Tuesday, February 23, 2016

JOURNAL HIGHLIGHTS: Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt # 4 Nagorno-Karabakh 1998

Founder, Project C.U.R.E.
Author, The Happiest Man in the World: Life Lessons from a Cultural Economist


(continued): Nagorno-Karabakh: August, 1998: As we were being served dinner in the basement of the main government building, the four of us who had been assigned to stay at the bombed out downtown hotel began trying to figure out which of the dirty, tattered sofas in the lobby we would use as beds. As providence would have it a gentleman intervened and invited us to stay at a facility where there were latches and locks on the doors and running water in the sink, toilet, and shower. It was a miracle!

Sunday, August 16

At breakfast Lady Cox and Zori informed us that we would be going once again in the helicopter. As we shuddered and shook to a successful liftoff, our helicopter once again took us just barely over the tops of more burned and bombed-out villages. At one point the clouds parted, and I was able to get a spectacular view of Mount Ararat. As I sized up the mountain, I tried to imagine a puddle of water sixteen thousand feet deep, and the time Noah and his family must have had trying to make their way off the steep mountain with a menagerie of animals.

The Armenians built their churches in the most inaccessible places you could imagine. There is no such thing as a church “on the way.” They are all very much out of the way. But I suppose that’s why they are still in existence today. The cathedral at Gandzasar, known as the Hill of Treasure, now conducts services on a regular basis. During the war the Azerbaijanis tried desperately to destroy the church. They encircled the building and fired missiles and mortar shells at it. The monastery next door was blown up, but neither the bombs from the air nor the mortar shells nor the rockets could destroy the small cathedral. All the shots missed the church, except one missile that penetrated one meter inside the building but did not explode. The people all talked about the miracle God had performed in sparing the church. Zori told me that during Stalin’s reign, all the priests and bishops in all the Armenian churches were either killed or shipped off to Siberia to be worked to death.

Our helicopter had to dock about one and a quarter miles down the hill from the church. Dr. Scott and I decided to hike up to the church instead of waiting for a four-wheel-drive rig to take us. The priest and the people of Gandzasar had planned a spectacular feast in our honor. Two men led two young sheep through the ancient churchyard and back behind the monastery, where the sheep were butchered for our lunch. As some of the men cut the meat, others built the fires, and still others began stabbing the meat onto shish-kebab skewers. Mountain-village women prepared breads and salads and cooked vegetables to be placed on the nearly forty-foot-long table. By the time we were ready to eat, over fifty people sat down at the table.


 The generosity of the Armenian people is almost incomprehensible. They have nothing, and yet they will give you anything and everything they might have. The average Karabakhi makes only one thousand drams a month, and a loaf of bread costs one hundred drams. That equates to purchasing ten loaves of bread a month—and nothing else. Our interpreter, Irena, who speaks three languages and works for the health ministry, earns an income equivalent to twelve US dollars per month. She has to feed two teenagers as she tries to live on such a salary. Yet there is nothing she would not do for a guest or for someone she saw in need.

After the feast Zori had one more surprise for us. We all got back into the helicopter and flew a ways farther down the mountain close to the village of Vanenka. Rafee, the pilot, set the big, ugly, orange bird down about one hundred yards from the cottage of a mountain beekeeper. As we walked from the chopper to the house, I noticed hundreds of blackberry bushes just loaded with ripe berries. The lady of the cottage had set a very long table loaded with bread and bottled mineral water. Between the small house and where the table was set in a tree-lined opening, we had to cross a small creek.


 Set up alongside the creek was a beautiful antique samovar filled with boiling tea and a small burning log in the center chamber of the samovar keeping the liquid hot. I had no idea how old the samovar must have been, but it delighted me to see it in practical use out in the rugged mountains of Nagorno-Karabakh.

Before we were seated at the table, the bee farmer directed us to the area where he kept his beehives. He gently shooed the bees away and opened the top of the hive. Then he carefully tugged and pulled one of the thin sections from the hive where the bees had built their honeycomb. He repeated the process until he was certain he had retrieved enough honey for our dessert party.

Once seated, we were served piping hot tea, fresh bread, large platters of fresh honey still in the honeycomb, and generous helping of blackberries in thick, sweet juice. I don’t know what heaven is going to be like, but I think I will suggest to the Lord that he include in the venue something quite like that setting in the wooded mountains of Karabakh along the stream, with honeycomb, fresh bread, fresh berries, and hot tea.

Monday, August 17

The health minister suggested we perform the needs assessments at the children’s hospital and general hospital today, and the maternity hospital, military hospital, and psychiatric hospital tomorrow, and then drive out to the region near the front lines of the war on Wednesday to a town called Martakert. That way we will have been able to assess six of the institutions by the time we have our next meeting with the prime minister. Additionally, we set our final meeting with the minister of health for Wednesday at 5:00 p.m. to bring him a complete report on our findings and deliver our recommendations for the region’s health-care system.

On our way to the children’s hospital, I was watching the people of Stepanakert as they walked along the streets. For a two-block stretch, there were no people on the streets except women. I turned to the backseat where Irena, our interpreter, was riding and mentioned my observation that the streets were filled with only women and a few children.


“That’s because our men are all dead,” she replied. She then told us that her husband had been an antiaircraft gunner in the war. He survived being shot during the war but died a short time after the signing of the cease-fire as a result of some kind of head or brain injury. Now she has been left alone to raise her teenage son and daughter. “It is impossible to live on what we earn in Stepanakert. I earn the equivalent of twelve US dollars a month for many long hours. I have tried to find students who want to learn English, Russian, or American English. But the problem is that they don’t have any money either, so it is difficult for them to pay me.”

She then went on to add, “But I don’t have it as bad as many in Stepanakert. Nearly 80 percent of all the families here do not have a husband or father in the home. They are dead, and the wife now has to raise a much bigger family than mine, by herself, and also try to earn a living.”

For the rest of the drive to the hospital, all of us in the car just sat there stone silent.

Why, I thought, are we the first ones to come and help the people of Karabakh?

Next Week: Astonishing Miracles


© Dr. James W. Jackson   
Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House
  


Dr. James W. Jackson often describes himself as "The Happiest Man in the World." A successful businessman, award-winning author and humanitarian, Jackson is also a renowned Cultural Economist and international consultant, helping organizations and governments to apply sound economic principals to the transformation of culture so that everyone is "better off."

As the founder of Project C.U.R.E., Dr. Jackson traveled to more than one hundred fifty countries assessing healthcare facilities, meeting with government leaders and "delivering health and hope" in the form of medical supplies and equipment to the world's most needy people. Literally thousands of people are alive today as a direct result of the tireless efforts of Project C.U.R.E.'s staff, volunteers and Dr. Jackson. 

To contact Dr. Jackson, or to book him for an interview or speaking engagement: press@winstoncrown.com

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

JOURNAL HIGHLIGHTS Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt # 3 Nagorno-Karabakh, 1998

Founder, Project C.U.R.E.
Author, The Happiest Man in the World: Life Lessons from a Cultural Economist


(continued): Nagorno-Karabakh: August, 1998:Stepanakert was our destination. It is the capital of Nagorno-Karabakh and houses the country’s government buildings. The helicopter pilots gently set our ugly orange bird down in the midst of its own tornado and dust storm. When the chopper blades ceased rotating, a pilot named Uri opened the door, and we were allowed to crawl out. The air was hot and muggy, and there was no breeze at all after the helicopter’s windstorms died down. Vans were at the airport runway to meet us at Zori’s prearranged direction. I already perceived that Stepanakert is a lot different than Yerevan. There was something of bleak solemnity that permeated the spirit of the city. I could feel it. No one smiled. The expressions on people’s faces showed neither happiness nor pleasantness; rather, their facial muscles drooped, which had the effect of making their eyes look even sadder.


Our vans and taxis rendezvoused at the government buildings in the center of Stepanakert. The hotel in which four of us are scheduled to stay is only one block away from the main government building. I grabbed my luggage and went quickly with the others to get checked into our rooms and freshen up a bit before our scheduled 5:00 p.m. meeting with the minister of health.

The hotel had known its days of glory and splendor in the past, I was certain. But that must have been over a hundred years in the past. Since then, I don’t think any maintenance had been performed at all. In addition, the building had taken some direct hits during the bombings of the past few years. As we entered, I looked up to the ceiling of the lobby area and marveled at the half-destroyed remnants of crystal chandeliers hanging precariously from the ceiling. Most of the crystal pendants were missing, and the few that remained closely matched in color the tarnished brass of the fixture. I guess I should have just kept focusing on the broken chandeliers, but I made the mistake of looking around at where we were expected to stay. Most of the rooms were uninhabitable, with collapsed plaster ceilings or broken walls or doors. I recalled all the terrible places around the world where I had been expected to lay my head down and sleep, and at first I figured I would just take a deep breath and make the present situation work.

A pudgy, unkempt woman met us as we came in and handed us a couple of keys. She then accompanied us to our rooms on the third floor. On our way upstairs, I began to notice that the hotel wasn’t just old and war damaged; it was grossly filthy. At the door to one room, the unpleasant innkeeper communicated to us in Armenian that she expected three of us to stay there. But there were only two beds. We protested, but she countered by showing us that it was the only room in the hotel that had its own bathroom. We stepped in to have a look-see—we shouldn’t have. She lost her sales point. The bathroom was a terrible fright. The floor had been torn up and not repaired, so there were piles of dirt and broken concrete to sidestep. The mirror consisted of just a few broken chunks that still stuck to the wall. The sink was crusty, but we were to discover that this didn’t count for much, since there was no running water available on floors two and three. Obviously the toilet wasn’t of much use, since there was no running water. But they had tried to compensate for that by filling the dilapidated bathtub with some drain water they had carried up in a rusty bucket and dumped.

I made signs to the lady as if I were turning on and off a water spigot, and hand motions as if I were taking a shower. She cracked about a half smile and pointed back down the stairs. We all then communicated to her that we wanted to see the running water downstairs. After all, we were going to be here the major portion of a week! She pointed to her watch and indicated that there would be no water even downstairs until after 5:00 p.m. We insisted on seeing the shower room anyway. I will let your own imagination paint the picture of what we found there.

Thinking we had no other options, we put our suitcases in the rooms, and as we walked down the stairs and out the door to our meeting with the minister of health, Dr. Scott Stenquest, Dr. Anthony Peel, and I talked about perhaps using the old sofas in the lobby as beds.

Our meeting with the health minister, Dr. Aleksander Petrossian, really got our visit off on the right foot. There was an instant bonding between the two of us, and I knew I would be able to work with him in the future. I explained to him all about Project C.U.R.E., why we had come, and how the needs assessments would be conducted in his hospitals with his cooperation and blessing. I was then perhaps a little more stern with the health minister than I needed to be in explaining my expectations for getting the containers into the country and the distribution process. 

While I was laying down my points in no uncertain terms, I had a flashback of my presentation in a similar situation in Benin, West Africa, when my snippy, little Baptist missionary, who had never had a meeting with a government official higher than the local traffic cop, chided me and told me I had no right talking to a cabinet minister in that tone of voice. Pushing that picture aside, I kept up with the pressure. I was demanding written assurances of getting the medical goods into the country without customs hassles, levied taxes, or transportation delays. I also demanded the right to distribute the goods as we see fit based on the findings of our needs assessment and not based on political determinations. I joked with him just enough to keep him smiling and his head going up and down.

I asked the minister to give me wise counsel as to which hospitals we should visit and in what order. He agreed that by Monday morning at 9:00, he would have all the answers ready for me, and the hospitals notified of my arrival.

At 7:30 p.m., Zori Balayan ushered our delegation into the office of the prime minister of Nagorno-Karabakh, Zhirayr T. Poghosyan. Baroness Cox was extremely gracious in her introduction of Project C.U.R.E. to the prime minister. We only had time to greet Mr. Poghosyan with a few words, because he had pulled himself from another scheduled meeting to meet briefly with us and greet us. It is certainly helpful having Zori make sure we receive our requested appointments with any of the government officials.

Dinner was scheduled at 9:00 p.m. in the lower level of the government building. At dinner Zori told us that this is Lady Cox’s thirty-ninth trip to Nagorno-Karabakh. I have watched in amazement while we have been in Armenia and Karabakh at the recognition and reception the local people give to Baroness Cox. Everyone knows her, or at least who she is. To them she is almost a patron saint. She was there all during the war and held nothing back within her ability, giving aid and comfort during the people’s darkest hours. My respect for her has grown by the day. She really has a gift of love for the oppressed and particularly those of the persecuted Christian church. I am not surprised in the least that she has been given nearly every international humanitarian award for her spirit and her work.

Next Week: Mountain Top Banquet
 
© Dr. James W. Jackson   
Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House
  
www.jameswjackson.com  

Dr. James W. Jackson often describes himself as "The Happiest Man in the World." A successful businessman, award-winning author and humanitarian, Jackson is also a renowned Cultural Economist and international consultant, helping organizations and governments to apply sound economic principals to the transformation of culture so that everyone is "better off."

As the founder of Project C.U.R.E., Dr. Jackson traveled to more than one hundred fifty countries assessing healthcare facilities, meeting with government leaders and "delivering health and hope" in the form of medical supplies and equipment to the world's most needy people. Literally thousands of people are alive today as a direct result of the tireless efforts of Project C.U.R.E.'s staff, volunteers and Dr. Jackson. 

To contact Dr. Jackson, or to book him for an interview or speaking engagement: press@winstoncrown.com

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

JOURNAL HIGHLIGHTS The Roads I Have Traveled ... Excerpt # 2 Nagorno-Karabakh, 1998

Founder, Project C.U.R.E.
Author, The Happiest Man in the World: Life Lessons from a Cultural Economist


(continued): Nagorno-Karabakh: August, 1998: The road to the city center of Yerevan, Armenia, passed by a lot of evidence of poverty and deferred maintenance. But the closer we came to the metro area, the more impressive Yerevan loomed. In the distance the beautiful national football stadium, which has a seating capacity of seventy-five thousand soccer fans, could be seen. There were several new buildings, and construction cranes were in place erecting other buildings. Could this be the city that suffered so much from the catastrophic earthquakes in Armenia in 1988, when a quarter of a million people were killed or displaced?

The downtown hub of the city of Yerevan is one of the most attractive I have ever seen. Buildings of coordinated architecture form a loose circle. Fountains, trees, and one building with a huge city clock grace the city center. But the streets were nearly void of people on this quiet Saturday morning. Business people were home with their families, resting from a busy week, and the majority of movement in the streets was from a cool breeze that wafted its way through the large green trees lining the freshly washed streets leading toward the city hub. I thought to myself, These people have a lot of personal and civic pride. What a welcome contrast to the thousands of dirty, unkempt cities I visit in the developing world.

Our plans had been to leave right away on our journey to Stepanakert, Nagorno-Karabakh. But somehow the personal communications network had tangled, and since our hosts had not yet arrived at the hotel to meet us, we retreated upstairs and ate a lovely breakfast in the hotel dining room. Eventually our hosts arrived, and we piled into some Russian-built vans and headed to a domestic airport on the outskirts of Yerevan.

While in Yerevan, we were introduced to one of the most interesting characters of the entire cast of players in Armenia. The historic saga has included many colorful players, but perhaps none more enigmatic as Zori Balayan. Zori is a trained surgeon and has throughout his life been a master sportsman. He has written more than forty books, and during the Soviet occupation of Armenia and Nagorno-Karabakh, he represented his people in Moscow as a people’s deputy in the politburo. Now he is perhaps the leading member of Parliament in the Nagorno-Karabakh republic. In my estimation, Zori is the most influential behind-the-scenes leader in Karabakh. He has a godly old mother of character and wisdom, who prays for him daily, and he honors and respects her greatly.

I might be mistaken in my personal evaluation of the situation, since I’ve known Zori Balayan for such a short time, but after reading some of his works, observing him up close, and watching the people around him, I judge that he is the kingmaker of Nagorno-Karabakh and perhaps even of Armenian politics. If Zori scheduled a meeting for Baroness Cox or me, the people at whatever level canceled everything else to attend the meeting.

Zori led us from the downtown hotel to the airport. We passed easily through the heavy security, and our vans actually drove right down the runway to where the flying equipment was parked.

You have no idea the delight I felt as I crawled out of the van. By going into that guarded airport facility, I had been suddenly transported back into the pages of recent Soviet history. The feeling of awe I felt as my feet hit the tarmac was supercharged as I looked up and spotted in the background another object with even more emotional significance to me. Imposing itself on everything within its influence was the gigantic, snow-clad phenomenon of Mount Ararat, where Noah’s ark had landed so many millennia earlier. The mountain towers more than sixteen thousand feet from its base, taller by two thousand feet than any of the majestic mountains in Colorado.

Lined up on either side of the runway were pristine vintage Soviet aircraft from a bygone era. The Armenians are still using the large biplanes from World War II. Mixed in with the other planes were the Russian hot-rod Yak-40 military planes still used by many of the Soviet officers. The Yak-40, as you know if you’ve read my other journal entries, has become perhaps my favorite airplane. It seats about twenty-five people and is powered not by one jet engine but by three jet engines mounted at the tail of the plane. It’s like riding on the back of a rocket.

Farther down the runway were parked perfect specimens of Russia’s famous MiG fighters. The Soviets had abandoned all the equipment in Armenia following the breakup of the Soviet Union. 


Our van had stopped right in front of two Russian Mil Mi-8 combat helicopters. One was painted in camouflage colors; the other was an ugly faded-orange color with blue-and-black trim. It was obvious that the helicopters had been used and abused during the war and in subsequent months.

Zori told me, “We used to have to negotiate these rugged mountains with mules. Today the helicopters are our mules.”

Our pilots jumped out of the vans and quickly began to scurry around performing the necessary preflight procedures. It quickly became apparent that we would be flying in the monstrous, ugly, orange-colored machine. At a later point, Rafee, one of the pilots, told me that they will only be able to use the old Soviet helicopters for a maximum of another two years. No more spare parts are available, and no one is making any parts for repairs or maintenance. I only hoped they had been diligent in their maintenance up to the present.

Once I had satisfied my photo cravings to preserve in pictures the rare sight, I climbed on board the Russian-made bird. As I entered I looked up at the turbo engine that powered the Mi-8 chopper and noticed areas of fresh oil from the engine compartment on top that had run down over the old, oxidized paint. I prayed a brief prayer for protection as I found myself inside the padded cargo area. The seats were in a configuration around a command table in the center of the helicopter’s belly. Lady Cox went up and mingled with the pilots while the rest of our team slithered into the available seats. Zori sat at the head of the conference table, where I suppose he was most used to sitting. In Nagorno-Karabakh, the military people still refer to him as Commissar.

It took a while to warm the engines up to operating requirements. As the massive blades on top began to rotate, the helicopter began to vibrate. The more I convinced myself to relax and enjoy the experience, the more the severe vibration made my teeth chatter. I decided it was better to be a little tense.

The severity of the shaking intensified a great deal more as the giant bird tried to lift itself off the ground. But suddenly we reached the necessary height, and the nose of the chopper tilted forward. Immediately the long blades on top began to bite into the air ahead of us, and we took off like a shot. In no time at all, we were traveling not only up but ahead at terrific speed. It was a sensation and thrill I will not soon forget.

In only minutes we were flying over very rough terrain and between steep mountain peaks to gain the necessary altitude required for our trip from Yerevan, Armenia, to Stepanakert, Nagorno-Karabakh. I was sitting close to a round porthole window and had a perfect view of the terrain below. I spotted a narrow, winding road below, the alternative passageway to Stepanakert for those not fortunate enough to have a helicopter available to them. Some recent repairs applied to the roadway cut about four hours off the regular travel time. Now it only takes ten to fourteen hours to make the journey. We would cover the same distance in about an hour and fifteen minutes.

No more than twenty minutes into our flight, I began to observe the ravages of the destructive war. I didn’t know then that I was being introduced to emotions and insights that would change my life forever. Having been born just before the United States was plunged into the Second World War, I had seen plenty of pictures and newscasts of the devastation of war. I remembered the pictures of the Korean War and the Vietnam War, and I had subsequently visited all those war sites in my travels. I had also been up close and had personally seen the results of African tribal wars as they were taking place. But before Armenia and Nagorno-Karabakh, I had never been to a war zone on the front lines and felt the impact of loss and the devastation caused by modern weapons of mass destruction.
 As I gazed from the windows of the chopper, I began to see whole villages where every building had been blown apart. Trees were uprooted, orchards were burned, and bones of livestock were still strewn in the abandoned farmyards.

Mile after mile along the once-closed corridor between Armenia and Nagorno-Karabakh, nothing moved. Towns were totally obliterated. All was silent and left to ruin where families once lived in community, children had played, and old women had gathered to gossip. Now all was silent.

Next Week: Meager accommodations
 
© Dr. James W. Jackson   
Permissions granted by Winston-Crown Publishing House
  
www.jameswjackson.com  


Dr. James W. Jackson often describes himself as "The Happiest Man in the World." A successful businessman, award-winning author and humanitarian, Jackson is also a renowned Cultural Economist and international consultant, helping organizations and governments to apply sound economic principals to the transformation of culture so that everyone is "better off."

As the founder of Project C.U.R.E., Dr. Jackson traveled to more than one hundred fifty countries assessing healthcare facilities, meeting with government leaders and "delivering health and hope" in the form of medical supplies and equipment to the world's most needy people. Literally thousands of people are alive today as a direct result of the tireless efforts of Project C.U.R.E.'s staff, volunteers and Dr. Jackson. 

To contact Dr. Jackson, or to book him for an interview or speaking engagement: press@winstoncrown.com