Author: Emil Lazarian

Growing up, whenever my attention would move to the causes of other peoples, my family and Armenian community would turn my attention back to our Armenian struggle, as if their hands were permanently embedded on my cheek, turning it the other way. Yet do we want to patent our victimhood and struggle? Is the Armenian struggle different or more important than other struggles?

In these past eight weeks, we have seen the death of over 20,000 Palestinians, many of them women and children. Families have been torn apart and entire lineages obliterated. We have seen the state of Israel perpetuate genocide. This is nothing new, but also begs us to ask our Jewish friends—is this the best you can do? Do you really believe you are the victims in this war? No civilian life should be taken, be it Palestinian or Israeli; however, there is something wrong in having to justify our support for an occupied people. Each day I come across a social media post and shake my head in disbelief at the delusions of many Zionists, the delusions of a people who justify their actions with their victimhood. 

Our Armenian people also have delusions. Few Armenians are standing by the Palestinians, and I question the silence of our community. Some justify their stance by saying that Hamas congratulated Azerbaijan on taking Artsakh. This is true, and Al-Jazeera often sides with the Muslim side, but are we forgetting that Israel is a strong ally of Azerbaijan and armed them to commit genocide in Artsakh?

Recently, my husband Haig, my sister Taline and I climbed Mount Ararat. It was magical and one of the hardest things we have done. The highlight for me was the unity of all people, of Armenian and Kurdish guides, on our ancestral lands. Many Armenians do not want to step foot in historic Armenia because it is present day Turkey. Yet this land calls to us, recognizes us and knows us deeply.

It took us three days to climb the mountain amongst friends who quickly became best friends. When undergoing an arduous adventure, our vulnerabilities emerge, creating space for true humanity. On our first night at base camp one, we met a group of Israelis who were preparing for their climb. Born in Lebanon and having lived through war in my early years, I am a bit wary of Israelis when I first meet them and where their politics and feelings lie. The eldest of the group, Daniel, was 80 years old at the time and very friendly. He had been a runner all his life, having completed numerous marathons. Daniel was also an environmentalist. He opposed Israeli PM Benjamin Netanyahu with passion, and as a progressive Jew, took part in many protests prior to coming on the trip.

On our first night, we partied under the full moon. We danced and sang, collecting our strength for the next day. Some of us felt a bit woozy from the elevation, but it was bearable. The Israeli group stood to the side watching us dance. Two of them joined, then retreated to their tent.

The next day was grueling, as we climbed and descended from Ararat in 14 hours. When we returned to base camp one, I noticed a Palestinian flag flying high. I ventured toward it and was excited to find a group of Palestinians preparing for their upcoming climb. We spoke a bit, and I told them that a group of Israelis was up on the mountain now. “They are progressives,” I said. Their eyebrows turned up. “Progressives. Let them show us how progressive they are. I would like to see that,” one of them said.

That evening, my body needed rest, and I had no choice but to lay in my sleeping bag. I heard the Palestinian group partying all night and fell asleep muttering about how much I wanted to join them. I still think of them often. 

For me, this was the highlight of our climb—people joined together in one place behaving like the humans that we are. 

I ask myself why we cannot take this approach with us everywhere. As Armenians, we need to stand with the Palestinians. As survivors of genocide, we need to build alliances with other communities to take our cause further. We need to fight for our existence, side by side with people who fight for their existence. We need to incorporate Indigenous voices in our narrative and support Indigenous struggles. Ours is an Indigenous struggle, so why do we hesitate to support others? Why is it that we look at our struggle as us-against-them? 

I believe our country has a bright future if we stand together. I pray that the narrative changes to allow for unity and the betterment of Armenia. As Hrant Dink wrote in one of his articles: “Come, let us first understand each other…Come, let us first respect each other’s pain…Come, let us first let one another live…”

The world has not been a safe place for Armenians, just as it has not been for the Jews. The victim mentality of seeing threats in many places is still present in the Armenian mindset. This approach perpetuates fear and promotes the intergenerational trauma within us. 

How about a different narrative? How about not seeing ourselves as victims? How about not fearing the people around us? How about embracing our strengths and not defining ourselves just by 1915? How about making our ancestors proud by becoming stronger in unity?

After only a week of searching for an apartment in Yerevan and dealing with local real estate brokers who thought that an apartment’s value lay in how close it was to a Thai massage parlor, Setrag decided to heed his parents’ advice and give their family home in Ashtarak a try. Months prior to his move, his parents bought a worn-out house outside Yerevan to renovate. The renovation was still incomplete, but there was a bed, and his father assured him with utmost confidence that all Setrag needed was to witness a single sunrise and to let the beauty of the stunning balcony view consume him in order to firmly want to stay in the family home. 

Setrag’s mom looking across the Ashtarak gorge from their balcony.

I, however, was skeptical. In his 20 years, Setrag had seen much of the most splendid corners of this world. He had seen magnificent sunsets on the shores of Portugal and the crystal beauty of Lake Como in Italy. He had sipped red wine on top of one of the thousands of islands of Greece. He had seen the breathtaking New York skyline, the mountains of Switzerland, the luxury of Dubai, the ceiling of the Sistine chapel and the ancient walls of Jerusalem. As much as I am in love with every inch of Armenia, I believed that this view in Ashtarak that we had never heard of was going to be a hard sell for someone like Setrag, who was surprisingly modest and unpretentious despite his many journeys across the globe. 

Setrag was also the definition of an extrovert. He could not stand being alone for very long. He was so extroverted that, as one of his closest friends, I felt annoyed by how he was not selective with the people he chose to hang out with. Though he had his set of close friends, he was remarkably open about who he spent time with. Whether they were materialists, nerds, aristocrats, ex-convicts, broken people or people so old that they could hardly hear anything, Setrag could, with incredible ease, spend an entire day with anyone. He was funny, witty, smart and knew six languages well. He could hold a conversation with peasants and presidents alike. He loved people, and people loved him. 

His gregariousness also caused many of his closest friends like myself a lot of irritability. He would never answer text messages, and he was always late. We all know someone who always runs late, but Setrag was on another level. He would arrive hours late to events he himself planned. In fact, when my friends and I organized our weekly intervention to deal with this problem, he would, as per tradition, light up a cigarette and calmly tell us to stop inviting him. It was Setrag after all—the life of every party. Thus, as per tradition, we would surrender to his whims. However, truth be told, this was another reason nobody wanted him to live in Ashtarak, a town outside Yerevan. Nobody wanted to see this tardiness issue further worsen. 

But, again, he was an extrovert, and I found it difficult to believe that he could live in the little town of Ashtarak. I think he himself had difficulty believing it. We assumed, like many diasporan Armenians with a touch of arrogance may assume, that Ashtarak was too far, too primitive and maybe a bit dangerous. Like many, Setrag and I steadfastly carried the dreams of the nation in our hearts—of a bigger Armenia, a more spacious Armenia, an Armenia whose borders extend from sea to shining sea. But, we knew nothing about Ashtarak—a town only 20 minutes from Yerevan’s city center. Was the water supply going to be an issue there? How often did the municipality shut the power off for repair and maintenance? Was there a stable internet connection? Setrag had already moved to Armenia—was that not enough adventure? Why did he need to live in the unfamiliar town of Ashtarak?

But Setrag, despite his scrawny build, was bestowed by God with a dauntless spirit that did not shy away from the unknown. He knew that the house was still under renovation, but since all the essentials were already installed and his parents had already spent two nights there, he believed the house was livable. He was also a good son to good parents, and thus, he decided to go see his family home to evaluate whether living there full time was a possibility. He asked me to join him, and so we went. 

I’ll admit, we went at a time that was hardly ideal. Setrag could spare a few hours out of his busy social life to finally visit his family home in the evening, at around 9 p.m., under the drizzling rain. We took a cab and left. Five minutes in, I could already see Setrag overwhelmed by every stimulus while driving on the poorly lit road surrounded by old Soviet cars and neon signs of worn out strip clubs. Since we did not know the way there, naturally, five minutes felt like an eternity—but the cab driver, with impressive consistency and without flinching, told us every few minutes that we were almost there. It was only after the sixth time he said it, that it bore any truth. When we asked him how he knew this time around, he responded that we just passed the Ashtarak town square. We thought it must have been one hell of a grand square if we did not even notice passing through it. Soon after, we started driving on a dirt road squeezed between the oldest houses in the neighborhood. The mud puddles created by the rain almost caused the car to get stuck. It was not exactly the type of reassurance that Setrag was looking for. 

With a bit of luck, however, we eventually got to our destination. We were greeted by a pile of construction sand, a single light bulb and a person who would change our lives forever—Shavarsh, the 50-year-old construction manager. We were yet to emerge from the cab, when Shavarsh greeted us with a wide smile and incredible warmth. Since I was skeptical and a bit nervous, I gave him a good firm handshake in hopes of setting the tone of this first encounter. To say that the firm handshake changed anything would be a lie. After a brief comment expressing fatherly disappointment about Setrag’s long hair, Shavarsh told him he was honored to welcome him home. 

Setrag and Shavarsh having their morning coffee.

When we stepped in the house, we were confronted with a bunch of furniture tucked away in the corner covered with bed sheets. They were placed there by Setrag’s parents to be unpacked once the renovation was completed. Shavarsh proceeded to give us the grand tour and told us about what we assumed were all the things he had finished building in the house. I say assumed, because we could hardly understand him at the time. He was loud, loquacious and spoke with the beautiful Javakhk dialect. He used a lot of construction terminology in Russian that we would not have understood even if he had said them in  English or Armenian. Whatever we understood, we understood not because of the words he used, but because he spoke with his heart and soul. He spoke to us like we were family. Even if we did not understand him, we knew he meant well. Every time Setrag asked him when a certain aspect of the construction would be completed, Shavarsh gave us a confused look, insulted that we had asked such a stupid question. He’d respond, “Tomorrow, of course. We aren’t playing around here.” They had already been working for five months, but with sheer luck, Setrag had arrived only a day before everything was to be completed. 

Setrag was never the type of person who looked for comfort or luxury, even though he could have easily obtained both wherever he wanted. In fact, he often would be happy with the bare necessities. Regardless, though, I repeatedly reminded Setrag that he could stay at my place until his family home was ready. At that stage of the renovation, even renting out a small apartment in Yerevan made more financial sense. But, my comments had the opposite effect of testing his ego. The more I insisted, the more he doubled down on wanting to spend at least a night there. Eventually, after 30 minutes of deliberations, he decided to stay the night to see whether the view his father had spoken of so highly of had any merit. 

The next day, Setrag woke up and walked out onto the balcony for the very first time. He was awestruck and mesmerized by what he saw—a view that would forever change his life and the meaningful future that it now held. The balcony faced the unparalleled crevice of the Ashtarak gorge and the dark rocky cliffs it was forged out of. On the other side was a school and a small church. At the bottom of the valley, the river Kasagh endlessly flowed, and the sound of the running water brought him a sense of tranquility like never before. In the near distance, an old, captivating pedestrian bridge stood firm and tall, extending across the gorge. It was a beautiful day. It was bright, and a graceful blue color was brushed across the edgeless sky. The soil seemed to shine, and the plants radiated fresh air after a calm night of rain. Setrag was lost for words. With a warm embrace, the land of Armenia had welcomed home one of her many wandering children.

The view Setrag woke up to on his first morning in Ashtarak.

His father, like all fathers, was right. That was all the convincing Setrag needed. Henceforth, the cosmopolitan, extroverted young Armenian, born and raised in the Holy City of Jerusalem, suddenly became one of the 5,000 residents of the town of Ashtarak. Of course, during the first few months, Setrag had to spend a lot of time making this building with four walls a home. Every day, he’d pay a visit to the local market and with a smile, dramatic gesticulations and immense patience, would explain to the store clerk what he needed. When, inevitably, they did not understand, they’d ask some other employee to come and help make sense of what Setrag was asking for. However, gradually, the house was furnished with pots, pans, towels, hangers, toothbrushes, couches, chairs, carpets, brooms, trash bins, curtains, clothes and dark coffee. Of course, it required time. One could not inorganically force a house to become a home. Plants needed years to grow. Items collected from lived experiences needed to make their way to the many corners and shelves of the house. Wine bottles needed to age and collect dust. Books needed to pile up. The picture of Ararat needed to be hung. A jar full of useless coins needed to be filled. His mom needed to bring Middle Eastern food spices. It took years, but before I knew it, in front of my eyes, the house Setrag had to take care of grew to become a house that took care of him. It had finally become home. 

The eminent dream of more than one hundred years had finally come true. Setrag and his family had a home in the homeland.