Author: Arpi Talalian

One day a little more than 20 years ago, Everett Marabian of Warwick, Rhode Island, was driving through the Veterans Memorial Cemetery in Exeter, Rhode Island, to visit the Korean War Veterans memorial. “I noticed monuments dedicated to Italian American veterans and Jewish American veterans and thought to myself that Armenian veterans should have one, too,” he told the Weekly.

Marabian put the wheels in motion, eliciting the support of the Armenian churches in the state, and many individual donors. He also researched potential locations for the monument in the cemetery and discovered that there was an open space right next to the Greek American Veterans monument. 

The Armenian American Veterans monument in the Veterans Memorial Cemetery, Exeter, RI (Photo: GVK Images)

Once the proper spot was found, Marabian engaged his first cousin Vartkes Kaprielian, a well-known local advertising executive and artist, to design the monument. “I wanted a nice design, and he thought Mount Ararat would be a good symbol for Armenian Americans. I also insisted on including Armenian crosses on the top left and right corners,” Marabian said. The inscription on the monument reads: “In honor of all Armenians who served in the Armed Forces of the United States of America.”

Marabian noted that while the monument and design were beautiful, he also wanted the location to be spectacular, so he commissioned two stone benches to adorn the plot. One is inscribed, “God Bless America,” and the other, “In God We Trust,” as a symbol of Armenians’ Christian faith.

The Armenian American Veterans monument was dedicated and blessed on May 4, 2002. Following the dedication, supporter and fellow veteran Ramon Zorabedian became “the architect of the annual service that is held at the monument,” committee member LTC. Robert Harootunian said.

Over the years, the Armenian Veterans Memorial committee has honored many notable community members at the annual Veterans Day commemoration, including monument designer and World War II veteran Vartkes Kaprielian, his son Vietnam veteran Michael Manoog Kaprielian, World War II veteran Souren Mouradjian, whose daughter Joanne now sings the national anthem at the service, and the most decorated serviceman from Rhode Island and World War II marine Harry Kizirian. 

The Providence Homenetmen Scouts serving as flagbearers for the annual remembrance, Nov. 11, 2023 (Photo: GVK Images) Joanne Mouradjian, Archdeacon Hagop Khatchadourian, Rev. Fr. Kapriel Nazarian and Deacon Alex Calikyan (l-r) during this year’s service (Photo: GVK Images)

This year’s annual remembrance was held as it always is, on Veterans Day, November 11. The program included the Providence Homenetmen Scouts presenting the colors, Joanne Mouradjian singing the national anthem, all in attendance reciting the Pledge of Allegiance and the R.I. National Guard serving as honor guards. Sts. Vartanantz Armenian Apostolic Church pastor Rev. Fr. Kapriel Nazarian officiated the prayer service, assisted by Archdeacon Hagop Khatchadourian of Sts. Vartanantz Church and Deacon Alex Calikyan of Sts. Sahag and Mesrob Armenian Apostolic Church. This year’s honoree was Ramon Zorabedian, the man who spearheaded the yearly service.

Born in 1936, Zorabedian immigrated to the United States in 1955, and his parents, both orphans of the Armenian Genocide, joined him in 1958. In 1959, he was drafted into the Army, serving at Fort Dix. He narrowly missed going to Vietnam and entering Officer Candidate School due to his need for an income to support his parents and brother, ultimately being discharged for “hardship” reasons. 

Following his discharge from the Army, Zorabedian served as a reservist for several years in the 1960s while working in the jewelry industry in Providence. He met his wife Sonia in 1969, and they were married in 1970, followed by the birth of their daughters, Tanya Garrian and Tara Zorian.

Tanya Garrian (left) and Tara Zorian hold their father Ramon Zorabedian’s portrait at the Armenian American Veterans monument on November 11, 2023 (Photo: GVK Images)

“We are very grateful and proud of our father’s military service to this country and have immense respect for the opportunities it afforded him and his family,” Tanya and Tara wrote to the Weekly. Unfortunately, due to illness, Zorabedian was unable to attend the service at the Armenian American Veterans monument. His daughters gratefully accepted the honor on his behalf, bringing a beautiful portrait of their father. “We deeply appreciate his recognition while applauding him in sharing his commitment and unwavering desire to uphold the creation and maintenance of the Armenian Veterans Memorial,” they said.

The Rhode Island National Guard (Photo: GVK Images)

An image from the October weekly protests in front of the JFK Federal Building in Boston

BOSTON—To protest the lack of a U.S. response to Azerbaijan’s ethnic cleansing of Artsakh Armenians, a coalition of local advocacy, community, youth and student groups assembled by the Zoravik Activist Collective held a silent vigil every Thursday afternoon in October in front of the JFK Federal Building in Boston. 

By making the cause of Artsakh Armenians visible to federal elected representatives and their staff members, the group caught the attention of Senator Ed Markey, who spoke with the activists, later inviting them to participate in an online roundtable discussion of Massachusetts Armenian community leaders. Senator Markey said he had signed legislation to grant more humanitarian aid to Artsakh Armenians and he had urged both the State and Treasury Departments “to impose sanctions under the Global Magnitsky Act on select individuals in the government of Azerbaijan.”

Inspired by this interaction, the group wrote to Senator Elizabeth Warren, who in turn invited Zoravik to organize a similar online roundtable discussion on Zoom on November 9. At the meeting, Zoravik’s Lisa Gulesserian read the group’s demands:

“We expect our government to prevent genocide and support democracies. We demand: 1) condemnation of Azerbaijan’s genocidal actions at the highest level from our president; 2) concrete steps to hold Azerbaijan and its leadership accountable (such as sanctions against individuals, as well as cutting off all military and other aid to Azerbaijan); 3) more humanitarian aid for forcibly displaced Armenians from Artsakh and robust security aid for the effective self-defense of Armenia; 4) that Azerbaijan return Armenian political leaders and prisoners of war illegally held in Baku. Senator Warren, we ask you to not only co-sponsor and support current legislation with these demands in the Senate, but also to actively advocate for these demands in Congress by giving public speeches on and off the Senate floor and by actively persuading your colleagues in Congress to join your efforts. It’s the right thing to do.”

A screen shot from the November 9 roundtable held over Zoom with Senator Elizabeth Warren

Gulesserian then moderated representatives from the Armenian Assembly, Armenian National Committee of America, Pan-Armenian Council, Armenian Youth Federation, the editors of Genocide Studies International, Harvard Law Armenian Student Association and other local student associations, along with interested individuals, who informed the senator of their concerns. Oft-repeated demands included sanctions against Azerbaijan and greater humanitarian aid for Artsakh Armenians, along with concerns that Azerbaijan could attack Armenia and the need for Artsakh’s cultural monuments to be protected. 

Senator Warren spoke of her dedication to the issues, citing her support for Senator Padilla’s June resolution that called for sanctions against Azerbaijan. She pledged to elevate the issues with the State Department. She also said, “If people in the U.S. aren’t talking about it or don’t understand, then the State Department and government feel less urgency to talk about it on their end.”

To continue pressuring elected leaders while educating the public, Zoravik will hold a rally at the JFK Federal Building in Boston, at the intersection of Cambridge and Sudbury Streets, on Saturday, November 18 from 3:30-5 p.m., with many of the roundtable representatives sharing their statements alongside musicians and local elected officials. Protest signs will be provided.

“Our visibility and pressure are amplifying Artsakh Armenians’ needs and fight for justice,” said Sevag Arzoumanian, Zoravik member. “So we welcome all members of the Armenian community to the rally to demonstrate their support for our siblings in Artsakh. Let’s show other Armenian communities throughout the U.S. how to similarly pressure their elected representatives.”

Teni Apelian (Photo: zulal.org)

The National Association for Armenian Studies and Research (NAASR) will hold an “ԱԲԳ for Children” program of 2023 on Sunday, November 19, at 3 p.m. in the Shahinian Solarium in NAASR’s Vartan Gregorian Building, 395 Concord Avenue, Belmont, MA.

Led by Teni Apelian, the event will be called “Ghapama” after the Armenian pumpkin delicacy and will celebrate autumn with traditional songs and games in Armenian. The event is free to all, and children up to age 10 accompanied by an adult are welcome.

Teni Apelian is one of the singers and arrangers in Zulal, the Armenian a cappella trio, and a collaborator on educational and language projects supported by the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation. Apelian’s foremost passion lies in discovering and sharing the ancient melodies that help us define the Armenian musical character and connect to our roots. As an educator, she taught Armenian folk music at the Hovnanian School in NJ and has been a facilitator at Zarmanazan (an Armenian language immersion program in the French Alps) since its inception.

For more information, contact NAASR at [email protected].

What do the residents of Yerevan do when a man beats or screams at a woman or a child on the street? They simply cross the street and continue on their way, because it’s not their job, and they don’t want to invade someone else’s private life.

Last week, my friends and I were walking through the streets of Yerevan. On Friday evenings, the city is filled with groups of people, always on the move and always with something to say. The area around Swan Lake in central Yerevan was crowded as usual. From the noise of the buzzing city, a woman’s scream suddenly stood out: “I said no, leave me alone,” followed by the threatening, thundering voice of a man. His voice was so terrifying that it created panic among the people walking on the street and sitting in the garden. One group of people changed their path, while others walked away with evasive glances in the direction of the screaming voices.

“What’s going on?” I asked, startled by the threatening voice, and I rushed forward. “Wait, aghchi (girl), it’s dangerous,” my friend said, managing to grab my clothes before I could move closer to the commotion.

As the noise grew louder, a small woman emerged from the bushes, holding the hand of a child who clung to her. A burly man was walking towards them with his hand raised in a menacing and intimidating manner.

My friend and I approached them with uncertain steps. She held onto my shirt to prevent me from going too far. A little ahead of us stood a man with an uncertain look, seemingly hesitant about whether to intervene or not. His legs swayed from side to side but never forward.

Suddenly, the man grabbed the woman’s wrist. She managed to break free from the man’s grip and ran towards a row of taxis while clutching the child’s hand. The little girl looked terrified. The woman, presumably her mother, was practically dragging the child behind her. The little one would turn around every few seconds, looking in the man’s direction with big, tearful eyes—he was following them. 

This time, I was the one pulling my friend’s clothes. We positioned ourselves between the abuser and the woman, attempting to act as a barrier. Approaching the woman, we offered to order a taxi since she had no money. While we were negotiating with a taxi driver, the man appeared beside us.

My hands began to shake as I witnessed him forcefully seat himself next to her in the back seat of the car. The woman started crying loudly, her lips trembling as she repeatedly begged, “Get out, get out.”

The driver sat with his hand on the car keys, unsure of what to do. The man shouted imperatively, “Drive, I’m her husband!”

At one point, I lost all hope and didn’t know what to do. It was my friend’s voice that snapped me back to reality. “Hopar (uncle – a term for addressing older men in Armenia), please don’t drive.” Hopar hesitated, torn between the pleas of three women and the demands of the one man.

I instructed my friend to open the front door of the car to prevent him from driving while I asked the abuser to get out of the car. Asking, of course, was not a way to change a person’s decision who probably solves all of his issues with the help of his fists.

I decided to take an extreme step. “Get out now, or I’m going to call the police,” I yelled, feeling ridiculous even as I confronted him.

I recalled a domestic violence incident I encountered a year ago. A man had been abusing his wife for years, and the police had only imposed a one-year probationary period. I also remembered the many cases when women turned to the police to report their husbands’ abuse, and instead, the police persuaded them to withdraw their complaints and return home to keep the family together, not leaving the children without a father.

I was jolted from my thoughts by the man’s menacing gaze in my direction. I swear, I was anticipating a huge chapalakh (slap) on my face. I stood my ground, fully resolved not to retreat. To my surprise, the expected slap never came. “Call the police or whoever you want, I don’t care. This is my child,” he shouted, turning his attention back to the terrified child and woman.

“Ara (a slang form of address in Armenian), let it go. It’s none of your business. It’s his wife and child,” the driver intervened. The driver represented the collective image of our society, the prevailing public mentality that one should not intrude into the family’s personal life, the pervasive idea that a wife and child are the husband’s property, and he can do with them as he pleases.

The proprietary attitude of the abuser and the driver’s supportive words pushed me over the edge. I started yelling in a confident tone, reciting curses I had heard in various movies. 

Suddenly, the man got out of the car, looking bewildered. “I will call my father,” he declared and walked away with unsteady steps. I couldn’t believe that we had managed to rescue the woman and the child from the abuser. I had mentally prepared for the worst-case scenarios.

After the man left, two young men sitting on a nearby bench who had quietly observed the entire incident approached us. Their eyes were fixed on the woman. “Who was he, and what does he have to do with you?” they inquired. “He’s my ex-husband,” the woman replied, trembling. There is no “ex” in Armenia; if you were once his wife, you forever belong to that man. That’s why the man told the driver, “She is my wife.”

“What did you do to provoke him like that?” one of the boys asked, reminding me of the policemen who try to find the guilt of the victim in all cases of violence. It is common to hear questions like: “What were you wearing when you were raped?” “What did you do or say when you were beaten?”

“Guys, what business is it of yours who this man is or what he wants from this woman? Go sit on the bench and continue observing the world from your vantage point,” I said in a rude tone.

“Kooyrik jan (sister and a slang form of address), we wanted to help,” one of them said. 

“Seems like you’re too late, guys,” I replied in the same grumpy tone.

We sent the two young men on their way and exchanged contact information with the woman and her child for further assistance. We continued our walk, constantly looking around, fearing that perhaps that man was stalking us.

A protest against domestic violence in Yerevan (Photo: Institute for War and Peace Reporting)

People in Armenia prefer to turn a blind eye; it’s easier to live that way. It’s simple to cross the street, change your route and pretend not to witness violence. It’s straightforward to pretend not to hear a man beating a woman with a hot iron next door. It’s easy not to hear or see a man murder his ex-wife’s mother with an ax in the hallway. It’s convenient for a police officer to send a woman with broken bones back home to their abuser, because that man has influential connections with high-ranking officials in the local police department. It is convenient to label their actions as “protecting the holy family’s completeness.”

It’s simple to talk in numbers, saying that the highest rate of violence against women in recent years was recorded in 2022 or that at least 10-15 cases of femicide are recorded in Armenia every year. It’s easy to pass laws without considering the practical effectiveness of their implementation. It’s straightforward to label people who speak out against domestic violence, hold protests and declare the presence of pedophilia, femicide and rape in Armenia as “Soros’s bastards.”

It’s simple to pretend that you don’t hear, don’t see, don’t know…but is it easy to carry that guilt throughout your life? I carry a heavy burden that will stay with me forever. I was 17 years old, having just moved to Yerevan to study at university. One night, I heard a noise from the window – a woman was shouting, “Help me, he’s killing me.” I was too afraid to step outside, to move a single step or to call the police. I don’t know what happened to that woman; I don’t know the outcome. That woman’s screams cover me at nighttime. That cry will always be with me, serving as a guiding light, always urging me to stand up against any form of violence.

Krikor Sahagian was born in Jerusalem and repatriated to Armenia when he was 21 years old. This is the first article for his new column in the Armenian Weekly titled “In Pursuit of Home.” His column will center on people and life in Armenia, repatriation and his continuing discovery of self and where he belongs.

It is only when you grow older that you realize that figuring out the right thing to do is often harder than actually doing it. Socrates was right—with age, we begin to understand that life is infinitely more complex than we initially thought. Its complexity forces us to admit that we know less about the world today than we knew yesterday. 

What would have been the right course of action for us Armenians living in Yerevan, as Aliyev killed our compatriots and completely destroyed our nation’s proudest achievement? More importantly, what could we have done here in Yerevan, as we witnessed the Republic of Artsakh turn the last page of its epic story and rage into the dying of the light? Of the millions of Armenians across the globe, we in Armenia, naturally, felt a stronger responsibility to do something and help change the course of our nation’s history. 

It was an uneventful, ordinary Tuesday in Armenia, the streets visibly emptied of their hustle and bustle as the tourist season drew to a close. The weather was so beautiful that it made a September Tuesday bearable. The sun was bright but mild. The sky was blue, and a gentle breeze reminded all of us of our perennial bond with the Earth. It was a day that would have made anyone fall ever more deeply in love with this incomprehensible, at times infuriating, but mostly sublime country. 

Then, in the afternoon, the news began to trickle in. Artsakh was at war – and this time around, entertaining the chances of victory was simply wishful thinking. Yet, as the saying goes, hope is the last to die – and while rationality urged us to expect defeat, the human spirit in us all pushed us to believe in the improbable, in the nonsensical, in the heroic, in the romantic and in the beautiful. However, this also made sense. Isn’t history written by the triumphs of foolish people embarking on struggles that were deemed foolish to begin with? Isn’t great achievement defined by improbable odds?

When I was young, my Protestant American teachers told my entire class and me that we were all to be future leaders. Even then, as a young child infatuated with Disney movies, I knew that was hardly true. It did not make sense by definition. However, whenever a crisis unfolds around me and I feel like I am expected to act, I think about whether they truly believed that, and if so, on what did they base their conclusion? Was it something they told everyone they met? Was it part of their missionary mantra? Or did God, by demonstrating uncommon and exceptional divine instruction, tell them that my classmates and I were truly the rare and unlikely group of young people that was completely composed of future leaders?

On the afternoon of September 19, people in Armenia were in search of leaders and guidance. Nobody wanted to stand idly by while a part of their world was collapsing and a tragedy of historic proportions unfolded around them. I assume and hope that all of us were consumed by the thought of needing and wanting to do something–to help save lives, to defend that which we believe we love, and, perhaps selfishly, to live up to a defining moment. Were we to be hypocrites for demanding for years that we all fight a fight that we quickly deserted, or were we to valiantly heed the battle cry of generations? 

“We Are Our Mountains” monument, Artsakh (Photo: Araz Boghossian)

Yet, like so many of us, I was paralyzed and lost – not knowing how we could mobilize our resources and talents to protect the survival of a part of our shrinking home. I am feeling even more devastated and guilty for recognizing that such a dire scenario was possible, even probable, but I never prepared a contingency plan. Since I did not plan ahead, at the start of the war I aimlessly ran through my options, knowing full well that history has demonstrated that my hesitant, careful and doubtful soul will only come to a decision when it’s already too late. 

Many of my friends quickly joined VOMA (civilian paramilitary organization) to go through basic training. However, considering the urgency of the situation, this did not make much sense to me. Artsakh was not the size of Russia or Canada, and the fight there would probably be over by the time they were called up to their first training session. One of them, being from America, maybe did not entirely grasp how quickly the enemy force could overrun our country. Or maybe, despite war still raging on and blood being shed, this friend of mine had already accepted the loss of Artsakh and was preparing for the next fight that was to come ever closer to him. Two years ago, he believed that repatriating from the richest and most prosperous country on the planet to a fledgling nation that had just lost a devastating war was to be his greatest contribution to ensuring the survival of his people. By the mere fact of repatriating, he was to be an exemplary figure among our wandering timid nation. Yet he was then slapped in the face with a new, more daunting reality. Moving to Armenia was hardly enough to defend her. Armenia was calling upon him to demonstrate true courage and devotion and to defend her in the most primal of ways – with his physical body in the trenches of Syunik, under the rain and snow, with his shivering hands and feet clinging to a worn out Soviet submachine gun. This is what it would take to defend the dream of building a life in a free Armenia. 

Less than an hour after the fighting began, many slowly made their way to Republic Square. It was not immediately clear what the purpose of this gathering was. Many stood in front of the government building, convinced that the government, with its inaction, was responsible for this crisis in the first place, and thus demanded that it resign. Others, many of whom were students and citizens from Artsakh, alternatively demanded that the government assist our compatriots in Artsakh or get involved somehow in order to stop the bloodshed and save the lives of their families. Granted, nobody knew exactly what the nature of involvement they demanded would look like. 

Never in my life had I seen such scenes of helplessness and agonizing stress. The limited information that was coming out of Artsakh, understandably, caused people to expect the worst. After all, Azerbaijan, in the 21st century, for more than nine months had attempted to starve their families and friends under siege. To expect anything less than complete ruthlessness by this regime during this round of fighting would be ill-founded. Of the hundreds that amassed in Republic Square, women and men alike were weeping and sobbing – worried and frightened about what was happening to the people and country they loved. Personally, I have this irrational tendency to expect the worst when a WhatsApp text message doesn’t immediately get delivered to a family member. I cannot imagine how I would cope if I had been in their stead. 

I happen to believe that I love this country. I have been to Artsakh more than a dozen times. I loved how I felt there. Stepanakert, to me, is the most charming Armenian city in the world. My heart ached as I felt Artsakh permanently slip away. But, needless to say, my pain was incomparable to those who grew up in Artsakh, to those who had homes and livelihoods in Artsakh, to those who had loved ones in Artsakh whose lives were in danger, to those who considered Artsakh simply their home and not a symbol of a struggle. They were realizing that everything they had done had amounted to nothing – all those lives lost, all those deprivations and sacrifices that they had endured for decades. 

Imagine all the Artsakhtsis who were told that it is honorable that they miss out on opportunities in order to dedicate their lives to the land, which many of us only saw through our computer screens. Imagine suddenly fearing that your life is being robbed of its meaning. Imagine realizing that you will never find comfort or relative stability in your life anymore, because you were adamant about not abandoning your homeland and missed out on learning new skills that would have equipped you with the knowledge to navigate a life in unknown places. In this new existence, younger people would undoubtedly cope better. However, those of a more advanced age, who, after a long life full of accomplishment and creation, looked forward to finally slowing down to enjoy a peaceful life spent cultivating their gardens and taking pride in their children and grandchildren, would be the most heartbroken of them all.

I wanted to help these people. I wanted to give them solace. But who was I to do that? At a moment when I was required to, first and foremost, be brave, I was justifying inaction by dismissing all my potential solutions as crazy. In pursuit of common sense and sound logic, my mind was persuading me to do nothing, rather than do the wrong thing. Indeed, as I pondered our options to save the crumbling republic, I froze. All of us did. On a personal level, these moments are difficult to bear, as they strip us naked and expose us as the people we truly are, and not the people we would have loved to have been. Destiny was calling us to greatness, but at that moment, we realized we are not the heroes we thought we were. Although this is a tough thing to accept, it profoundly changes the way we view and appreciate our true heroes and leaders.

A day later, in our indecision, Artsakh fell completely, probably permanently. Suddenly, we found ourselves in a completely new reality, a reality that seemed remote just a few hours prior. The dust was yet to settle. The shock was yet to be felt. The magnitude of the loss was yet to be understood. But, as is embarrassingly typical of us, we quickly shifted gears and attempted to try to minimize the impact of yet another defeat. We thought that we could make up for our humiliation by taking the moral high ground and helping all those refugees who were directly impacted by our failure. This way, at least we had a clear conscience and were victors in the eyes of God. Helping our compatriots required no politics, no difficult decisions, no courage, no unique conviction. Everyone was on board, not necessarily because they were nationalists, but because, rather selfishly and quite naturally, people are in constant search for something meaningful to do.

As cynical as I usually am, I do appreciate that though this plan did not require much daring or fortitude, it was no less important or admirable. Armenians, mostly from Armenia, but also from across the world, went to Syunik to welcome those who were forcibly displaced from their homes. There is no alternative to being here physically with our kin, to offer support, human warmth and elemental kindness, to hug and embrace them, to assist them with finding a new place to live, to give them a lift, to simply be there so that they do not feel alone as they go through this excruciatingly dark time in their lives. There is no alternative to showing the displaced that we are ready to help them rebuild their lives in the very country that many of us have vowed to live in until our dying breath, to demonstrate that our support was not limited to sending money by pushing a few buttons on our phones. 

However, we should not fool ourselves. This won’t make up for when we abandoned a part of our home. We all failed Artsakh and its beautiful people. There will be no redemption for the mistakes we made that led to this. No one will forgive us for having been unwise and weak. No amount of aid will mend the wounds that we inflicted upon her and, ultimately, ourselves. This all happened, because, at least for now, we are not the heroes and heroines we thought we were.