricchi sciocchi innamorati, che volendo parlar di amore non sanno in qual parte del corpo eglino s’habbian la testa.

A noble friend of mine asked me to prepare him an amorous impresa. I have designed a butterfly flying around the flame of a candle with these words: COSÌ TROPPO PIACER CONDUCE A MORTE (SO DOTH PLEASANT DELIGHTS LEADE TO DESTRUCTION [Petrarch]), thus displaying the nature of this animal which, as it loves fire so much, was called πυραυστὴς by the Greek. This impresa can be interpreted in two ways. First, applied to the body, there is no doubt that, as Plato says, he who is in love has died for himself, and in thought (which is the life of the soul) he lives in the object of his love. This is why this philosopher told when encountering someone in love: This lives in another body. However, if we attribute love in a moral sense to the soul, then we can often observe that one delighted by corporal beauty (represented here with the light of the candle) forgets the Creator for sake of the created, and falling into scandal he finally loses both his body and his soul. As it usually happens with some stupid rich young people who, speaking about love, do not clearly know in which part of their body their head is to be found.

The invention of Simeoni has made a nice carreer in the flourishing symbolic literature of the 16-17th century. The essence of this refined society play called the emblem game by modern literature, which has left more than a million emblems to us (and how many times more must have perished!) was that poets and artists took their central metaphors from a well-known stock of symbols popularized by emblem books, and changed just subtly their allusions which was perceived with a great delight by the connoisseurs. The modern equivalents of this cultural play can be recognized by everyone in his/her own subculture even today.


Even before Simeoni it was attempted to make this motif part of the European visual imagery. Gilles Corrozet included it in his emblem book of 1543 with the motto La guerre doulce aux inexperimentez, “sweet is war for the inexperimented” (above left), echoing the celebrated pacifist chapter Dulce bellum inexpertis by Erasmus, to which a special section was dedicated in Pierre Bayle’s great Dictionnaire of 1695. This attempt to convert the chapters of Erasmus’ great collection of ancient proverbs, the Adagia into “visual proverbs” was characteristic of the early emblematics (this genre has been established in the 1530’s). In the case of this motif, however, Simeoni’s amorous interpretation proved to be much more successful than Corrozet’s anti-war interpretation. This latter only found one single echo in Juan Borja, Embassador in Prague (1581) whose emblem with the motto Fugienda peto, “I wish what should be avoided” (above right, from the 1697 edition) calls the attention to the dangers of the war to be avoided, but right then he interprets them for the inner war between reason and desires.


Simeoni’s amorous interpretation was continued by the great Dutch humanist Hadrianus Junius, who in his emblem Amoris ingenuis tormentum, “torments of false love” compared the candle to the woman destroying her lovers, and while dutifully quoting all the classical references of Erasmus, he also added to the citation from Petrarch another from the same author: Così de ben amar porto tormento, “this is how I bear the torments of my true love”. The double motto led to a strange misunderstanding. Gabriel Rollenhagen (above) included the image twice in his great collection of emblems (1611), taking the one from Simeoni and the other from Junius, both with its matching motto. George Wither, who converted Rollenhagen’s volume into the founding work of English emblematics, A collection of emblemes (1635) in fact found suspicious the duplication, and on the second image (to the right) he deleted the flame and the butterfly and changed the motto into Cui bono? that is, what is the use of a candle without light? Perhaps this was the boldest reinterpretation of the image which, however, found no followers. The final version of the symbol, published and painted in several editions, versions and languages, was that of Otho Vaenius in the Amorum emblemata (1608) where its proper meaning was also underlined with a small Cupido added.


Thus the Persian and European interpretation of this symbol shows a basic difference. Its European interpretation, which has inherited the odium of Aeschylus’ negative judgment – the greatest among all follies – refers to the lover falling captive and then victim to an unworthy – ignoble, humiliating, refused – love. In the Persian tradition, on the contrary, it represents the love of the highest order, aspiring to God and longing for the union with Him. As it was already observed by Hammer-Purgstall, the adventurous Austrian diplomat and orientalist, a first researcher of Persian literature, whose translation of Hafez inspired Goethe’s East-Western Divan: “The butterfly is, for the Eastern understanding, not, as it is for the Western, a symbol of instability and fluttering mind but rather a symbol of the most faithful love, which is oblivious of itself and sacrifices itself.” (Geschichte der schönen Redekünste Persiens). This latter interpretation was also borrowed by Goethe in his poem Selige Sehnsucht.

Therefore the Russian illustration paralleling the earthly love praised by the sceptical Khayyam with the butterflies flying to the flame of the candle is a complete misunderstanding of the Persian tradition. A Persian would never use this latter symbol in a poem or miniature about earthly love, for it represents to him a much higher form of love and union.

In the Western tradition this image occurred one single time as a metaphor of divine love. Saint Teresa of Ávila in chapter 17.7 of the Libro de la Vida, describing the third degree of mystical prayer where will and reason have already settled, but memory still flutters around “like a night butterfly”, says this:

Algunas veces es Dios servido de haber lástima de verla tan perdida y consiéntela Su Majestad se queme en el fuego de aquella vela divina donde las otras potencias están ya hechas polvo, perdido su ser natural, estando sobrenatural gozando tan grandes bienes.

God, feeling pity on this lost condition of her, sometimes permits her to be burnt in the fire of that divine candle which had already reduced the other potencies to ashes, and she, by way of this great act of kindness losing her natural condition, becomes supernatural.

Here, however, the matter is absolutely not the same as in Sufi mystics, that is, the complete solution of the person in God, but only a temporary settling of a human potentia in order the person, preserving his or her own personality, gets into the most personal contact with God. This is the greatest difference between Christian mystics and Sufism, pantheism or ever the Goethean stirb und werde. The God of the Christians, who already includes three persons without melting them, does not abolish the personality of the person uniting with Him, but brings it to perfection. And the metaphor for this kind of union is not the butterfly annihilated in the fire, but rather two other images which are known both by the Western and the Persian tradition, but which were used in this sense only in the West: the phoenix reborn from the fire and the salamander which finds in the fire its final home and greatest perfection.

Music of Our Childhood

María Elena Walsh has put music into the childhood of every Argentine since the late Sixties.

I think that hers was a true revolution regarding the way of talking to children, the way of singing to them and of telling them stories. Never did she use the silly, didactic manner of a narrow-minded school teacher. Her stories, songs and plays appealed to the child’s intelligence, played with platitudes and wiped the dust off the poetical outlook of people of every age.

“Manuelita, la tortuga” is perhaps her most famous song for children.


Manuelita, la tortuga (Manuelita, the turtle)
(The lyrics of the songs and the text of the whole post have been translated from Spanish to English by María Lía Macchi. Once again, thanks for the great job!)

Manuelita vivía en Pehuajó pero un día se marchó. Nadie supo bien por qué a París ella se fue un poquito caminando y otro poquitito a pie. Manuelita, Manuelita, Manuelita ¿dónde vas? con tu traje de malaquita y tu paso tan audaz. Manuelita una vez se enamoró de un tortugo que pasó. Dijo: –¿Qué podré yo hacer? Vieja no me va a querer. En Europa y con paciencia me podrán embellecer. Manuelita, Manuelita, Manuelita ¿dónde vas? con tu traje de malaquita y tu paso tan audaz. En la tintorería de París la pintaron con barniz. La plancharon en francés del derecho y del revés. Le pusieron peluquita y botines en los pies. Manuelita, Manuelita, Manuelita ¿dónde vas? con tu traje de malaquita y tu paso tan audaz. Tantos años tardó en cruzar el mar que allí se volvió a arrugar y por eso regresó vieja como se marchó a buscar a su tortugo que la espera en Pehuajó. Manuelita, Manuelita, Manuelita ¿dónde vas? con tu traje de malaquita y tu paso tan audaz.

Manuelita once lived in Pehuajó. But one day she had to go. No one knew the reason why Off to Paris she did fly Half the trip was made by walking And the rest just treading high. Manuelita, Manuelita, Manuelita, where go you? With your malachite shell a-glitter And your pace so sure and bold. Manuelita just fell in love one day. With a tortoise, young and gay. She thought: what am I to do? He won’t love a wrinkled shrew”. But in Europe and with patience, They will make me young anew. Manuelita, Manuelita, Manuelita, where you go? With your malachite shell a-glitter And your pace so sure and bold. In a dyer’s shop in “Paris” They soon glazed her with “vernis” And they ironed “en français” All the wrinkles from her face On her head they placed a chignon On her feet wee boots were laced. Manuelita, Manuelita, Manuelita, where go you? With your malachite shell a-glitter And your pace so sure and bold. But the trip back home took time So her face once more was lined That’s the reason she got home Looking old as when she’d gone To rejoin her faithful tortoise Waiting there in Pehuajó Manuelita, Manuelita, Manuelita, where go you? With your malachite shell a-glitter And your pace so sure and bold.

If, among friends of different ages, we begin reminiscing, it is soon evident that we all share the same love towards her songs. Last year, an excellent play for children, María Elena, by the theatrical group La Galera Encantada (The Enchanted Top Hat) was based precisely on that proposal: to recall her songs, to discover the favorites and to try to imagine what the motives behind their creation were. Here is an article (with English translation) by Ruth Mehl, our best critic on theatre for children, concerning that show.

It’s very dificult to choose just a few songs as an example of which are the most characteristic of María Elena Walsh. It depends on our state of mind and the moment of our lives in which we recall them. At this moment, I think that a good example would be “Don, Dolón, Dolón,” which is put forward like a riddle and plays with the image of the Moon reflected on the water of a well.


Don dolón dolón*
*This title and refrain with no actual meaning, is usually employed as an onomatopoeia for the ringing of bells, very possibly an allusion to “Ding Dong Bell, Pussy’s in the Well”.

Duermo en el aljibe con mi camisón apolillado, don dolón dolón, duermo en el aljibe con mi camisón. No son las polillas, son diez mil estrellas que se asoman, don dolón dolón, por entre los pliegues de mi camisón. Cuando sale el sol tengo que meterme en el aljibe, don dolón dolón, duermo en el aljibe con mi camisón. Cuando yo aparezco, todos duermen y la araña teje, don dolón dolón, salgo del aljibe con mi camisón. A ver si adivinan, a ver si adivinan quién es esta, don dolón dolón que está en el aljibe con su camisón.

I sleep in a deep well With my nightgown full of little moth holes Don, dolón, dolón, I sleep in my nightgown so deep in the well But they’re really not moths, They’re ten thousand stars that are there peeking Don, dolón, dolón From the many creases of my blue nightgown. When the sun is shining. Deep inside the well I must stay hiding. Don, dolón, dolón I sleep in the well wearing my blue nightgown. When I show my beauty Everyone’s asleep, the spider’s weaving Don dolón dolón, When I leave the well wearing my blue nightgown. Let’s see if you guess it, Let’s see if you guess who’s here before you Don, dolón, dolón Who sleeps in the deep well in her blue nightgown.

We also have “The Sausage Dog Show” (in Spanish the dachshund is known as “the sausage dog”), which is perhaps an unsurpassable example of how M.E.W. dodged the conventionalisms of songs and stories for children, which, generally, if they can avoid being boring, will indefectibly be edifying. This absurd and hilarious story, chock full of surprising rhymes and unexpected turns of sentences, concludes with a false moral. Or, rather, with a true and acceptable moral but one which deviates from the traditionally trodden paths.


El show del perro salchicha (The Sausage Dog Show)

Perro Salchicha, gordo bachicha, toma solcito a la orilla del mar. Tiene sombrero de marinero y en vez de traje se puso collar. Una gaviota medio marmota, bizca y con cara de preocupación viene planeando, mira buscando el desayuno para su pichón. Pronto aterriza porque divisa un bicho gordo como un salchichón. Dice “qué rico” y abriendo el pico pesca al perrito como un camarón. Perro salchicha con calma chicha en helicóptero cree volar. La pajarraca, cómo lo hamaca entre las nubes y arriba del mar. Así lo lleva hasta la cueva donde el pichón se cansó de esperar. Pone en el plato liebre por gato, cosa que a todos nos puede pasar. El pichón pía con energía, dice: –Mamá, te ha fallado el radar; el desayuno es muy perruno, cuando lo pico se pone a ladrar. Doña Gaviota va y se alborota, Perro Salchicha un mordisco le da. En la pelea, qué cosa fea, vuelan las plumas de aquí para allá. Doña Gaviota: ojo en compota. Perro Salchicha con más de un chichón. Así termina la tremolina, espero que servirá de lección: El que se vaya para la playa que desconfíe de un viaje en avión, y sobre todo haga de modo que no lo tomen por un camarón.

A pudgy dachshund, fat, chubby, sausage Is taking a sunbath way down by the sea. He’s got a cap on, just like a sailor Except for his collar, no swimsuit has he. A passing seagull, sort of a numskull, Cross eyed and showing a frown on her face Dives quickly, lurching, seems to be searching For tasty morsels to take to her nest. Quickly she’s landing and looks demanding, Shaking her feathers at what she has seen: She says “how tasty” and making hasty, Carries the puppy away like a shrimp. The little puppy, fearless and happy, A helicopter hoping to fly. With the gull soaring, great heights exploring, Among the clouds and high up in the sky. Home they’re arriving, to the nest diving The baby seagull demanding his meal. His mother in rapture feeds him her capture, Never once doubting the shrimp was for real. Birdie’s complaining, loudly proclaiming: “Mother, you’ve once again made a mistake; My breakfast’s barking, my beak he is biting, This is no shrimp that you’ve brought to your babe”. So going thither, all in a dither, She looks at the dachshund and gives him a poke: Her beak is bitten, her feathers smitten. The fight is on and this time it’s no joke, A sore eye for Mistress Seagull. And the doggy black and blue. Thus the conclusion of the confusion, So this is my advice to you: When you are lying on the beach, tanning, Free trips on a ’copter you always must scorn, And, more important, take every precaution Not to let anyone think you’re a prawn.

Animals play an important part in María Elena Walsh’s poetry; they appear in very many of her songs. As well as those we have already mentioned, we all remember the Cat who goes fishing for hats, dresses up in them and ends up taking himself off to jail, because, wearing a policeman’s cap, he hears that a cat is accused of thieving….The studious cow who decides to go to school in the Quebrada de Humahuaca….and Osías the little bear dressed in a overall who goes to a bazaar and there finds marvelous things to buy … Mono Liso, the monkey who was teaching an orange to do the Twist…The list would be immense.

And we must not forget here the collection of poems Zoo Loco (Crazy Zoo) whose sole protagonists are animals. They are not songs but they are worthy of mention because they speak to us about María Elena’s happy dependence on English nonsense coming from her family roots. This book is a collection of short poems intended to imitate Limericks and recover in an infantile key the humour of the English (who are “very serious people but who love to talk nonsense”, as she explains in the prologue.) These little tales, as she calls them, are absolutely absurd and delicious in the rhythm of their long and short verses, with rhymes which combine the quotidian with the unexpected. Just two examples:

Un día, por la calle Carabobo se pasea una nena con un globo. De pronto da un traspié y todo el mundo ve que no es Caperucita, sino el lobo. Hace tiempo que tengo una gran duda hay una vaca que jamás saluda, le hablo y no contesta. Pues bien, la duda es esta: ¿será maleducada o será muda?

One day on Carabobo street A little girl was strolling with a balloon. She suddenly trips And everyone sees She’s not Red Riding Hood But the Wolf I’ve had a great doubt for so long There’s a cow who won’t say “hello” I speak, she won’t answer The doubt that I have is: Is she mute or just simply a snob?

In “The Kingdom of Upside Down” nonsense surfaces through this subversive outlook on reality that is so typical of María Elena Walsh’s world. An imaginary world, playful and mischievous, but one that is also very profound and real because it is constructed with verses that enclose multiple meanings and encourage various levels of interpretation.



El reino del revés (The Kingdom of Upside Down)

Me dijeron que en el Reino del Revés nada el pájaro y vuela el pez, que los gatos no hacen miau y dicen yes porque estudian mucho inglés. Vamos a ver como es el Reino del Revés. Me dijeron que en el Reino del Revés nadie baila con los pies, que un ladrón es vigilante y otro es juez y que dos y dos son tres. Vamos a ver como es el Reino del Revés. Me dijeron que en el Reino del Revés cabe un oso en una nuez, que usan barbas y bigotes los bebés y que un año dura un mes. Vamos a ver como es el Reino del Revés. Me dijeron que en el Reino del Revés hay un perro pekinés que se cae para arriba y una vez no pudo bajar después. Vamos a ver como es el Reino del Revés. Me dijeron que en el Reino del Revés un señor llamado Andrés tiene 1.530 chimpancés que si miras no los ves. Vamos a ver como es el Reino del Revés. Me dijeron que en el Reino del Revés una araña y un ciempiés van montados al palacio del marqués en caballos de ajedrez. Vamos a ver como es el Reino del Revés.

They told me that in the Kingdom of Upside down Birds swim and fish fly, That cats don’t meow, but they say yes Because they study so much English. Let’s go and see How the Kingdom of Upside Down is. They told me that in the Kingdom of Upside Down Nobody dances with their feet, That one thief is a policeman And another one is a judge And that two and two make three Let’s go and see How the Kingdom of Upside Down is. They told me that in the Kingdom of Upside Down A bear fits in a nutshell That babies wear beards and moustaches And that a year lasts a month. Let’s go and see How the Kingdom of Upside Down is. They told me that in the Kingdom of Upside Down There is a Pekinese dog That falls upwards And once couldn’t get down again. Let’s go and see How the Kingdom of Upside Down is. They told me that in the Kingdom of Upside Down A gentleman named Andrew Has a thousand five hundred and fifty chimpanzees But if you look, you can’t see them Let’s go and see How the Kingdom of Upside Down is. They told me that in the Kingdom of Upside Down A spider and a centipede Go riding to the marquise’s palace Mounting chess horses. Let’s go and see How the Kingdom of Upside Down is.

We could go on speaking about María Elena Walsh and her work indefinitely. Her short stories would undoubtedly take up quite a lot of space, but it is better not to bore our kind readers. Although more has been left out than included, in this review, we would not like to omit emphasizing the great influence she has had on several generations of children in Argentina . (It would be nice to find out if this can also be said regarding the children of our neighbouring countries.)

As a conclusion, I dedicate this song to all the devoted Hungarian gardeners.



Canción del jardinero (The gardener’s song)
(This song of María Elena Walsh is performed here by León Gieco)

Mírenme, soy feliz entre las hojas que cantan cuando atraviesa el jardín el viento en monopatín. Cuando voy a dormir cierro los ojos y sueño con el olor de un país florecido para mí. Yo no soy un bailarín porque me gusta quedarme quieto en la tierra y sentir que mis pies tienen raíz. Una vez estudié en un librito de yuyos cosas que yo sólo sé y que nunca olvidaré. Aprendí que una nuez es arrugada y viejita pero que puede ofrecer mucha, mucha, mucha miel. Del jardín soy duende fiel; cuando una flor está triste la pinto con un pincel y le toco el cascabel. Soy guardián y doctor de una pandilla de flores que juegan al dominó y después les da la tos. Por aquí anda Dios con regadera de lluvia o disfrazado de sol asomando a su balcón. Yo no soy un gran señor, pero en mi cielo de tierra cuido el tesoro mejor: mucho, mucho, mucho amor.

Look at me, I am happy Among the leaves that are singing While the wind goes reeling Through the garden with his skate. When I go to sleep I close my eyes and keep dreaming About the smells of a land That is blooming all for me. I will not be a dancer Because I enjoy standing still Upon the earth and feeling That roots spring from my feet . During days gone by I’ve studied In a book describing weeds Things that only I now know of And whose memories never cease. I have learned that in a nutshell Old and wrinkled though it be Is a treasure to be offered: Honey: lots and lots and lots of it. I’m the garden’s faithful elf; When a blossom feels unhappy With my brush I paint her petals And I cheer her up with bells I’m the doctor and the keeper Of a little band of flowers Who get quite a fit of coughing After playing dominoes. God is hovering above us With His sprinkler full of raindrops, From His balcony inspecting How His rays fall from the sun. I am not a grand gentleman, But on Earth I have my Heaven Caring for my greatest treasure: Lots and lots and lots of love.

La música de nuestra infancia

María Elena Walsh le puso música a la infancia de todos los argentinos desde fines de los años ’60.

Creo que la suya fue una verdadera revolución en la manera de hablarles, cantarles y contarles cuentos a los chicos (nunca un tonito didáctico y estúpido de maestra de escuela corta de miras). Sus cuentos, canciones y obras de teatro apelaron a la inteligencia de los chicos, jugaron con los lugares comunes y desempolvaron la mirada poética de todas las edades.

«Manuelita, la tortuga» es quizás su canción infantil más famosa.


Manuelita, la tortuga

Manuelita vivía en Pehuajó pero un día se marchó. Nadie supo bien por qué a París ella se fue un poquito caminando y otro poquitito a pie. Manuelita, Manuelita, Manuelita ¿dónde vas? con tu traje de malaquita y tu paso tan audaz. Manuelita una vez se enamoró de un tortugo que pasó. Dijo: –¿Qué podré yo hacer? Vieja no me va a querer. En Europa y con paciencia me podrán embellecer. Manuelita, Manuelita, Manuelita ¿dónde vas? con tu traje de malaquita y paso tan audaz.

En la tintorería de París la pintaron con barniz. La plancharon en francés del derecho y del revés. Le pusieron peluquita y botines en los pies. Manuelita, Manuelita Manuelita, ¿dónde vas? con tu traje de malaquita y tu paso tan audaz Tantos años tardó en cruzar el mar que allí se volvió a arrugar y por eso regresó vieja como se marchó a buscar a su tortugo que la espera en Pehuajó. Manuelita, Manuelita, Manuelita ¿dónde vas? con tu traje de malaquita y tu paso tan audaz.

Si entre amigos de variadas edades nos ponemos a recordar su obra, pronto se nota que todos compartimos el mismo cariño por algunas o muchas de sus canciones. El año pasado una excelente obra de teatro infantil, María Elena, del grupo La Galera Encantada, se basó justamente en esta idea: recordar sus canciones, descubrir las preferidas e imaginar qué motivó su creación. Aquí hay una nota de Ruth Mehl, nuestra mejor crítica de teatro infantil, sobre ese espectáculo.

Es muy difícil elegir unas pocas canciones para mostrar lo más característico de María Elena Walsh. Depende del estado de ánimo y del momento en nuestras vidas en que las recordamos. Hoy me parece una buena idea «Don dolón dolón», que se presenta como una adivinanza jugando con una imagen. A ver si adivinan de quién…


Don dolón dolón

Duermo en el aljibe con mi camisón apolillado, don dolón dolón, duermo en el aljibe con mi camisón. No son las polillas, son diez mil estrellas que se asoman, don dolón dolón, por entre los pliegues de mi camisón. Cuando sale el sol tengo que meterme en el aljibe, don dolón dolón, duermo en el aljibe con mi camisón.

Cuando yo aparezco, todos duermen y la araña teje, don dolón dolón, salgo del aljibe con mi camisón. A ver si adivinan, a ver si adivinan quién es esta, don dolón dolón que está en el aljibe con su camisón.

También «El show del perro salchicha» que es quizás una muestra insuperable de cómo María Elena Walsh esquivó los convencionalismos de los relatos y canciones infantiles que, en general, si se salvan de ser aburridos serán indefectiblemente edificantes. La absurda e hilarante historia, repleta de rimas sorprendentes y de giros inesperados, termina con una falsa moraleja. O no, mejor dicho, con una moraleja verdadera y atendible, pero que se desvía de los cauces tradicionales.


El show del perro salchicha

Perro Salchicha, gordo bachicha, toma solcito a la orilla del mar. Tiene sombrero de marinero y en vez de traje se puso collar. Una gaviota medio marmota, bizca y con cara de preocupación viene planeando, mira buscando el desayuno para su pichón. Pronto aterriza porque divisa un bicho gordo como un salchichón. Dice “qué rico” y abriendo el pico pesca al perrito como un camarón. Perro salchicha con calma chicha en helicóptero cree volar. La pajarraca, cómo lo hamaca entre las nubes y arriba del mar. Así lo lleva hasta la cueva donde el pichón se cansó de esperar. Pone en el plato liebre por gato, cosa que a todos nos puede pasar.

El pichón pía con energía, dice: –Mamá, te ha fallado el radar; el desayuno es muy perruno, cuando lo pico se pone a ladrar. Doña Gaviota va y se alborota, Perro Salchicha un mordisco le da. En la pelea, qué cosa fea, vuelan las plumas de aquí para allá. Doña Gaviota: ojo en compota. Perro Salchicha con más de un chichón. Así termina la tremolina, espero que servirá de lección: El que se vaya para la playa que desconfíe de un viaje en avión, y sobre todo haga de modo que no lo tomen por un camarón.

Los animales siempre ocupan un lugar importante en la poesía de María Elena Walsh; aparecen en muchísimas de sus canciones. Además de las mencionadas, todos recordamos al Gato que pesca sombreros, se disfraza y termina llevándose preso a sí mismo, porque disfrazado con gorra de la policía oyó la denuncia contra un gato ladrón… La Vaca estudiosa que decide ir a la escuela en la Quebrada de Humahuaca… A Osías, el osito en mameluco que va a un bazar y encuentra cosas maravillosas para comprar… Al Mono Liso que amaestraba una naranja para bailar el twist… en fin, la lista sería inmensa.

Y aquí no podemos olvidar la colección de poemas Zoo loco que tiene a los animales como únicos protagonistas. No son canciones, pero es digno mencionarlas porque nos hablan de la feliz dependencia de María Elena Walsh con el nonsense inglés de sus raíces familiares. Este libro es una colección de coplas que intentan remedar los limericks y recuperar en clave infantil el humor de los ingleses (que son "personas muy serias pero muy aficionadas a decir disparates" como explica en el prólogo). Estas historietas, como ella las llama, son absolutamente absurdas y deliciosas en el ritmo de sus versos largos y cortos con rimas que conjugan lo cotidiano con lo inesperado. Sólo dos ejemplos

Un día, por la calle Carabobo se pasea una nena con un globo. De pronto da un traspié y todo el mundo ve que no es Caperucita, sino el lobo.

Hace tiempo que tengo una gran duda hay una vaca que jamás saluda, le hablo y no contesta. Pues bien, la duda es esta: ¿será maleducada o será muda?

En El Reino del Revés el nonsense se hace explicito en esa mirada subversiva de la realidad que es tan típica del mundo de María Elena Walsh. Un mundo imaginario, travieso y juguetón, pero muy profundo y verdadero también porque está hecho de versos que acarrean múltiples sentidos y promueven varios niveles de interpretación.



El reino del revés

Me dijeron que en el Reino del Revés nada el pájaro y vuela el pez, que los gatos no hacen miau y dicen yes porque estudian mucho inglés. Vamos a ver como es el Reino del Revés. Me dijeron que en el Reino del Revés nadie baila con los pies, que un ladrón es vigilante y otro es juez y que dos y dos son tres. Vamos a ver como es el Reino del Revés. Me dijeron que en el Reino del Revés cabe un oso en una nuez, que usan barbas y bigotes los bebés y que un año dura un mes. Vamos a ver como es el Reino del Revés.

Me dijeron que en el Reino del Revés hay un perro pekinés que se cae para arriba y una vez no pudo bajar después. Vamos a ver como es el Reino del Revés. Me dijeron que en el Reino del Revés un señor llamado Andrés tiene 1.530 chimpancés que si miras no los ves. Vamos a ver como es el Reino del Revés. Me dijeron que en el Reino del Revés una araña y un ciempiés van montados al palacio del marqués en caballos de ajedrez. Vamos a ver como es el Reino del Revés.

Podríamos seguir hasta el cansancio hablando de María Elena Walsh y sus obras. Sus cuentos, sin duda nos ocuparían bastante espacio, pero es mejor no aburrir a los gentiles lectores. Si bien es más lo que ha quedado fuera que lo que ha entrado en esta reseña, no quisiéramos dejar de enfatizar la gran influencia que ella tuvo para varias generaciones de chicos argentinos (sería bueno saber si esto alcanza también a nuestros países vecinos)

Para terminar, les dedico esta canción a los esmerados jardineros húngaros.



Canción del jardinero
(cantado aquí por León Gieco)

Mírenme, soy feliz entre las hojas que cantan cuando atraviesa el jardín el viento en monopatín. Cuando voy a dormir cierro los ojos y sueño con el olor de un país florecido para mí. Yo no soy un bailarín porque me gusta quedarme quieto en la tierra y sentir que mis pies tienen raíz. Una vez estudié en un librito de yuyos cosas que yo sólo sé y que nunca olvidaré. Aprendí que una nuez es arrugada y viejita pero que puede ofrecer mucha, mucha, mucha miel.

Del jardín soy duende fiel; cuando una flor está triste la pinto con un pincel y le toco el cascabel. Soy guardián y doctor de una pandilla de flores que juegan al dominó y después les da la tos. Por aquí anda Dios con regadera de lluvia o disfrazado de sol asomando a su balcón. Yo no soy un gran señor, pero en mi cielo de tierra cuido el tesoro mejor: mucho, mucho, mucho amor.

Beard science

The introverted Persians use the word shenâsi, ‘knowledge’ for what is called -logia, ‘discourse’ by the extroverted Greeks. The Persian equivalent for Iranology, discourse on Iran is for example Irân-shenâsi, Iran science, as that of psychology is ravân-shenâsi, or that of the closely related science of chiromancy is dast-shenâsi.

One can speak about everything, thus also about beard, and the Greek name for this discourse is pogonology from πώγωνος, beard which has also inspired Plutarch to the proverb πωγωνοτροφία φιλόσοφων οὐ ποιεῖ, beard-growing does not make the philosopher, very fitting to our present subject, and fully exposed in chapter 2.8.95 “Tragical monkey” of Erasmus’ Adagia. However surprising it may seem, this discourse does exist, and its small but glorious bibliography extends from Giovanni Pierio Valeriano’s Pro sacerdotum barbis written in 1531 on priestly beards to Jacques Antoine Dulaure’s Pogonologia, or a Philosophical and Historical Essay on Beards of 1786. Its Persian equivalent is ریش شناسی rish-shenâsi, beard science, which equally exists in Iran. At least this is what we learn below from politologist Amir Taheri who, after some sporadic mentions now exhibits it in detail in his recently published The Persian Night: Iran under the Khomeinist Revolution. To the Persians who are so fond of the unexpected consonances of words, a special source of delight is the similarity of shenâsi to shenâ, ‘swimming, floating’, which evokes the image of the revolutionary birds streaming on the multi-storied bulkheads and giant posters.


“Over the years, deciding who is who by stile of beard has become a popular sport with Iranians. Called “beard spotting” (rish shenasi), the technique enables the observer to place a man by the beard he grows. The mullahs with the greatest pretensions to learning and piety grow the longest beards. Many dye their beards jet black or various shades of red with the help of henna. Those who wish to give an impression of detachment from the transient do not dye their beards. Most others opt for a salt-and-pepper look to make them appear old enough to impress the populace but young enough to avail themselves of teenage “temporary wives” or sigheh.


Nonclerics who wish to emphasize their piety without being mistaken for mullahs grow bushy round beards that are carefully trimmed and dyed, and often perfumed with rosewater. Mullahs who wish to portray themselves as “moderate” or open to a “dialogue of civilizations” choose beards that do not dominate their faces. A goatee is kept in deference to the Prophet, but it is extended by long sideburns to distinguish the wearer from the Saudis. A trim moustache is also added to show that one does not sympathize with Salafis like bin Laden.


Those who wish to hedge their bets – that is to say, advertise their Islamism while appearing “modern” – have opted for what is known in the West as designer stubble, achieved with an electric shaver that does not cut the facial hair from the root. This “modern” type of beard was authorized by Ayatollah Mahmoud Taleqani, one of the “useful idiots” that Marxists and fellow travelers promoted as a religious facade in the early days of the revolution. He ruled that Islam banned the use of razors that cut facial hair completely, but an electric shaver was acceptable because it allowed some of the hair to remain.


The Stalinists who collaborated with the mullahs in the first phases of the revolution distinguished themselves by maintaining two-day stubble dominated by a thick bushy moustache in memory of the Soviet despot. The Mujahedin Khalq (People’s Holy Warriors), Marxist-Islamist who helped Khomeini come to power but later broke with him, mark themselves out by shaving off their beards and growing signature moustaches in imitation of their Supreme Guide, Massoud Rajavi.

Khomeini, ignorant of history, did not realize that – except for clerics who sported Vandykes – the growing of beards had not been a Shiite tradition until the seventeenth century, when it was imposed by the Safavid Shah Tahmasp with a royal edict. Tahmasp had a dream in which the Hiden Imam apparently demanded that “men of True Faith” not discard what Allah had made to grow on their faces as a sign of his blessing. After Tahmasp’s reign, however, most men reverted to the custom of shaving their beards but growing ferocious moustaches.

Because the regime attaches such importance to facial hair, its opponents use shaving as a sign of protest. Television news footage and photos of public gatherings published by newspapers are censored to make sure they do not show too many clean-shaven men. To further emphasize their individuality, young men grow their hair long or spiked, and wear T-shirts with Western inscriptions. A Western visitor would be surprised how many young Iranians wear T-shirts and caps that advertise various American baseball teams.”

(Amir Taheri: The Persian Night. Iran under the Khomeinist Revolution, Encounter Books, NY-London, 2009, 94-95.)

El cementerio armenio de Julfa

Mientras el estado iraní remoza las iglesias armenias del norte de Irán y las propone para engrosar la lista del Patrimonio Mundial de la UNESCO, unos cien metros más allá, al otro lado del río que marca la frontera, se hace todo lo posible para que desaparezcan sin dejar ni rastro.


El río Aras es frontera desde 1828, cuando la expansión del imperio ruso conquistó el norte de Azerbaiyán, y luego Armenia, a Persia, donde había estado integrada durante dos milenios y medio. La nueva frontera partió en dos la ciudad de Julfa, que se extendia por ambas riberas del río, unidas por el puente de piedra al que cantó Virgilio —pontem indignatus Araxes—. Por entonces, con todo, la ciudad ya ni recordaba su edad de oro, cuando fue el principal enlace comercial entre Persia y Europa.

El mapa de Wikipedia marca en negro la frontera de 1813. La frontera oficial desde 1828 es prolongación de la anterior, siguiendo el Aras a lo largo del borde sur de Armenia.

En el siglo XVI los comerciantes armenios de Julfa eran compradores de seda cruda, el producto más preciado de Persia, y desde allí lo repartían a toda Europa. Mantenían casas comerciales de Alepo a Amsterdam, pasando por Venecia. Los viajeros europeos describían Julfa como una ciudad asombrosamente rica, con siete iglesias y tres mil casas de piedra. La opulencia de la ciudad la atestiguaba sobre todo su cementerio, donde se llegaron a contar hasta diez mil khachkars, tumbas del tamaño de un hombre diestramente talladas en piedra.



La edad de oro de Julfa terminó de golpe. Durante las guerras turco-persas de fines del siglo XVI, el Sha Abbas el Grande advirtió rápidamente que en aquella zona de frontera abierta al imperio otomano no iba a ser capaz de defender la ciudad, auténtica gallina de los huevos de oro. Y así, en 1604 toda la población de la provincia armenia de Nakhichevan fue trasladada a marchas forzadas —unas cien mil personas murieron por el camino— hasta varios cientos de kilómetros al sur, a Isfahan y sus alrededores. En Isfahan los comerciantes armenios hicieron florecer Nueva Julfa, que hoy pervive todavía como barrio armenio, y fueron también las manos de los artesanos armenios las que hicieron de la plaza principal de Isfahan una de las maravillas del mundo. La vieja Julfa de Nakhichevan jamás se recobró. Sus ruinas aún pueden observarse al oeste de la pequeña ciudad que hoy lleva su nombre. Solo el cementerio permaneció intacto en el extremo occidental de la ciudad devastada, sobre el banco del río, con diez mil tumbas de piedra labrada primorosamente.

El cementerio de Julfa hacia 1910 visto desde el oeste. La ciudad estuvo antaño en la margen izquierda del Aras, en la falda de las montañas. En la margen derecha del río, la ribera iraní, sobre una peña todavía permanece la pequeña iglesia armenia conocida como «Iglesia del Pastor» (Kelisâ-ye Chupân) erigida en 1518. Abajo puede verse la foto probablemente más antigua del del cementerio, tomada por B. Chantre: A travers l'Arménie russe (París, 1983), procedente de aquí.

El nombre de Nakhichevan significa en armenio «Lugar del descenso»: Noé, sus hijos y todos los animales de la tierra se apearon aquí del Arca recién atracada en la cima del cercano monte Ararat. Fue provincia puramente armenia hasta 1604, cuando la gran emigración. El lugar de los armenios deportados fue ocupado por tribus de pastores turcos y, más tarde, el Sha enviaría allá también tribus turcas para defender las fronteras. Desde entonces, los armenios que consiguieron permanecer, más aquellos que volvieron furtivamente, sumaron una insignificante minoría respecto a los azerís turcos. En 1920, el territorio se anexionó hasta Azerbaiyán, como provincia autónoma. En 1979 solo quedaba allá un 1,4% de armenios, donde un siglo antes llegaron al 40% de la población. Tras la guerra de Karabaj desapareció incluso este último resto. Solo quedó el cementerio.


Las primeras fotos del lugar —treinta y ocho— fueron tomadas en 1928 por Jurgis Baltrušaitis, el famoso historiador del arte (La Edad Media fantástica), poeta y embajador de Lituania en la Unión Soviética: es el testimonio gráfico más completo del cementerio en un territorio de frontera estrictamente controlado por el ejército soviético. Sus fotos se publicaron en Lisboa (gracias a la fundación Calouste Gulbenkian), acompañadas de un texto de Dickran Kouymjian, en 1986. Todo ello puede descargarse en pdf de la web djulfa.com, dedicada al lugar.

Una de las fotos de Baltrušaitis

El último en ver el cementerio fue el arquitecto escocés Steven Sim, en agosto de 2005. Mientras visitaba los monumentos armenios de Nakhichevan se encontró con que todas las iglesias medievales armenias de la provincia habían sido arrasadas, y solo debían haber pasado dos o tres años, pues sobre las ruinas apenas había crecido vegetación. Sin embargo, todavía pudo ver el cementerio de Julfa intacto desde el tren que corre a lo largo del cauce del río. Los guardias del tren le prohibieron sacar fotos, y más tarde acabarían arrestándole y expulsándole del país.


Mientras paseaba por Irán y me acercaba a los monumentos armenios desde el sur, pensé que en mi próximo viaje yo también iría allá, cruzaría el puente y fotografiaría aquellas tumbas. Demasiado tarde. El cementerio de Julfa fue destruido justo el día de mi 40 aniversario. Es inquietante pensar que mientras un grupo internacional de amigos me sorprendían con vinos italianos y españoles, el ejército azerí en la ribera del río Aras estaba reduciendo a polvo uno de los monumentos más ricos de la cultura armenia y cargando los escombros en camiones, aquellos días 15 a 17 de diciembre de 2005. La destrucción fue grabada desde el lado iraní del río por los armenios locales. El vídeo de abajo lo montó Sarah Pickman a partir de aquellas imágenes, y también ella fue la primera en notificar los hechos a Archaeology.

El Parlamento Europeo condenó la destrucción en una resolución de 16 de febrero de 2006 y propuso enviar una delegación a la zona, iniciativa hasta ahora obstaculizada por el gobierno azerí. «Mentira y provocación», declaró el presidente azerí, Ilham Aliev. «Ningún monumento armenio ha sido destruido, pues nunca ha habido armenios en Nakhichevan».


Los miembros azerís y de Nakhichevan del Institute for War and Peace Reporting publicaron el primer reportaje rápido en abril de 2006, donde daban cuenta de la absoluta destrucción del cementerio. Un campo de tiro militar ha sido instalado en aquel lugar.




La memoria de los khachkars ha sido preservada por el Djulfa Virtual Memorial Museum.


Hasmik Harutyunyan: Canción de cuna de Tigranakert (5'53"). Del álbum Armenian Lullabies (2004)

The Armenian cemetery of Julfa

While the Iranian state renovates the Armenian churches in Northern Iran and submits them to the World Heritage List of UNESCO, some hundred meters further on, on the other side of the boundary river they do everything so that theirs disappear without a trace.


The Araxes became a boundary river in 1828, when the expanding Russian Empire conquered Northern Azerbaijan, and then Armenia from Persia, to where they had belonged for two and half millenaries. The new frontier cut in two the town of Julfa laying on the two banks of the river, at the stone bridge which had been sung of – pontem indignatus Araxes – also by Virgil. At this time, however, the town did not even remember its golden years when it had been the main hub of commerce between Persia and Europe.

The map of Wikipedia traces in black the boundary of 1813. The official boundary since 1828 is the prolongation of the former one, following the Araxes along the southern border of Armenia.

In the 16th century the Armenian merchants of Julfa were the buyers of row silk, the most precious product of Persia, and it was delivered by them to all Europe. They had commercial houses from Aleppo through Venice to Amsterdam. European travelers described Julfa as an astonishingly rich town with seven churches and three thousand stone houses. The richness of the town has been attested most of all by its cemetery where ten thousand beautifully carved, man-high tomb stones, khachkars have been counted.



The golden years ended abruptly. During the late 16th-century Turkish-Persian wars Shah Great Abbas has soberly gauged that in the frontier zone open to the Ottoman Empire he would not be able to defend the town, this goose laying golden eggs, and therefore in 1604 had the complete population of the Armenian province of Nakhichevan moved in a forced march – a hundred thousand people died on the way – several hundred kilometers southward, to Isfahan and its confines. There Armenian merchants have made flourish the still today Armenian suburb of New Julfa, and the hands of Armenian masters converted the main square of Isfahan into one of the wonders of the world. Julfa in Nakhichevan has never recovered. Its ruins still can be observed to the west of the little town bearing its name today. Only the cemetery has remained intact at the western end of the ruined town, on the river bank, with ten thousand beautifully carved tomb stones.

The cemetery of Julfa around 1910 seen from the west. The town once stood on the left bank of the Araxes, at the feet of the mountains. On the right, Iranian bank, on the top of the rock at the riverside still there is standing the small Armenian church called “Shepherd Church” (Kelisâ-ye Chupân), built in 1518. – Below you see the probably oldest photo of the cemetery from B. Chantre: A travers l’Arménie russe (Paris, 1893), from here.

The name of Nakhichevan means in Armenian “the place of the descent”, for it was here that Noah, his sons and all the animals of the earth descended from the Arch which had stranded on the top of the nearby Ararat. It was a pure Armenian province until 1604, the great migration. The place of the deportated Armenians was occupied by Turkish population. The shah sent later some more Turkish tribes here for the defence of the frontiers. Since then the Armenians who remained there and those gradually sneaking home have remained in minority in respect to the Azeri Turks. In 1920 the region was annexed to Azerbaijan as an autonomous province. In 1979 only 1.4% Armenians lived there, where a century earlier they were 40% of the population. After the Karabagh war even they disappeared. Only the cemetery has remained.


The first photos – thirty-eight – were made in 1928 by Jurgis Baltrušaitis, the great art historian (“Le Moyen-Âge fantastique”), poet and Ambassador of Lithuania in the Soviet Union. It has remained the most detailed photo documentation of the cemetery laying in this severely controlled frontier zone of the former Soviet empire. His photos were published with accompanying text by Dickran Kouymjian in 1986 in Lisbon. Its PDF version can be downloaded from the djulfa.com site dedicated to the cemetery.

Photo by Baltrušaitis

The last one who saw the cemetery was the Scottish architect Steven Sim in August 2005. While visiting the Armenian monuments in Nakhichevan, he found that all the medieval Armenian churches of the province had been completely destroyed, and only one or two years earlier, because their fresh ruins were not yet covered by the vegetation. However, he still found the cemetery of Julfa intact as the train passed by it on the river bank. The train guards prohibited him to take photos of it, and later he was even arrested and expelled from the country.


While wandering in Iran and approaching the Armenian monuments from the south, I thought that on my next journey I would also cross the bridge and take photos of the tombs. I came too late. The cemetery of Julfa was destroyed precisely on my 40th birthday. It is strange to consider that while an international company of friends was celebrating in our house and my friends surprised me with a show of Italian and Spanish wines, the Azerbaijani army on the bank of the Araxes was just smashing to pieces one of the richest monuments of Armenian culture, carrying away the fragments by lorries from 15 to 17 December in 2005. The destruction was videotaped from the Iranian side of the river by local Armenians. The video below was made on the basis of their recordings by Sarah Pickman, who was also the first to report on the events in Archaeology.

The European Parlament condemned the destruction in a resolution on February 16, 2006, and wanted to send a delegation to the place, which has been hitherto prevented by the Azerbaijani government. “Lie and provocation”, declared Azerbaijani president Ilham Aliev. “No Armenian monuments were destroyed, for never any Armenians lived in Nakhichevan.”


The Nakhichevan and Azeri members of Institute for War and Peace Reporting published the first spot report in April 2006, in which they rendered account of the complete destruction of the cemetery. A military shooting range was established on its place.




The memory of the khachkars has been preserved by the Djulfa Virtual Memorial Museum.


Hasmik Harutyunyan: Lullaby of Tigranakert (5'53"). From the album Armenian Lullabies (2004)