Author: Hambik Zargarian

My latest visits to Armenia showed me a face of the country where I was born and spent the first 17 years of my life that I had not noticed in the past. Had that face been there forever and I hadn’t seen it because I had been living with it every day, or was I noticing it because I had seen something more positive elsewhere and had a benchmark to compare it to? The face I am talking about is that of aggression – persistent, dangerous aggression, in the most unimportant and minor situations, where a simple smile could solve the issue. 

An accidental bumping of shoulders gives rise to a cycle of, “Look in front of you,” and “Watch how you talk to me,” whereas, in many other countries and cultures, such a scenario would result not in mutual blaming but in mutual apologies, each side taking responsibility for its unintentional carelessness and peacefully resolving the situation. Even worse than when we Armenians walk is what happens when we drive. An endless cycle of loud, repetitive car horns, accompanied by, “Why are you honking at me?” and a series of other exchanges, which sometimes end in swear words and violent remarks, disrupting all traffic for the restoration of the glory of one’s ego. 

I witnessed these examples in Armenia, but the virtual world of our social media platforms is even more mind-blowing than this. Aggressive comments, hate speech and profanity are widespread when someone shares different political views than ours, belongs to a political party that we are against, or simply does not share our way of doing, thinking or saying things. This phenomenon of widespread aggression found both in the offline and online worlds of Armenia is unsuitable for a culture that does not allow swearing when women are present and treats foreign visitors to Armenia with such hospitality and warmheartedness, like long-lost sisters and brothers. So why would we treat our very own compatriot sisters and brothers with an attitude that is in no way comparable to how we treat and even praise foreigners? Why do we take each other for granted? 

I’ve reflected on several potential factors and causes behind this phenomenon. An obvious one for me is the trauma that we as a nation have lived through over the past few years. The wounds of the 1915 Genocide still unhealed, we witnessed numerous other wars and massacres, which left our population in a physically and psychologically devastated state. Parents who lost their sons, children who lost their fathers, men who lost their body parts, thousands who lost their homes, almost everyone lost something: a brother, a sister, a friend, a loved one. We all lost a homeland. And with all those losses stacked up on top of each other, it’s hard not to lose some percentage of sanity. 

That being said, however, I would assume that the shared struggle and suffering would lead us not to aggression but to compassion and mutual support, enhanced care and respect, and unwavering solidarity and unity in the face of a common enemy who is diligently getting ready for another attack. Instead of uniting and preparing to fight the enemy, we are looking for enemies among us, in each others’ eyes, trying to exact revenge on each other. 

Psychological trauma may be one of the reasons behind this aggression, and anger is, oftentimes, a fear response, but there is something happening in our hearts and minds on a much deeper level that does not involve our external circumstances as much as our inherent, unchangeable spiritual nature. There has been a shift, both in Armenia and around the world, away from spirituality. As a result, values of humility, forgiveness, kindness, compassion, patience and peace have been overshadowed by arrogance, resentment, cruelty, indifference, impatience and turmoil.

Armenians so often boast that we were the first nation to adopt Christianity as a state religion, yet we so rarely act according to the Christian values of humility, forgiveness, patience, compassion and love. Many go to church only on special holidays and put effort into cooking the right foods for Christmas and Easter without understanding the real, spiritual significance of these events. Many of us remember God and pray only when we are in need, in the same way that we appreciate water when we are thirsty, that we appreciate our health when we get sick, and, unfortunately, that we appreciate our spiritual sites when they are no longer in the scope of our reach. 

Dadivank, 2017 (Photo: Eric Nazarian)

There are numerous instances when we started to appreciate our geographic, cultural and spiritual gifts only after we lost them, examples both from the past, such as Mount Ararat or Ani (the City of 1,001 Churches), and from the present, such as Dadivank or Holy Savior  Ghazanchetsots Cathedral. I remember in the days after the 2020 Artsakh “ceasefire” agreement, so many buses traveled from all regions of Armenia to Dadivank. For many, it was the first time seeing Dadivank, the first time hearing about it, or the first time understanding the historical, cultural and spiritual significance of the monastery. It was a wake-up call of what we had and what we were losing. The visits were an attempt to see and touch the treasure before it was gone, as if trying to catch the last rays of sun before a cold and gloomy winter. 

Dadivank was, in fact, an astonishing ray of sunshine. Many sources mention that the church was founded as early as at the end of the first century, on top of the burial site of Saint Dadi, who was one of the 70 disciples of the apostle Thaddeus (traditionally one of the two first apostles to Armenia). In total, the site comprises ten buildings, making it one of the most sizable and substantial monastic complexes in medieval Armenia. Many constructions in Dadivank date back to the 5th, 13th and 18th centuries, and feature remarkable pieces of medieval Armenian architecture, bas-relief sculpture and frescoes, as well as over 100 Armenian inscriptions. The exterior arcades – mind-blowing pieces of art – remind the visitor of Ani Cathedral and other 10th-11th century monuments. The whole monument is covered in engraved and painted inscriptions that share the history of the monastery and inform the visitor about the aesthetic aspects and choices of the space. Inscriptions can also be found on the numerous khachkars in and around the monastery and often include powerful prayers for salvation. The foundation inscription of the main Cathedral dates its construction to as early as 1214. 

In the 12th century, Mkhitar Gosh, a prominent Armenian scholar, writer and priest, lived in Dadivank, where he wrote part of his Datastanagirk (Book of Law), which was the first Armenian legal text to cover secular and ecclesiastical matters and became the basis for the legal systems of many other countries around the world. Moreover, according to Arara, during excavations in 2007, the relics of St. Dadi were found in Dadivank. This event, coupled with the information that Dadivank was one of the birthplaces of Datastanagirk and home to numerous important inscriptions and architectural treasures, gives Dadivank a significance not only for Armenians but also for the rest of the Christian world.

The fate of Dadivank and the other Armenian churches and monasteries is alarming and worthy of immediate attention. Some of these sites will be intentionally modified and presented as the heritage of the obscure Albanian-Udi religious community, some will be vandalized and desecrated, and some may be turned into mosques, in a similar fashion in which Hagia Sophia was converted. As alarming and critical as the issue is, the response from the international community in no way aligns with this sense of urgency. While there are wide-ranging reasons for this indifference and inaction, one thing is certain. The loss of sites such as Dadivank mirrors humanity’s loss of spirituality, or rather our loss of appreciation thereof. But since we, as humans, are spiritual in nature, we cannot afford to lose our spirituality completely. 

As much as I am (self-)critical of Armenia, pinpoint its weaknesses and identify pathways for growth, I need to acknowledge that the issue of lost spirituality is not limited to Armenia alone and is now a widespread phenomenon covering much of the world. The results are clear in the loss of thousands of lives around the world. Twenty first-century aggressors have unique preferences for targeting the most vulnerable with the most advanced and cruel equipment of modern science. As aggressive as Armenians can be to each other during day-to-day encounters, we have still preserved the principle of not targeting children and the elderly even in the most heated moments of war. Against the backdrop of Azerbaijan’s violence toward the Armenian POWs, the Armenian side still chose to provide necessary medical treatment to the Azeri soldiers detained by Artsakh’s military. We kept our humanity in some of the most inhumane of situations, and to some degree preserved our sanity even after witnessing the worst possible of scenes. 

Reuniting with spirituality would offer many treasures to humankind. One gift of Christianity is that of prayer. A 2009 research on the effects of prayer on mental health found that “members of a group had lower rates of depression and anxiety and were more optimistic after sessions in which they prayed for one another, compared to the control group (which had no prayer sessions).” The liturgy ceremonies offered in Armenian churches are a great opportunity for the Armenian community to gather (both in Armenia and abroad), pray and move closer to our true origins, to our real nature made in the image of God.

Interestingly, many of us have heard this short part of the Latin proverb “Homo homini lupus” (i.e. “A man is a wolf to another man”), yet very few know the whole phrase, which says, “Lupus est homo homini, non homo, quom qualis sit non novit,” which translates to, “One man to another is a wolf, not a man, when he doesn’t know what sort he is.” We should relearn what sort we really belong to, and, when we do, we will no longer be wolves to each other. We will reconnect with the values of love, peace, patience, forgiveness, kindness and compassion. Then there will be hope, for Armenians and for the rest of the world.

WATERTOWN, Mass.—The holiday season is upon us, and the Armenian Relief Society (ARS) of Eastern USA is thrilled to announce the relaunch of its “Spread Christmas Cheer” fundraising campaign. The organization is once again inviting the community to unite in making a significant impact on those in need during this festive season.

For just $25, community members can brighten the lives of children from Artsakh and the children of Armenia, Javakhk, Lebanon and Syria. Donations will allow the organization to provide essential gifts that carry a powerful message of support and hope. It’s a simple yet impactful act of kindness that can make a world of difference.

“The true meaning of the holidays lies in giving,” said Caroline Chamavonian, chairperson of the ARS of Eastern USA Regional Executive Board. “Our ‘Spread Christmas Cheer’ campaign is an opportunity for us all to come together, transcending boundaries and making a positive impact for our compatriots who are facing difficult times,” she continued. 

When the campaign was first launched in 2020, the ARS of Eastern USA sponsored 1,500 gifts for displaced children from Artsakh. In 2021, due to the many challenges faced by our compatriots in Artsakh, Javakhk, Syria and Lebanon, the ARS of Eastern USA expanded the list and raised more than $20,000 for the campaign. Last year, more than $30,000 was raised to support the children and also provide gifts for teachers in Syria and Lebanon. 

Community members can donate online or mail checks made payable to the ARS of Eastern USA to 80 Bigelow Avenue, Suite 200, Watertown, MA 02472.

2023 Hamazkayin Cultural Retreat participants at NAASR

To reflect on this weekend, perhaps it is easiest to start backwards. In his opening remarks during the Artsakh roundtable discussion, Dr. Khatchig Mouradian stated (and I’m paraphrasing from the original Armenian), “For a people who scream against denial, we practice denial ourselves.”

Denial is often touted as the first in the five stages of grief. Such is the Armenian story. We are no strangers to the tower. Artsakh itself is a strange compounding of grief – Arts akh, a collective exclamation. But most therapists will tell you that we do not move through this cycle linearly. Even our roundtable wasn’t round. 

At first, I just listened. I watched the cohort – spanning ages, occupations, languages, travels, and personal memories and ties to this storied land – fill the room with their pain, their fears and their ideas. Our generation was born with an independent Artsakh, and now, we reckon with the loss of our twin. 

Mouradian outlined that this is the fourth era of the modern Armenian nation – following the post-genocide, First Republic generation of the early 1920s; the rupture of Soviet silencing in 1965; and the Artsakh liberation movement of the early 1990s. At each juncture stood unwavering souls – perhaps few in numbers, but strong in will, in vision, in spirit.

Like all great discussions, there was no consensus on where to go – but plenty of queries were posed. These parting questions have traveled back with us to our diasporan homes. From this space, I reflect now.

But I could have just as easily begun with the word(s). Ham-azk-ayin – “of one nation/peoples.” Retreat – “a solitary or communal experience; an act of moving back; (of an army) withdraw from enemy forces as a result of defeat.” The multiplicities within “retreat” reflect the nature of the workshops themselves, which began with the ear (music), through the eyes (photos) and on to the edges (poetry between empires).

Participants with program director Dr. Khatchig Mouradian

Oud master Ara Dinkjian shared snippets of his personal record collection – vintage, rare and (almost) lost Armenian-American recordings. But before he shared the sounds of our burgeoning diaspora, Dinkjian began at the cusp of our rupture, with a 1908 recording of Arorn u Tatrakuh (“The plough and the turtledove”) by the founder of Armenian national music and personification of that collective akh: Komitas Vartapet.

This was followed up by a haunting rendition of “Krunk” with Komitas on piano, and his protégé Armenak Shahmuradyan on vocals. “Krunk” is a folk song that has become an anthem for the Genocide martyrs. But here, we heard a version recorded in 1914. The meaning of the crane song was not yet divorced from its birth. 

Shahmuradyan’s singing was slower than many of the tune’s contemporary renditions. Dinkjian opined that this is an indication of how “Krunk” may have been performed originally, since it is among the oldest recordings we can find of it.

After this, we heard a dizzying assortment of classics by early Armenian-American musicians – most of them amateurs – providing a window into how a musical gathering at an Armenian home may have sounded in the early to mid-20th century. What a delight to hear that Dinkjian’s collection will be donated to the Library of Congress for all to listen and savor our collective musical heritage. 

The next workshop was by Hrair ‘Hawk’ Khatcherian, a Canadian-Armenian photographer, by way of Lebanon. In 1993, Khatcherian was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He made a promise to God that, should he survive, he would dedicate his life to photographing Armenian churches and manuscripts. Like the bird of prey, he held on – and kept his word. Over the next three decades, he ventured to Western Armenia, capturing crumbling churches and moaning mountains, a century on from Medz Yeghern.

In the early 1990s, Khatcherian also documented the Artsakh liberation movement. With the help of a local videographer, these images were assembled into a film. We watched footage of soldiers, mere feet from blastings – Khatcherian in the trenches with them. In the captions, he signed his name ‘Hrair Hawk,’ after the call sign in Star Wars. 

We watched interviews of freedom fighters before their martyrdom in the following months and years of the war. We followed along the journeys of local Artsakhtsis to the recent present – before September’s exodus into Armenia. As the credits rolled, the slanted text moved from bottom-up, like George Lucas’ opus. I then understood the multi-layers of this talk, “Artsakh: The Photographer’s Eye,” which was lifted from the title of Hrair Hawk’s book. 

In the midst of tragedy, levity imbued into art – a recurring message, echoed by all the speakers, that everyone must do their part, however (seemingly) minute and trivial. In this way, we will build a rich archive of our culture, our art, our heritage – not just for ourselves and our posterity, but for the world over.

This sentiment was especially resonant in Dr. Arpi Movsesian’s presentation, which began with a question – why has no Armenian writer ever won the Nobel Prize in Literature? Again, the audience offered a multitude of answers – all valid – which were touched upon in the works she referenced, translated and contrasted. 

“From Periphery to Center: The Armenian Literary Word Between Empires” felt like a sneak peek into one of Movsesian’s classes at the University of Notre Dame, where she teaches Slavic Studies. Movsesian brought to the fore groundbreaking Armenian texts, from Nahapet Kuchak’s medieval hayrens, to the pioneering feminist works of Shushanik Kurghinian and Silva Kaputikyan. 

Her juxtaposition of Sayat Nova with Dante, Kaputikyan with Whitman, and the imagery of the spinning wheel – a common motif in the poems of Hovhannes Tumanyan and other Armenian writers – with the iconography of Gandhi and the Indian flag were novel readings of Armenian text, breaking it out of the confines of peripheral and lunging it into a center. Perhaps not the center, but a more visible lens. 

Movsesian also noted the lack of engagement with non-Russian texts and writers in the realm of Soviet Studies, and how this has disadvantaged Armenian voices among many others in the colonial “periphery.” In the end, we were given worksheets – “homework,” the professor chuckled – to place ourselves in the role of translator, to flex that discerning eye ourselves. Thus, the lesson was left open-ended, for our hands to finish the chapter. 

Over the years, attending many of these conferences, retreats and events, I’ve learned that there are no easy ways to digest and process learning, especially when that learning involves action. 

A key takeaway expressed by all the workshop leaders, and many of the participants, was that we do not know ourselves – our history, our culture, our literature. Armenians are not the center of the world. A sobering truth, swallowed grudgingly. But nor should we try to be. The binaries of periphery and center – colonizer and colonized – oppressor and oppressed – winner and loser – have done us little good and much harm.

Some of the participants at the Armenian Museum of America

As Armenians, particularly in diaspora, many of us grow up with the notion that we are underdogs. Or, in the crass language of our genocidaires, the “leftovers of the sword.” To that, I say, as I munch on last night’s pizza slice – that this language can also empower us. Leftover – meaning “residue,” but also “survivor” and “legacy.”

After the workshops, on Saturday evening, a small group of us decided to drive to Walden Pond, where transcendentalist Henry David Thoreau spent two years of his life, living alone in a small cabin he built for $28.12. Thoreau was propelled by the philosophy that man needed to co-exist with(in) nature, to live deliberately and simply, in a state of self-reliance. 

His rugged individualism stands as a microcosm of this country – the big dog of modern history. As tourists flock to the home of a man who derived peace and wisdom from stolen goods (of the Algonquin tribes), my mind turned again to Artsakh. What kind of legacy will we leave behind? What will this fourth era in the modern Armenian history tome look like?

Khatcherian’s photos captured the devastating destruction of Western Armenia. For the first time in recorded history, Artsakh is devoid of its indigenous Armenian population. What awaits the fate of this ancient land will be no less haunting and frightening. 

Now is not the time to turn away from the sword. Man’s most ancient tool is his tongue. Let us fashion scalpels out of pens. Yes, we have lost the battle, but we will not retreat. We are here and ready to hold down the fort – together.