The forgotten silence of hospitality

The village was somewhere at the border between Georgia and Azerbaijan. A child, few meters away was staring at me. I tried to communicate with him and then he suddenly started running towards what I eventually realized it was his home. It didn’t take much time before his family decided to open their door to me and welcome me inside of their wooden living room. Once inside, she started cooking a whole chicken, which we then accompanied with a cup of strong black tea and some slices of bread. She never stopped smiling since the moment I stepped in. She did not try to add anything else to our conversation, but kept smiling while making sure that I was not hungry anymore and that I knew how to go out of the village. She then walked me to the door concluding my visit with a warm “madloba” (thank you). Outside the sun had disappeared, and silence was again pervading the village.

The village was somewhere at the border between Georgia and Azerbaijan. There were not any indications for understanding where the place was located and the whole surrounding was a mixture of dry lands and abandoned factories. A scenario that is unfortunately common in the countryside of what used to be the Soviet Union.

Four thick walls surrounded it, and beyond them the only companions of the absolute silence were the lines of torn dividing each house from the other. Piles of metal sheets and sand bags were placed close to broken windows which reflected the light of the dawning sun. I started walking through the various yards through the lines of buildings, until I heard dogs barking. Straight after that, a car passed by and stopped few meters away from me. I suddenly realized that the place was not completely abandoned.

Woken up by their animals, few people started looking at me from their windows at the higher floors. Since the dogs were not coming too close, I kept walking until I encountered the first inhabitant walking into those dusty streets. He smiled, but didn’t say anything. Going further, the scenario slightly changed with bigger buildings this time mostly without doors or windows. I entered the building hoping to understand the story behind that mysterious place. As I went in, I heard a laughter coming from outside. A child, few meters away was staring at me. I tried to communicate with him and then he suddenly started running towards what I eventually realized it was his home. There, as if waiting for my arrival, his sister and his grandmother were looking at me from the other side of the fence, curious to understand who that guy with a camera in his hand was. It didn’t take much time before they decided to open their door to me and welcome me inside of their wooden living room. There were not any translators with me, but in between a smile and another I managed to understand that the parents of the two children were working in Russia, sending money back home when it was possible. Still, she started cooking a whole chicken, which we then accompanied with a cup of strong black tea and some slices of bread. She never stopped smiling since the moment I stepped in.

Once our dinner was finished, she did not try to add anything else to our conversation, but kept smiling while making sure that I was not hungry anymore and that I knew how to go out of the village. She then walked me to the door concluding my visit with a warm “madloba” (thank you). Outside the sun had disappeared, and silence was again pervading the village.