Finding Home in Armenia

Once upon a time, my ancestors lived in Western Armenia. They lived in different cities and towns like Amasia, Gurin, Kharpert, and Erzerum. And when the time came that it was no longer safe, they crossed the ocean separating them from America and had children, whose children had me. Sitting in my bedroom in suburban Connecticut, I have thought quite a lot about their lives, their connection to me, and that ocean that separates us. On July 16, 2023, I set off to cross that ocean, arriving in the Republic of Armenia. I spent almost one year there, six and a half months in Yerevan and four months in Gyumri.

The Journey Back to Armenia

August 19, 2023 —

On a barely passable dirt road in the middle of wheat fields, I ventured out with my Yandex taxi driver, trying desperately to catch up with the Birthright Armenia group. I had overslept for today’s excursion, and our first stop was to visit the ruins of the ancient city of Ani. This excursion was incredibly significant: to be able to see Western Armenia with my own eyes. In a panic, realizing it was too late to reach the bus in Yerevan, I immediately called a taxi to try to reach the village where the bus would stop to pick up some volunteers from Gyumri before heading to the border.

However, once outside the city en route to some remote village, the roads changed from pavement to dirt to rocks, and the scenery changed from buildings to villages to fields. It did not even seem like we were on a road anymore; it was more likely that we were on a footpath, and soon, we found ourselves in the middle of hilly fields where large rocks covered the narrow passageway. Almost stranded, my taxi driver looked at his GPS in confusion. Clearly, we both did not know what we had gotten ourselves into.

Feeling significantly sorry for my driver's car, I pleaded with him that we could turn around and tried to explain in broken Armenian that I no longer needed to go to this village anymore, as I realized we would never make it in time. Instead, we somehow ended up making it through the valleys and farms in his white Volkswagen Polo to a main dirt road, arriving at our destination. The villagers looked at us strangely, and I thought of how totally illogical my plan was to get dropped off at this village in the middle of nowhere with no backup option. Using Google Translate, I asked if he could drive me to Gyumri, explaining that I would meet up with the group there, after they saw the ancient city of Ani. Thankfully, he said yes, and off we went.

The road took us along the Aras River, the border between Armenia and Turkey, and I could see across the river the land where my ancestors were from. I watched the birds soar over the river like fairies. It was beautiful. And they could go wherever they pleased; in their world, there was a river, and there was land, and one was blue, and the other was green. They did not know of any imaginary borders that they were bound to, and thus, there was nothing forcing them to stop from crossing over the river: that and their ability to fly.

It was in this moment of beauty of the soaring birds and despair of not seeing the ruins of the ancient Armenian city of Ani, I realized something. I was happy to be on this side of the border. I was happy to look more to the right than the left. I was happy to look at my driver, the mountains, the fields, the villages, and the Armenian people we passed by more than I would have to stare at the ruins of an ancient Armenian city in a land where, unfortunately, our Armenian presence is mostly dead. Because there’s so much more to our story than what we lost. We’re so much more than what we lost.

While we can be motivated by the despair and loss to keep going and grow stronger in our culture and community, we can also be motivated by each other — our resiliency, our strength, our love, and our power. We can be motivated by who we are, what we do, and who we can become. And of course, the past has many lessons, and we cannot forget the past; in times of need and despair, we must look to our ancestors, our faith, our family, our culture, our land, our mountains, and our monasteries for strength — but we can also rely on each other for strength and on what we currently have built.

The pain of the past is one of the reasons we have to continue forward. But it should not be the reason we want to continue forward. We should want to support each other and our culture because we are beautiful.

The Strength of the Armenian People

The Armenian people are creative. We are resilient. We are passionate, and we fight for what we believe in. We are ambitious and courageous. We are nurturing and kind. We are hardworking. And we love each other fiercely. We are a part of humanity, and humanity keeps going and rebuilds and loves no matter what loss we experience. Our ancestors who went through wars and genocide kept going for us to be here today. And we can remind ourselves of their strength in times of doubt.

The reason I want to support Armenia is us. If I want to find inspiration, I can look at people's faces here. I don’t need to look at the past; I can think about our present and our future.

July 15, 2024 –

As my time continued in Armenia, it was through moments like this that my work and commitment to Armenia was reaffirmed. Whether I was working on researching breast cancer screening in Armenia at the Children of Armenia Fund, helping with marketing and health-research tasks at Jinishian Memorial Foundation, taking photographs in Gyumri, learning jewelry and khachkar making, or researching and writing reports at International and Comparative Law Center, the time with others is what taught me so much.

Moments like celebrating coworkers’ birthdays or newborn babies and having the chance to work with extremely dedicated and hardworking people at my job sites who I grew close to. Moments like witnessing the hospitality of locals when they shared their food or home with us and seeing their passion for being Armenian. Moments like standing under one headscarf with my host mom and host sister to pray before dinner, and ultimately, creating a second family with my host family from Gyumri. And so many more.

It was in all these little moments, one by one, that I found a home and community in Armenia. Growing up, when I thought about my identity, I often grieved the pain and loss we have experienced and continue to experience. And while this pain is very real, we are stronger than it. And when we come together and celebrate each other and our culture, we create a home and community. Living in Armenia taught me to look at the love and beauty of what it means to be Armenian: to welcome each other and build community with one another.

Through Birthright Armenia, I was able to exist as an Armenian surrounded by my culture in a part of our homeland, make connections with hundreds of Armenians and share appreciation for one another, and work consistently to support my community. If these opportunities resonate with you, I highly recommend joining Birthright Armenia. All we can change is the present. By committing ourselves to the present, we are doing all we can to shape our future.