Reflections on Armenia and Artsakh
Episodes from my trip in 2007 regarding the war in Artsakh:
Artsakh was a paragraph in my Armenian class’s textbook. Supposedly, it was a mountainous forest where Armenian princes had ruled with relative freedom. Artsakh was a speck on our maps. It was the land within Azerbaijan, near Armenia. Artsakh was a story I had heard from my mom. It was a place where the Armenians conquered lands from the Turks for the first time in hundreds of years. Artsakh was a place I had never seen before, and, for this reason, it failed to have any real meaning in my life outside of a textbook, map, or story.
Depi Hayk, an organization dedicated to bringing young diasporan Armenians to Armenia in order to experience their homeland, organized a trip to Artsakh. The bus ride took forever, but it was worth it. I spent nearly ten hours looking out the window at field after hill after valley of Armenia’s natural beauty. One does not experience these things in Yerevan, which is generally urban, crowded, and polluted. While in Artsakh, we stayed with a host family that literally offered us everything in their home, from sheets and comforters, to cheese and jam. During the trip, we heard countless tales of the heroism of the Armenian fedayee. We went to Jdrdooz, which is a huge plateau that overlooks a river in Artsakh, where seventeen Armenian soldiers managed to climb an insurmountable cliff in order to overtake the Azeri position. This tactic allowed the Armenian troops to sack the city of Shushi, which was particularly significant because Shushi was being used as an advantageous position to launch rocket attacks on the predominantly Armenian city of Stepanakert. As I peered over the cliff, I was literally amazed at how these fedayee were able to accomplish such a seemingly impossible feat.
The second amazing thing I witnessed was a rocket lodged into the outer wall of the monastery of Gandzasar. Gandzasar was one of the many strategically significant locations that led to the capitol city of Stepanakert. Had the Azeris been able to take Gandzasar, according to our tour guide Arsen, they would have marched on Stepanakert, ending the war in favor of the Azeris. During the attack on Gandzasar, a rocket hit the living quarters of the monastery’s head priest. The priest, who, along with being the leading religious figure was also the leading military figure, was quietly asleep in his living quarters when the rocket hit. However, due to what I believe to be a miracle, and what Arsen believes to be a crappy Soviet rocket, the missile did not explode. Had the priest been killed, left without a leader, the Armenians might have forfeited their position to the Azeris. A similar miracle occurred at the home of Barkev Surpazan, Prelate of Artsakh. Barkev Surpazan, a veteran of the war to liberate Artsakh, had just stepped out of his home when an Azeri rocket destroyed his house nearly killing him. It was hard to deny one’s faith in a higher being after hearing stories like that.
The trip to Artsakh was significant because now I had seen what it was all about. It was everything I read in the textbooks, saw on the maps, heard in stories, and more. Artsakh was taken out of its passive context and given a dynamic reality. The people were great, the food was good, and the country was beautiful. The beauty that I witnessed at Artsakh was definitely worth fighting for.
Aside from the technicalities of the number of soldiers and ammunition, winners and losers, what is a war? The dictionary’s definition of a war seems to neglect all the emotions, motives, and aspirations that create wars. It must be very powerful indeed, because it has the power to change people’s lives forever. Having read numerous books about the war in Artsakh, I can sufficiently demonstrate a dry and narrative understanding of the hardships experienced by the Armenians at the hands of the Azeris. These books I read, fail to inspire me and motivate me into doing more than just reading about the topic. The authors generally describe the situation coldly in order to maintain a neutral tone throughout their books. But war is not neutral. I wanted to feel what those fedayee felt on the field of battle. I wanted to understand what drove them to leave everything they had behind. I wanted to know what drove them to fight.
“The Golden Apricot,” a film festival that took place from July 9 -14th, screened a particularly moving documentary about the war in Artsakh, entitled “A Story of a People in War and Peace.” The film documented the lives of a regiment of soldiers during the course of the war and after. The director interviewed the fedayee as they were actively engaged in battle. It was moving to hear their testimonies and the reasons for why they fought. What was particularly interesting, were the interviews of the soldiers a number of years after the war had ended. It was fascinating how the war had so thoroughly and interminably affected the lives of each soldier. This film, more than any book I had ever read about the conflict, provided me with a deeper understanding of the sacrifices made by those soldiers. They fought for their families, their land, and their people. Sitting in the theatre, I was in awe of the heroes who had fought to preserve everything that is important to me.
The documentary ended with the entire audience loudly clapping in approval. The director, a skinny, bearded fellow, walked to the front of the crowd and began calling out names. Suddenly, a few people began to stand up out of the audience and make their way to the front of the crowd, right next to the director. The director introduced them as the heroes of the film. The crowd looked around for a second, and then it clicked. These were the soldiers whose lives we had witnessed. All at once, loud claps and praises engulfed the room. Soon, the enthusiasm of the crowd turned the praises and claps into a loud roar. Everyone was on their feet, simultaneously crying and cheering for our heroes. My first impression of the soldiers was confusion. The soldiers didn’t fit the stereotype of a hero at all. They seemed shy, embarrassed, short, and scrawny. Some of them were even crying. Soldiers don’t cry! But it was exactly those tears that made them human, and that allowed all of us in the room to connect with all of them. We were all crying. At that moment, I felt the most profound feelings of patriotism. For ten minutes, everyone in the room was the same person. We were Armenian and nothing could separate us from one another. I will never forget those ten minutes.
“If the ceasefire in Artsakh was ended and war broke out, would you fight?” My neighbor, a sixteen-year-old kid, nicknamed Chechen, would ask as I talked about how proud I was of being Armenian. This wasn’t the first time I had been asked this question. My friends and I would ask each other these types of questions in order to test how dedicated we were to Armenia. In truth, I could not give a strait answer to this question. Yes, I loved reading about Armenia and I wanted to preserve the culture and the history. But I don’t want to leave my home. I don’t want to kill or be killed. I have a family. I have friends. I have comfort. Why would I leave all this behind? My only incentive is to save an Armenia that survives as an abstract image in my mind. Should I change my life for an abstract ideal?
Der Ktrij, a friend of my mother’s, was lecturing at the Depi Hayk office on “Living as a Diasporan in Armenia.” It sounded like an interesting lecture, so I decided to attend. The panel of speakers was made up of five different diasporans who had all moved to Armenia for various reasons. Der Ktrij was the first to speak. He spoke about how, as a young adult, he could never dream of living in Armenia. He dismissed any claims of harboring romantic or sentimental feelings for Armenia. The man was a realist. He had a job, a wife, a family, all of which were back in the States. His place was in the States. Later on, he would be asked by the Catholicos of All Armenians to move to Armenia as his personal aid at Etchmiadzin. Der Ktrij accepted and later became a priest.
What was particularly moving about Der Ktrij’s speech, was his anecdote about his experience in an Armenian taxi. According to Der Ktrij, he was fortunate enough to meet a rather inquisitive taxi driver. The taxi driver asked Der Ktrij where he was from, and he told him he was from Fresno, California. The taxi driver, a veteran of the war in Artsakh, began to bombard Der Ktrij with questions about Monte Melkonian. Although Der Ktrij had never met Monte, who was from Visalia not Fresno, he admitted to knowing his family fairly well. And then Der Ktrij asked the taxi driver a question, which, in retrospect, he is convinced was the most inconsiderate question he could have asked. He asked the taxi driver whether it seemed odd that a man like Monte Melkonian, who was an Armenian-American, with no real strong ties to Armenia, would leave everything he had behind and go fight for the liberation of a people who’s language he could hardly understand, let alone connect with. The taxi driver responded, “No, we were surprised more of you didn’t come!” Immediately, Der Ktrij realized the stupidity of his question. Here were these people who were fighting for the vary thing that is most dear to diasporans, our homeland, and Der Ktrij had the audacity to ask why a diasporan would risk his life, like the other thousands of locals who had similarly risked their lives. Der Ktrij explained that the diaspora, which touts its “patriotism,” failed to physically contribute significantly to the war effort. The issue of the Armenian Genocide is always discussed in the Diaspora. The rectification of the injustices done to their grandparents and great grandparents is always on diasporans’ minds. However, fifteen years ago, the people of Artsakh were potentially faced with genocide and the military help that was expected by the survivors of Turkish oppression failed to materialize. Der Ktrij’s words in that conference room really struck a cord with me. This feeling of responsibility for a people and a land thousands of miles away from my home was profound. I was too young too make any real contribution during the war, but I hoped that if, God forbid, a war were to break out again, I would follow in the footsteps of Monte.
Episodes from my trip in 2007 regarding living in Armenia:
Outside our apartment, we have a group of fifteen to seventeen year old kids who hang around all day under a canopy. They spend their days arguing, smoking, eating seeds, and making jokes. One day I decided to join them. We generally spoke about life in America as compared to life in Armenia. Many of their perceptions about Armenia and America were quite shocking to me. One of the most shocking things I heard was in response to the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” One of the kids responded, “A gangster,” while the others nodded in approval. What? I thought this was a joke at first. How could someone want to grow up to be a gangster.
One day, I went out to lunch with fellow interns from the foreign ministry. Among those interns was a local girl named Dzovinar. The topic of the day was Armenian society, politics, and social perspectives. As a political science major, I have to say that I loved these days. I asked her why, if the citizens of Armenia truly disliked the political ruling elite of Armenia, which generally consisted of Armenians from Artsakh, didn’t they vote a Yerevantsi into office. I asked her why the political culture is so apathetic to politics and why the social culture seeks to profit from corruption. She answered me by saying, “The elections are won by bribes and a misappropriation of votes. The political culture is apathetic because the people do not believe their votes count, a political remnant of the decayed Soviet regime. The people seek to profit off of corruption because that is how everyone else is profiting! Can you think of one person that hasn’t enriched themselves through illegal means?” I was quite taken aback by her question. Coming from an American society, where the thought of corruption was severely criticized, sometimes accepted, but never supported, I turned the question back on her. “Can you think of one person who hasn’t enriched themselves through illegal means?” And her answer was a simple “No.” I couldn’t believe her response, she was an educated Armenian who had lived in Armenia almost her entire life, and she could not think of one person, from Armenia, who had become prosperous through legitimate means. Then what does that mean for the society. Are the mafiosoes everyone hates the only role models for the impressionable Armenian youth? All of a sudden, the responses of the kids in my neighborhood started making sense. Despite my reasoning that “gangsterism” is not an honorable profession, the neighborhood kids were all convinced that this was the best way to live one’s life. The only native Armenians they had ever met who were wealthy, respected, and surrounded by girls, were gangsters. It was so painfully clear. So I asked her, “How will Armenia ever get better if the youth look up to the corrupt members of society. How will this regenerative cycle of corruption ever stop?” She looked at me as if I already knew the answer. “You,” she responded. “By just arguing with them, you’re exposing them to an idea that is completely foreign to them. You might not realize it now, perhaps neither will they, but you have forced them to think about something that their mainstream culture does not promote. So long as diasporans do not approach the locals with an ‘I know everything and you don’t, so listen to me’ attitude, they can make a very positive change. Armenia needs a fresh outlook on society that can best be promoted by the diaspora.” I told her, “thousands of diasporan tourists visit the country every year, and things still don’t seem to change!” She responded, “Tourists won’t change the country!” I understood what she was saying. If the diaspora really wanted to see an economically, socially, and politically healthy Armenia, they would need to be directly involved in that process. They would need to live in Armenia.
In 2004, I went to Lebanon with an organization called Hamazkayin. There I was able to meet with members of the local Armenian communities of Beirut. For once, I felt like I was home. These were my kind of people and this seemed to be my country. We spent one week in Beirut, after which we flew to Yerevan, Armenia. I spent two very miserable weeks in Armenia. Living in Armenia is always difficult. The people seem backward, the country is polluted, and the general atmosphere is quite depressing. It has always been hard for me to connect with a people, a land, and a culture, which is supposed to be so familiar, yet is so foreign.
While interning at the Foreign Ministry of Armenia, I managed to read an autobiography called “A Call from Home,” written by Carolann Najarian. Mrs. Najarian, an Armenian-American from the east coast, could have been characterized as your average white-washed Armenian. According to her description of herself, she seemed like the last person to dedicate her life to Armenia. However, after the earthquake that destroyed the northern part of Armenia in December of 1988, and especially during the war in Artsakh from 1988-1994, she was heavily involved in improving the desperate situation of most Armenians living in Armenia and Artsakh. A doctor back in the States, Mrs. Najarian left her practice behind to remedy the worsening conditions of healthcare in the new republic. Not only was she active as a physician and social worker, but she also helped establish clinics throughout Armenia and Artsakh. She concluded her autobiography by commenting, “Although Armenia may not be my home, it is definitely my homeland.” These final words resonated rather loudly with me. I’ve never felt Armenia to be my home, but yet I keep returning year after year. That is because Armenia never stopped being my homeland.
August 12th, 2007 at 2:51 pm
Wow, great writing. Very good entry.
August 13th, 2007 at 1:39 am
[…] There is also a humungous disparity between real life in the west, and what life in the west is depicted like in Armenia. The questions and stories I’ve heard make me wonder where all this representation came from. Is it from the tourists flooding the city with their money, spending it as if it has no end? It’s not their fault, they are tourists and tourists are usually tourists because they have a lot of money to burn or they don’t know how to spend it wisely. Coming to the other side of the world is not cheap, and the people who make it just to party usually have enough money to not worry about it running out. Is it our western advertisements? For all of us, it is a given that these advertisements do not reflect reality, but has that concept arrived here yet? America, to most of the people I have met here, especially the youth, is a great big Emerald City. When I tell them about how conditions really are, like prices, the way we work, the way things look, how things are taken care of, it’s usually a look of amazement or disbelief that I receive. It’s not unexpected, I mean I would be shocked to hear someone debunk something I’ve been used to hearing and believing for years and years. As is written in the blog that is being linked at the end of this, just by arguing what the people here think is the norm for us a big step in the right direction, because we both need to understand where each other is coming from. Our answering their questions is a way for them to understand our background, and us coming to live in Armenia for extended periods of time is our way of understanding where they are coming from. If you have not read the latest blog from CYMA, click here to read an example of what I am talking about. […]
August 13th, 2007 at 2:37 am
Alex, you are a man of many words and I cant find one sentence in this paper that didn’t deserve to be there. Amazing job. I am going to miss you man.
September 23rd, 2007 at 9:56 am
Aleks, I read your entire blog, and I couldn’t turn away from it. Although I too was in Armenia this summer with CYMA, through the pilgrimage, not the internship. It made me see how much more I could still learn, and that we probably could all learn through living in Armenia. Two weeks is not long enough to live and learn and contribute back to Armenia, which is our homeland…but reading your blog made me feel as if I was there a bit longer and I did learn a lot more.