I was eleven years old.
I heard my mother screaming in the kitchen.
We heard rumors that my uncle had been killed.
We were in Saudi Arabia and my mother was trying to reach her sister in Lebanon to find out why these rumors were spreading.
We had a phone on the wall in the kitchen.
My mom had to call over and over again, trying to get a connection. She was exhausted after trying to get through for hours.
Then, she got through.
The rumors were true.
My uncle had been murdered in his furniture gallery in Zahle, Lebanon.
20 bullets.
Weeks later, we heard from a radio announcement that the Syrian army offered its condolences to the widow and orphans left behind because they got the wrong man.
My uncle died at 45.
He left behind a widow and three daughters, 16, 14 and 12.
Death leaves scars and pain.
Death is tragic.
Murder is tragic.
Husbands, fathers, sons and brothers are being murdered in nagornokarabagh.
A young Armenian soldier was decapitated by Azeris that captured him.
Armenians are fighting an army of terrorists imported from Syria, Lybia, Turkey and beyond.
You can do something.
Speak up.