BY KRISTI RENDAHL // POSTED ON JUNE 20, 2013 IN FEATURED, HEADLINE, KRISTI RENDAHL
Rendahl: Vay, Vay, Vay
Armenians are quick to tell you what a rich language they have, and
with good cause. Those 39 letters (or 36, depending on who’s reading
this) have a history. There’s a reason why my friends at Manana Youth
Center are raising money to create an animated film series of the
Armenian alphabet. It’s rich, and it’s relevant.
There’s a reason why my friends at Manana Youth Center are raising
money to create an animated film series of the Armenian alphabet
There are a few Armenian expressions that stand out from the rest
for me. Words that are the only appropriate way to convey something,
whether I’m speaking with an Armenian or an American or a Liberian.
“You’re speaking from a warm place,” I’ll say in English, explaining
that it’s an Armenian expression for someone who is in a convenient
position to have a given attitude or belief.
“May you grow old on one pillow,” I say to bewildered newlyweds. “It’s
a…nevermind,” I follow, and wave away the words with my hand,
“Congratulations.”
Then there are the words that symbolize something deeper than the
sum of its letters. Words that are telling of the culture. And words
that are hilariously accurate. These are the words that I love in
the Armenian language.
If you’ve been to Armenia, you’ll surely agree that “tsavt tanem”
deserves to be on my list. Where else in the world are so many people
willing to take your pain? You may be skeptical about the authenticity
of this offer; nonetheless, the fact that so many passersby, cab
drivers, and grandmothers I meet on the street suggest such an
arrangement gives me immediate joy. The fact that it is generally
followed by terms of endearment rarely used in the English language
makes me laugh out loud nearly every time. And so their mission is
accomplished. They have eliminated whatever pain I had.
When describing Armenians to people, one of the first words off my
tongue is hospitable. Militant hospitality, I say with affection.
Hyuraser is such a literal description of this concept-to love guests.
I stayed with an Armenian family in Damascus some years ago. Once
they’d caught word I was in town, they came and announced that I would
stay with them, so I went directly to collect my bags. Sure, I tried
refusing the offer a few times, but it was hopeless. Hyuraser people
don’t let you off easily. When I left a couple days later, the father
took me to the train station where he said in earnest, “We hold guests
up here,” raising his hands above his head, and tears came to his eyes.
Unknowingly, my friend Ashot, president of the Fuller Center for
Housing in Armenia, was the person who made sure that the word
for friend-unker-became one of my favorite words. His parents were
Armenian-language teachers, and he learned their lessons well. Ker
(eat) is a command that anyone at an Armenian table hears on average
5-10 times per meal. Someone is a true enker, he told me 12 or 13
years ago, when they have come together to eat. His sharing this
explained so much about my years of endless eating in Armenia.
Ktamaz is one of the funnier words I’ve learned in Armenian. Used to
describe someone incredibly anal retentive, “nose hair” is without
a doubt a superior term to its English counterpart. To be sure, I’ve
rarely been on the receiving end of this particular description. I’m
more likely to be quoted saying Voltaire’s famous words: “Perfection
is the enemy of the good.”
Ojakh (hearth, Ed.) is the word for “home,” as juxtaposed with the
physical structure of a house or an apartment. On the surface, this
isn’t that important of a distinction. But the Armenian view of a home,
especially in the rural context, is intensely personal. While talking
with women farmers in the region of Kotayk, one woman made a comment
that I’ve heard many times over: “We prefer to build our homes with our
own hands. Then it is our own.” Ojakh is more than a building in which
to reside. It a safe and nurturing place where you grow generations.
Last, and in some ways the least, is the diminutive of most any
Armenian word or name, achieved by adding ik (or ig for Western
Armenian speakers) to the end of the word. Anushik, Kristik, janik,
sirunik, or, like the beloved editor of this paper, Khatchig. On
more than one occasion, this little addition has caused me to feel
younger and more cherished than reality would normally allow. Having
just celebrated another birthday, perhaps I should consider a formal
name change to provide this rhetorical fountain of youth.
When I first arrived in Armenia, I was terrified of the language,
its alphabet, its utter foreignness. But now, I find comfort in it
some days. Its emotional breadth and depth allows me to say things
I only felt before, to delight when I once would scarcely have blinked.
So with that, anushik enker, I go. Until we meet in my ojakh or yours,
I take your pain, janus. Now go eat.
From: A. Papazian
http://www.armenianweekly.com/2013/06/20/rendahl-vay-vay-vay/