Notes From Hairenik | A Blog About Life in Armenia

It’s Time to Recognize Nagorno-Karabakh’s Independence

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Fri, 09 Oct 2020 08:35:00 +0000

Ghazanchetsots Cathedral in Shushi

On September 27 the world awoke to the calls of yet another regional war, this time in the South Caucasus. Azerbaijan had launched a full-scale attack on Nagorno-Karabakh. The call to battle was loudly heard around the world. And the lives of millions of people are now at stake.

Armenians have always mostly populated Nagorno-Karabakh, which they call Artsakh. They have resided there for millennia. Recent excavations of the ancient sophisticated city of Tigranakert, not to mention standing centuries-old Christian monasteries dating as far back as the fourth century, prove this to be true. There really is no debate.

An excavation at Tigranakert, 2011

My personal impressions of the citizens of Nagorno-Karabakh have always been enthusiastic. They are a European society with a rich cultural legacy. They are soft-spoken yet jovial and cordial. They always hold their heads high with dignity and grace. They are renown for their national dish jingalov hats and floral, potent vodka distilled from mulberries.

In my own experience spending quality time with them and staying as a welcome guest in their homes, they are a peace-loving, sincere, hospitable, and confident people.

They are confident and resolute not only because its part of their inherent nature but also because they are the victors. They fought for their land and their self-determination, and nothing—no foreign powers competing for access to fossil fuel resources from the Caspian or invaders with militaristic intentions of imposing dominance over them—will ever break their will to exist as free world citizens living in a thriving democracy.

Nagorno-Karabakh was part of Armenia until Joseph Stalin essentially handed it over to the newly formed Azerbaijan SSR in 1921. Although Nagorno-Karabakh had autonomous status under Azerbaijani control tensions were simmering. In 1988 a movement was launched in Armenia and Nagorno-Karabakh calling for the oblast to be placed under Armenian control. That movement led to armed hostilities initiated by Azerbaijan. On December 10, 1991, Nagorno-Karabakh declared itself an independent state before Azerbaijan formally established its own independence from the Soviet Union. The subsequent war fought by Armenian and Azerbaijani forces claimed tens of thousand of lives and nearly one million people were displaced.

Since 1994, when a ceasefire brokered by Boris Yeltsin was declared, the people of Nagorno-Karabakh have worked tirelessly towards rebuilding their homes and communities—including the capital city Stepanakert, towns like Shushi and Askeran and countless villages—and intricately weaving a democratic society that upholds the values of human rights, human dignity, and a peaceful existence.

But now that peaceful existence has completely been upended. Nagorno-Karabakh now faces a grave humanitarian crisis. Due to the merciless, sustained shelling of Stepanakert and Shushi by Azerbaijani forces nearly 75,000 people have been displaced from their homes. The shelling has damaged Stepanakert’s infrastructure as well as countless apartment buildings and houses.

Sundown service at Gandzasar monastery

The Republic of Artsakh, as it is formally called, embodies all the principles of a shining, properly functioning democracy, complete with an elected president and parliament.

Nothing will break the resolve of the people of Nagorno-Karabakh to live as a tranquil society that is in charge of its own affairs, as they have clearly proven to the world since the 1994 ceasefire. But they have been patronized by the world powers, which explains why this harmonious society is so cautious.

Nagorno-Karabakh is not without devoted friends. Humanitarian Aid Relief Trust (HART), founded by Baroness Carolyn Cox, who has visited Nagorno-Karabakh over 85 times since 1992, continues to provide vital humanitarian aid.

Currently the US Congress is considering a resolution condemning Azerbaijan’s attack on Nagorno-Karabakh. For decades Congress has consistently shown its support for Nagorno-Karabakh through a number of resolutions. Since 1998 the US government has provided direct assistance to Nagorno-Karabakh. Over 100 members of Congress, including seven from Massachusetts, comprise the Congressional Armenian Caucus, the members of which have introduced legislation in support of Nagorno-Karabakh’s devotion to regional peace.

Ten US states, including Massachusetts and California, have passed bills recognizing Nagorno-Karabakh as a republic.

I believe that a peaceful coexistence, one of mutual respect and tolerance, is possible in the region. Perhaps that’s naïve, wishful thinking, but I want to believe it, because the people of Nagorno-Karabakh have nothing to hide. They don’t want to block out the world. That’s not who they are.

But Nagorno-Karabakh’s sovereignty as a democratic nation, and not a “breakaway region controlled by Armenian separatists,” must be finally recognized in order for that peaceful coexistence to happen. The reality simply cannot be ignored any longer.

A view of the mountains from Shushi

This post was originally published on Medium.

Farewell, My Niva

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sun, 02 Feb 2020 07:25:00 +0000

You seduced me with your nonchalant demeanor, the way you faunted that body as enchanting as lapis lazuli. You were one of only a few, in a separate, dignified class. You refused to dress up and misbehave like your regal rivals in snow white, windows tinted black, screeching around town with those awkward, grotesque wheels that threw them off balance. You stood apart, never to conform, never to yield to the stereotype. You demanded more than the apero in his gradient tinted aviators and cheap Adidas knock-off track suit, blasting the rabiz classics through the Pioneer sound system with heavy bass. No, you lived and breathed for adventure. You longed for the thrill of the mountain passes, the marshy plains of the Ararat fields, the stubborn sludge-filled crevices of off-road trails. You refused to be confined to city roads, smooth asphalt, unchallenged, unprovoked. You longed for alpine air and forested high ground. You would leave the dilapidated, elderly Mercedes-Benzes and shitbox Opel Vectras lurching behind as they toiled in the dust and gravel, while you cruised up to the serene Pars Lij effortlessly, gracefully, in proud defiance time and time again. You even outmatched your larger challengers, the Toyota Prados and Mitsubishi Pajeros, whose drivers wouldn't dare risk scraping their undersides on the odd, pointy stones that lurked in muddy puddles. You were all about the thrill of the moment, powered by the life-force of 81 steady horses. And you always shined. You were unstoppable on any terrain, in inclement weather or on sun-drenched, steamy asphalt. Nothing phased you, no road was impassable. And I loved you for your endurance, your graceful strides, your reliability.

Yes, we had our moments of despair and estrangement. Your electrical system's quirks nearly had me committed on more than one occasion. Your lack of power steering made my flimsy arms and desperate loins ache while parallel parking. But nothing could separate us. Not until now.

I vowed that you would fall into safe hands, those that would cherish you as I once did. Now you will continue along those same fair and rough roads but with a different driver, who will in time come to respect and be charmed by all your idiosyncrasies, your stubborn first and reverse gears that seem to always crave the clutch's repeated caress. You will see Ararat's pastures once again, you will travel from border to border, from idyllic Lake Arpi to majestic Meghri to the endless ripples of Artsakh's mountain ranges. Armenia is embedded in you, it's part of your very identity.

So long, my dear cerulean friend. You never let me or my boys down. Thank you for the memorable, extraordinary times we shared together. And thanks for keeping me safe from harm along the way.

Steps Toward Armenia's Awakening

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Mon, 07 May 2018 10:53:00 +0000

Armenian politics stopped being interesting for me several years ago. It was 2014, the day after President Serzh Sargsyan announced that he was reneging on the Associating Agreement that was just about to be signed with the EU. His ministers and chief of staff were stunned by the decision and tried to spin things, claiming they were in on the decision. It was quite clear that they weren’t, and I waved bye-bye to the political scene altogether. Turns out I didn’t really miss much. The public transportation fee hike protests were in 2013 (150 dram up from 100), which resulted in the authorities rescinding their decision. I missed the Electric Yerevan movement in 2015, since I was in the US at the time. I was also in the US for Sasna Dzer, which in retrospect was a desperate, indeed heartbreaking attempt in reclaiming justice for Armenian citizenry. Then came “My Step.”

Like many people, no one knew what to make of Nikol’s latest gimmick to gain attention for a meaningful cause—who didn’t want Serzh Sargsyan to disappear and take the whole Republican party with him? It seemed foolhardy—he would walk to Yerevan from Gyumri, spread his message along the way in small towns and villages. At the time I thought, OK, good for you, Nikol, have fun with that. I was shocked by the momentum it gained a week or two later.

Footage on YouTube shows him on Vartanants Square on March 31, a sunny, chilly afternoon judging by his black windbreaker zipped up to his chin. He looked as dorky as ever, balder than ever, clean shaven, tidy. And he had that old, indescribable charm about him. I wanted to take him seriously, yet I couldn’t help but smile, too, and give him a bear hug. I’ve had that same feeling about him since I first saw him in 2007. I never walked up to him and introduce myself, perhaps interview him (although I tried to arrange one in 2012). I regret that now.

Back in 2007 he had his Impeachment movement and the editor of the daily Haykakan Zhamanak. His protests started in late afternoon, about every day, raving incoherently into his iconic bullhorn, advocating for the downfall of Robert Kocharian, Serzh, the oligarchy. He sounded like a total nut. Perhaps that was the point—he wanted to reel people in. And it worked. His movement grew and they threw their weight behind Levon Ter-Petrosyan in his unexpected political comeback to retake the presidency in 2008. Nikol paid the price after March 1—he went into hiding for 16 months, then gave himself up and was promptly imprisoned. He emerged a hero, and in 2012 he won a parliamentary seat on the Armenian National Congress (ANC or HAK) ticket. You couldn’t help but applaud the guy.

But he really ticked me off when he went back on his word to protest the outcome of the parliamentary election results, which everyone agreed were fraudulent. Instead he decided to shut up about it (I was there when he and the other ANC people announced the decision) and get to work in the National Assembly. We all forgave him. Since then he’s tried to take the spotlight in opportune moments, like during the Electric Yerevan and Sasna Dzer movements (he was mocked and sent home during the latter).

I was skeptical about “My Step” and its transformation in mid-April in Yerevan. The acts of civil disobedience—blocking intersections and occupying squares—seemed endearing to me at first. Then the riot police started showing their face, which really began to concern me. I’ve been braver in the past when riot police came out in prior mass protests. But in Yerevan they symbolize trouble and confrontation, especially after the Sasna Dzer ordeal. And now, as a dad of two young boys, I want to keep my distance from harm’s way. I don’t want to be in the thick of it anymore. Perhaps that fear hindered me from taking the “My Step” movement very seriously at the time.

Then early morning on April 17, the day of Serzh Sargsyan’s election as prime minister, I saw via a live video feed that the Baghramyan-Proshyan intersection was blocked with razor wire and riot police. I fired off an email to all my students that I was calling in sick and they should be vigilant about travelling to AUA. After I completed my work from home, I roamed the city. What I witnessed blew me away. Not only were protesters blocking intersections, they told off irate motorists driving fancy SUVs who were arguing with them. Even a few provocatively dressed women in stiletto heels told off a driver trying to get through. Then, they just turned their cars around and sped away. People were essentially submitting to this movement. And I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing.

Wherever I went that afternoon I saw more of the same. Half of Sayat Nova street was closed, including Place de France, where things were about to wind down within minutes after my arrival, I would come to find out. Two kids sharing the seat of what looked like a Huffy dirt bike from the mid-80s rode in announced, “People, we’re moving to Republic Square. Nikol’s meeting us there,” and sped off to another checkpoint. People of all ages were strolling about, walking up to a coil of razor wire pulled across Baghramyan Ave at the Isahakyan intersection. All of them, like me, were trying to absorb what was going on, and what it would lead to.

When I saw that Republic Square had been closed just before rush hour I knew we were at a point of no return. I was standing near the middle of the square, in broad daylight. The police were nowhere to be found, except for a row of about 50 cadets in front of the Government Building. They simply couldn’t keep up since the protests were so decentralized. A lot of them were distracted by Nikol’s parades around town. It was a game changer moment.

The evening of April 23, the day of Serzh Sargsyan’s resignation, was a time of immense, harmonious celebration. Strangers were congratulating one another. Vuvuzelas were blaring everywhere, and song and dance broke out in the middle of the Yerevan’s main thoroughfares. I roamed the streets until just past midnight, observing mesmerized with I had been seeing. Never before had I seen Armenian citizens so unified in purpose, ecstatic in the bliss of empowerment and accomplishment. It was all quite moving. Upon my arrival in Republic Square I saw some young protesters light small fires within orange paper lamps and watched them float into the starry sky. I turned to the wide fountain pool overflowing into the long drain and reflected on the evening, on the hundreds of thousands of people who took to the streets for freedom and justice, and similar movements I had personal witnessed over the years that had great promise but ultimately failed. And in that private moment I wept.

It’s anyone’s guess what will happen on May 8. The Republicans have pledged that they would vote for the candidate for prime minster, without explicitly stating Nikol’s name. They royally screwed up on May 1 by failing to elect him—the paralyzing nationwide protests on May 2 were stark proof of that.

I think it’s too soon to call the “My Step” movement a velvet revolution, despite Nikol’s convictions. The word “revolution” implies a change in the system of governance of a country, along with regime change and political/cultural/social ideology. This movement is unfolding in front of our eyes, and our emotional reactions are leading us to believe that we are experiencing cultural and political upheaval. What we have seen, essentially, was the resignation of the prime minister and former president under intense pressure from countless thousands of citizens participating in public civil disobedience, marches, and strikes nationwide. We are seeing a new generation of millenials—17-25 year olds—who are just being kids, but without inhibitions and the albatross of shame worn around their necks. Instead, they are employing their youthful exuberance to demand the application of their rights to democracy, equality, and justice. We have yet to see a new prime minister, a new interim or permanent government formed in accordance with Armenia’s constitution, freer elections unmarred by fraud, and an amended electoral code. We may see a change in the type of democratic system—perhaps a social democracy—that may replace the virtually unregulated free-market, oppressive system in place. But we still have a long way to go. Perhaps in a year, after having analyzed what exactly transpired during the course of three to six months (we’re only five weeks into this movement) we can appropriately define this as a period of revolution.

But regardless of the label given to “My Step,” this is a momentous, unprecedented time in Armenian history that the entire world is witnessing, and this movement will certainly be an impetus for change in countries worldwide where stark social and economic inequalities have pushed the masses to ineluctably expired patience. The Russians are already using the Armenian model in anti-Putin protests.

For me the real indication of a revolution having taken place will be the imminent passage of legislation that increases the minimum wage to a level commensurate with the current basic standard of living and ever-creeping inflation. Efforts have failed in the past for unproven reasons—the latest promise to increase the minimum wage was made in December 2017. Although the minimum wage is 55,000 dram, or $114, some people, like municipal street cleaners who sweep the streets late at night using what seem like homemade brooms, are purportedly earning much less than that. It is impossible for a family to survive on such a wage. It may have been somewhat adequate 15 or 20 years ago, when the prices of basic foodstuffs like dairy products and bread were much lower than they are now.

Homelessness also needs to be eradicated. The government should confiscate partially constructed apartment buildings financed with stolen money and provide modern, low-income housing to the poor. Corporate greed and high-interest bank loans have disenfranchised too many Armenian citizens, and it needs to stop.

We’re living in extraordinary times. Never before have I seen so much hope in people’s eyes, so much compassion shared for others. Optimism has finally eclipsed fatalism. Here’s hoping that this sense of empowerment that Armenians, especially the youth, are now feeling is sustainable.

On Fatherhood

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sat, 24 Mar 2018 16:20:00 +0000

On a recent trip to Paris I found myself thinking of my two young sons nearly every corner I turned in search for the perfect crepe sandwich in the Latin Quarter or an appealing, modest glass of Côtes du Rhône. While I toured the city on the Big Bus I kept imagining what they would ask me as it approached the Arc de Triomphe for instance, or how does one get to the top of the Tour d’Eiffel. Each time I bit into one of three or four croissants consumed during the day I imagined them eating their own alongside me, completely content, speechless in delight. They were with me on my metro rides, ecstatic to be on a train, and they were with me at the bistro, pleading with me to move on. Sometimes I wonder whether I am obsessed with my own kids, and whether that obsession—if that is even the proper word—is healthy for a man my age—a middle-aged divorcé.

Being a single father in Armenia indeed has its challenges. Modern Armenian culture—within the republic, anyway—does not accept the father as a sole caretaker. For two years after my wife moved out I found myself having to prove to society that I could handle parenthood on my own, without the micromanaging Armenian mom hovering in the background. Fathers are not supposed to cook and clean for their children—that’s the mother’s or grandmother’s job. Fathers might play with the children at home. They might carry them to the park, cigarette dangling from the mouth, spitting phlegm along the way. They aren’t expected to wipe their kids’ asses and pick up after them. They discipline with idle threats of beatings and bullying. Some parents threaten their kids with claims that they would suffer a heart attack out of shock, for instance when they suddenly break out into a sprint down the sidewalk. Fathers bark out humiliating orders—come here, sit, stay, don’t run—in the most reviling way. Some are offended when their children want affection, by hugging their knees for instance. Don’t do it, they respond, behave. Some Armenian dads never seem to smile.

I find myself compelled to break this conventional stereotype every day I am out in public with my sons. Not only do I chat with them in a casual, carefree manner as I would with my own friends, I give them near constant affection, by putting my arm around their shoulders and holding them close, grasping their tiny hands in mine, sometimes growling like an ailing mutant wolf-seal in their ears. I aim to be a model father while trotting down the wide, Caucasian oak-lined sidewalks on the way home, as if to demonstrate how it’s done to all the bitter farts that may be watching.

I don’t mean to brag, but for a 45 year old man in Armenia I look good, at least 10 years younger. Many Armenian men, by the time they reach my age, look at least 60, out of shape, usually obese, smoking thin cigarettes, wearing a perpetual grimace, screaming into their cell phones to some sorry sod that is compelled to hear them rant about missed payments and petty feuds related to disastrous business transactions (“where’s the money”, “I said that you must…”, “I swear on my mother/father, if you don’t do this…” blah, blah). I don’t dress like Armenian men and I certainly don’t go shopping where they do. They all seem to dress alike, wearing the same charcoal gray padded jackets, some longer than others, some with wider patterns than others. They wear blacks and faded or bright blues for contrast. They sport thin, striped crew-neck sweaters at least one size too small to accentuate their curves. They crop their hair short, no matter how low the hairline, as if they just stepped out of a time/space wormhole originating from the 1950s. And they don’t smile. When they do share humor with each other, it’s about some inside joke between them that isn’t funny to begin with, probably not even to them, but they have to go through with fawning appreciation for the joke, or the potential it could have had. By default, they’re gruff and discontent. When they are out and about with their kids, it seems like a chore, as if they’re going to have teeth extracted. The warm intimacy between father and child in public is disturbingly seldom.

And, being a single dad, meeting women is also a challenge for me. They don’t understand why my ex and I couldn’t work it out, or why we split with two small boys in the picture. My status as single father is a red banner that binds me taut like a sarma.

I would like to start a club of single Armenian fathers in Yerevan but the membership would likely include all but one man. Sometimes I wonder where the long-term support is for guys like me, emotionally attached to their kids, no relationship prospects, destined incompatible with any and all women (although there’s that amazing corporate-level CPA who lives only 7,247 miles away). The fact that I consider myself a relatively young, active single father of two young boys is enough reason for women to run away shrieking. Never mind that I have a history of being a cantankerous, moody, major pain in the pass (although I’m mellowing, really). Dating has always been awkward for me. Dating has led me down the paths of disastrous relationships with women with whom I shouldn’t have been socializing to begin with because there was no common ground on subjects that were of such supreme importance to me. I had been willing to sacrifice my personal musical tastes in hopes that compromise would lead to long-term gains on emotional and spiritual levels. Now I cannot imagine being in a relationship where my partner does not have any appreciation for John Coltrane’s music. This has become my bar to set. If after a few dates at the most if I realize that the woman I’m courting is indifferent to Coltrane’s music, then it’s time to stop. What’s the point of dating someone who isn’t moved by the trance-inducing “My Favorite Things” or, particularly, the sacred, symphonic work “A Love Supreme?” There’s simply no use. I haven’t met one person worth my while who has listened to “A Love Supreme” from start to finish and wasn’t moved by it. Better to stay home curled up with Chi Chi, and drink a hearty Armenian red blend or Kozel Pale out of half-liter bottles, and munch on shelled walnuts, sulghuni cheese pressed sandwiches, dark chocolate, Gemlik olives, labneh sprinkled with crushed mint and cayenne pepper or zaa’tar and drizzled olive oil. That’s way better than an insipid date. The only problem is that it gets old after a while. So I try again, and become disappointed again so I can appreciate anew how good I had it. You learn to weigh the seemingly insignificant things in life. Will it be a shimmering, intoxicating plate of labneh or a shitty wine date with an unexpectedly shallow woman? Labneh, by all means. I remain faithful to my labneh.

But what I tell myself each morning is that the only thing I can control in my personal life is to be the best father I can be. That’s enough. Never mind the idyllic romantic relationship that won’t pan out. I am a dad of two amazing, funny, extraordinary children. They have my name, and the family heritage continues. They are learning about their roots, they are just starting to understand where they come from. They know both English and Armenian fluently, for their age, and are picking up Russian. My older son even discerns the nuances of Western Armenian versus Eastern. They know two cultures—east and west. They have two extended families located both east and west. They love Hot Wheels and Spider-Man and Play-Doh and Ernie and Bert. They love their commie cartoons and all the other commie kids stuff that Armenian parents are still into but I don’t get and never will. They love their spaghetti covered with supermarket canned Parmesan cheese that I buy two for five bucks on each trip to Boston. And yes, they dig Trane. That’s enough.

Happy Armenian Independence Day

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Wed, 21 Sep 2016 15:43:00 +0000

Twenty-five years of independence. Let's see what these dudes manage to accomplish in time for the Armenian republic's 50th anniversary.

Onnik Live in Istanbul – An Experience of a Lifetime

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Tue, 27 Oct 2015 20:43:00 +0000

On October 24 I took advantage of the opportunity to see Onnik Dinkjian perform live with his son Ara Dinkjian in Istanbul. The concert was one of the most emotional, inspiring musical experiences I’ve had thus far. The entire performance from beginning to end was a tour de force.

Onnik is by far the greatest interpreter of Armenian traditional and folk music alive today. He is now in his mid-80s and he still passes for a man at least 20 years younger in terms of appearance and vitality. I never recall him hearing him sing so well, not in performance and not on his recordings (I have them all). Perhaps the clarity of his voice that night was attributable to the sound system and acoustics of the hall. Most of the time, when he does sing live, he does so in ballrooms and gymnasiums where you can’t really hear anything since the sound is so muffled or distorted.

Onnik took to the stage on fire, wearing a silver gray double-breasted suit adorned by his signature French cuffs. The night after his Istanbul concert he performed in Vienna with the band, the same that played behind him on the latest recording he made of songs from Dikranakert titled Diyarbekiri Hokin / Ermenice Diyarbakır Şarkıları (which incidentally is by far the best music project he has ever been a part of, not only due to his talent but also to Udi Ara’s masterful arrangements). Onnik also sang other old favorites, notably “Hey Oualla,” a song from an early recording he made that still endures, and “Hay Herosneri Yerk,” which is an old patriotic song that pays homage to monumental figures in the Armenian revolutionary movement of the early 20th century. This song brought the house down, despite that a large part of the audience was Turkish.

At one point nearly half way through the concert the audience was so riled up by the music that dozens of people engaged in the traditional line dancing through the hall’s aisles. So the vibe suddenly transformed into the same spirit of the thousands of Armenian youth balls that Onnik has performed at, mainly on the East Coast for at least forty years.

The concert closed with a gorgeous father and son performance of “Garod,” a heartbreaking song that Onnik first recorded on his Just For You album in the late 70s, and it also appeared on the enthralling Voice of Armenians - Live in Jerusalem album from 2007. "Garod" is also incidentally the title of an excellent documentary available on DVD about Onnik and Ara and their first visit to Diyarbakır. I have trouble listening to “Garod” these days because I usually can’t get through the song without breaking up. It is such an intense, morose song about longing and lost love. Naturally, I began to weep last Saturday night. Just the fact that I was there at all, combined with the somber mood of that ballad, was all too much to take.

It was my first time hearing Udi Ara perform in concert. Although I have listened to his recordings countless times the depth of his music cannot fully be appreciated without seeing him play oud in person. The concert opened with "Diyarbakır Peşrevi," the opening track and an instrumental piece from Onnik’s latest record. While Onnik took a short break to catch his breath Ara and the phenomenal ensemble played some favorites from his catalog, such as “Picture,” the title track from the first Night Art album. “Picture” was incidentally rearranged for the second The Secret Trio recording, a sublime masterpiece that was released at the beginning of this year. I have tremendous admiration and respect for Udi Ara and his moving music, particularly his original compositions, and I was privileged to meet him very briefly backstage. He takes after his father as being a true gentleman, a very cordial, welcoming person. I hope I’ll have a chance to discuss music with him soon.

It is a great pleasure to finally see Onnik perform on the international stage. His credit as a world-class professional vocalist is long overdue, and his extraordinary talent I believe has not been fully appreciated during much of his career in the US. There isn’t anyone who can sing traditional and popular Armenian songs like him, not with the same verve and deep-felt passion, and certainly not with that rich tenor voice that becomes more intense with age, like a fine Bordeaux.

I am thankful to Onnik for introducing me to Armenian song when I was a little boy, in the days when I was obsessively listening to his legendary album ONNIK that was recorded the same year I was born. He was my hero then, and he still is to this day. I’m relieved that I finally had the courage to tell him so as I embraced him Saturday night.

Centennial

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Fri, 24 Apr 2015 05:30:00 +0000

My grandmother Clara Movsessian Russian, a survivor of the ‪Armenian Genocide‬, is 100 years old, born October 28, 1914. She still lives in her home of 70 years in Arlington, Massachusetts.

She was born in the village of Yegheki, located in the kaza of Harput within the province of Mamuratul Aziz-Harput. Her father Nishan was deported when she was only a few months old. She survived poverty, famine, typhoid, and always kept hope alive. Against all odds she made it to America by age 11. She married Hagop “Jack” Russian of the village of Sousoury, located just beside Yegheki. She was a founding member of the St. Stephen’s Armenian Apostolic Church in Watertown, Massachusetts and served on the Ladies’ Auxiliary for two decades.

But she's more than just my grandmother, she's my heroine, my fount of inspiration. She taught me determination, resilience. And I love her very much.

Below is a fragment from her memoirs, which I am still in the process of editing.

#

Clara standing beside her mother Haigouhi to the right. The woman seated on the left is unidentified.

Krikor Guetchudian, who was a cunning man, had something in store for my mother that no one had predicted. He cleverly stole a picture of my mother and sent it in a letter to his younger brother Nishan, who was living in New Britain, Connecticut at the time. In his letter, he told Nishan to divest all his assets and invest in Krikor’s flourishing business. Since there were unrest and rumors of war in Turkey, Krikor intended to profit from the situation in flux by investing in provisions such as flour, sugar, olive oil and nuts. He also told Nishan to consider marrying my mother, since she came from a prominent family, was well educated and very attractive. Nishan was a sentimental guy, and he was also very homesick, not to mention lonely. He figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea to return to he Old Country and get married. After all, he could always move back to Connecticut since he had been established there and knew the ins and outs of making a living in America. So he left Connecticut in 1913 with gifts, jewelry and fine clothes for his future bride.

When Nishan arrived in Liverpool, England, where he awaited his ship that would travel along the Mediterranean Sea to Armenia, he just happened to meet a young Armenian woman who was on her way to America. It was a weird coincidence to both of them.

“Where are you going now?” the woman asked.

“I’m off to Kharpert, to my village where I’m going to get married. My brother found a bride for me.”

“I’m from Kharpert, too. I was born in Husenig.”

“My family home is in Yegheki.”

“That’s where my sister teaches now.”

Then he remembered he had his bride’s photograph in his jacket pocket. He removed it and showed it to the woman.

"That’s my sister, Haigouhi!" she yelled. Teriz and Nishan embraced in tears. She made him promise he would be a good husband to her and treat her well, otherwise she would come back and severely beat him. Then she hugged and kissed him again, the tears from both of them ruining her makeup, and they parted ways. They would never meet again.

Back in Yegheki, when he felt as though he had saved up enough money, Nishan went to my grandparents’ home to ask for my mother's hand in marriage. A time-honored custom was observed, with the girl having no decision in the matter. There was a very extravagant wedding attended by many friends and family members, and the joyous festivities lasted for an entire week. My mother moved into Krikor’s home with her new husband.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Haigouhi asked Nishan one day when they were alone, walking through the lush fields. “You know, all this marriage business.”

“We’ll have a family, I guess. What did you have in mind?”

“A daughter.”

“I think we can manage that.”

“What about teaching?”

“You’re a schoolteacher.”

“You won’t stop me?”

“Why would I do that? Besides, I still need to learn things myself.”

“Learn what?”

“Things, you know. English for one thing.”

“What do you mean, silly?”

“I mean, you know… like yours.”

My mother blushed. “Aren’t you going to hug me?”

My father, who was very handsome and dressed sharp in American suits, was 27 years old when he married my mother. He was a self-taught musician, who played both oud and violin. He wept when he sang his melancholy songs, and so did everyone else listening. The instruments were washed with tears, a premonition of the tragic days that would change our lives forever.

I was born on October 28, 1914. My mother suffered three days with severe labor pains and was on the verge of death. My father rode to Kharpert and found a proficient midwife, who miraculously saved our lives. I was christened in our local Armenian church and named Hayastan in honor of our motherland, Armenia. But I wasn’t destined to have that name for very long. After my father gave it some more consideration, he decided to change my name, fearful that the Turks might regard him as a revolutionary. During this time, my mother was reading a book, which included a heroine named Clara, which was how I received my new name.

I was four months old when in January, 1915, the Turks were beginning to arrest all young men and intellectuals. It was the spark of the inferno that would consume the lives of over a million souls and deliver ruin to hundreds of thousands more.

My father was arrested and imprisoned for many months. All my mother told was that he was arrested under “suspicion,” but they never told her what for. Hundreds of men went to jail the same way, without explanation. Of course, no one yet understood what was going on or could have predicted what was coming. While in jail he contacted typhoid fever and was sent home by the authorities. I guess they were afraid of catching it, too, it’s not like they suddenly cared about his health. My mother tended to his illness until he recovered and was once again arrested and jailed. By now, he was an embittered man and fearful of his destiny. My mother would bundle me up and carry me in her left arm, and we would visit him. We would bring him some sarma, sini kufta or something else he liked to eat wrapped in paper, so the guards wouldn’t suspect anything and snatch it for themselves. She would hand him things between the bars when no one was looking. He would hold my tiny hand the same way.

“Will I see the day when my daughter Clara takes a gift from my own hands?” he asked my mother once.

“You’ll come home soon, I know it,” she smiled.

“I miss you in here. It’s getting very hard to take sometimes.”

“It’s a test of our faith. We’ll get through this.”

“I need my wife and my baby by my side,” he cried.

“And we need our man. We’re not going anywhere.”

The fateful day came when a messenger of death announced that all Armenians from neighboring villages, both young and old, were to be deported to the town of Urfa within one month. They were allowed to take with them only as much as they could carry. Before the day of departure, they congregated inside St. Vartan Church to hear Father Mampre’s last mass and sermon. They confessed their sins and received their last communion. With agonizing tears, they embraced each other and prepared for their departure.

My grandparents and their children came to Yegheki to bid farewell, knowing that they would never see one another again. They and 45 relatives of my mother were deported to the desert of Der-el-Zor in Syria. Husenig’s entire population of 3,000 people ceased to exist. My grandfather did not fear hunger because he had always fasted for 40 days during lent, but he was dreading the unbearable thirst awaiting him in the desert. Two weeks later, my father and his brother Asadour were deported with their fellow villagers from Yegheki. My mother was completely devastated, she couldn’t speak a word for days. As my father was marched away he never turned around to look back.

No word was sent from my father, and we had no idea where he really went. There were rumors coming that men were being hung, shot in the head, and even beheaded. Then they were being tossed into ravines to rot and eaten by animals. The rivers were filled with corpses and were finding new routes around them. My mother was now a widow at the age of 18 with a six-month-old. She was distraught at the thought of Nishan’s demise and agonized inconsolably, and if it hadn’t been for me she would have given up living. Having been nurtured in a very religious environment at home, she not only lost her faith but also questioned God—"Why?"— just as countless other Armenians begged to comprehend.

How to Be a Dad

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Mon, 23 Mar 2015 13:41:00 +0000

The last three days with my son Areg have been very special. I feel we have really bonded, and the relationship we have built, based on love, mutual respect and enjoyment of life, has become tighter.

A few months ago I went back to Boston for four weeks. It was Christmastime. Not only was I visiting my family, I was also starting my studies for my MFA in Creative Writing at Lesley University, taking part in their Low Residency program. That means I have to be on campus for a week each semester and attend workshops and seminars. For reasons out of my control, I could not take Areg with me, although he wanted to go and was clearly conscious of my intent to travel. Areg is a lot smarter and cognizant of his environment as well as life situations than many in my opinion, including family members and friends, imagine. Although we communicate on Skype as often as possible when I’m away, it’s still not the same as having physical, interpersonal contact. Two weeks into my stay I noticed that he was uncommunicative, meaning he would not converse, although he wanted to show me things and sat attentively in a chair or in the camera’s view for several minutes at a time while I constantly engaged him through discussion, interaction with family members, showing him the Christmas tree up close and so forth. But he wouldn’t answer my questions or comment about anything. We speak almost exclusively in English, but sometimes in Western Armenian so he gets used to it.

When I returned to Yerevan in mid January he kept refusing to talk. And I learned that he wasn’t talking to other members of the family or his peers and instructors at his kindergarten, either. He apparently only spoke with his mother, in Armenian. In fact he was hesitant to return to kindergarten after the holidays, acting as he did when he first started going last August—complaining and hesitant to stay, although everyone there as well as the environment were now familiar to him.

The lack of verbal communication persisted for another two months. Areg would communicate by pointing and grunting, or with body language—if he needed to sit on the toilet he would hold his rear end, or his crotch when he had to pee. When I asked if he was hungry or thirsty he would either say nothing in response or say “uh huh” when he was. That was it. Areg will turn four on April 1 so his silence was disconcerting. Sometimes he would start to cry for a few moments when I didn’t understand what he wanted. He did sing, but only songs that he had recently invented (a songwriter in the making) and none of the ones we used to sing together. Although I was naturally patient with him and just as loving, it was frustrating not to hear him give his perspective on things in the world, what he experienced or heard. He always had something to say about any given thing, and being his dad, I always probed him to tell me more. Now it was if I were talking to the walls. Oddly, I began to forget what it was like for him to argue with me about the names of colors, letters or shapes—I intentionally give him the wrong name of something so he will correct me, thus getting him to think and focus. Discourse had ended. A psychologist we visited recommended art therapy, which I intend for him to undergo.

Then just over a week ago there was a breakthrough. It was Saturday night. I began suggesting the wrong names for objects or letters and he suddenly began correcting me. Then he wouldn’t shut up. His perspective on things—letters, colors, objects, toys, concepts, whatever—became revealed once again. We linked up with my mother via Skype so she could share in the surprise. It was an ecstatic moment for all of us I think.

The following morning he was silent again, grunting and pointing. I couldn’t figure out why there was a relapse but we continued our routine of dressing, washing up, eating breakfast, watching Mister Rogers (he started getting into it that weekend, which may have had an influence I suspect) and walking Chi Chi. It was a warm day, in the 60s, so I decided to take him to Lovers’ Park, which was a five-minute metro ride away. We strolled down the paths and eventually ended up in the sand pit, where he sifted, piled, poked and stirred. After about 40 minutes he wanted to move on, so we walked around some more in the park. I was desperate to get him speaking again. On a cement wall in the far right along a path where the landscaping ends there was some graffiti art, with “Im Yerevan” spelled out, (“Im” meaning “my”). So the quiz commenced—“what letter is this, is it an X? What about this one, is that a Q?” After a couple of minutes the arguing began. “That’s not an X, it’s a Y. Why did you say it’s an X? It’s not X, it’s Y.” Then he was expounding on the shape and style of the letter. He insisted that the lowercase V in “Yerevan” was actually a lowercase Y because the diagonal stroke continued past the baseline and curled up to the left at the end. I could not refute him, the damn thing was indeed a Y. The artist’s intent was to make it appear as a footpath leading to the front door of a home, but the footpath metamorphosed into a piano keyboard for whatever reason, further complicating matters. Then we began to study the design of every letter, wondering why windows were drawn within them, and why were they made to resemble apartment buildings, and he gave his feedback willingly. On the way home down the escalator to the train he suddenly announced, “I have chishig” so we went back up to use the restroom in the park (which is remarkably clean). I treated him to hot chocolate at a nearby café in our neighborhood and I ordered a club sandwich for myself, which I ended up splitting with him. Although I intended to keep him overnight and encourage him further, his mom came by and carried him off. We made quite a bit of headway, though. And this past weekend was even better.

Anyway, here’s some advice to new dads (not like I have everything figured out yet obviously):

1. Engage your children constantly. Throw as much stimulus at him or her as possible through conversation, play, music, reading, visual stimulus like Sesame Street or Baby Einstein—whatever it is. All of it is beneficial, especially talking, playing, and reading.

2. Speak with your child like you would with an adult. Oftentimes you hear people talk to their toddlers with cartoonish tones of voice and condescending, simplistic language, as if to assume the kid can’t comprehend the idea conveyed or the correction. I find this to be the case especially in Armenia. It’s nonsense to talk to kids as if they’re kids. And talk about anything—nature related, the stars and planets, how the coffee machine functions, whatever. They understand things quite well and they’ll pick up whatever you’re trying to illustrate, fast. Not only that, the tone of their voice will sound more mature. That’s what I’m finding in Areg’s case at least.

3. Never tell your kid he or she can’t do something. “Can’t” implies discouragement, and it leads to diminished self-esteem, something no child should ever endure. If you don’t want your son climbing on the future, tell him “no,” or “don’t do it.” I always add “buddy” or “please” when I want to correct him, then I either praise or thank him. Speaking of which…

4. Praise as much as possible, too much isn’t enough. My son thrives on praise; he aims to please. He’ll do whatever it takes for me to tell him how proud I am of him or how smart he is. He expresses his excitement by shaking both hands in the air rapidly like he wants to whip them off his arms and running across the room, squeaking (admittedly I do the same thing to this day on occasion, it must be genetic). He’s hilarious.

5. Laugh and have fun. One of our favorite activities is baking cookies. He mixes the salt and flour in a separate bowl while I measure out the sugar and butter. He also gets the mixer going—it’s stationary—and we have a blast. His favorite part of the process is licking the mixer beaters. We also work with play dough, play a marble run that we construct together, and we draw as well as paint. Areg loves to play with his dad, not to mention my friends that come over, and I bet the same can be said of any kid. He loves to show and describe something that he created, and he loves the attention. Who wouldn’t?

I think I’m on to something here and I’m eagerly anticipating what’s next. There’s still Shant to contend with. Now if the three of us were only allowed to spend some quality time alone, who knows what would happen?

Birthday Wishes

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sun, 01 Feb 2015 20:43:00 +0000

Today's my birthday, which coincidentally falls on Groundhog Day. Yes, that indeed is a hilarious coincidence. Good thing no one in Armenia knows what Groundhog Day is, never mind a groundhog.

I have only two wishes for my birthday:

1. Peace and happiness. We're living in turbulent times. Tensions are high on Armenia's borders. The economy is starting to tank. Regional stability is fragile. Let's pray for peace. That will come from inner peace, inner stability, confidence and self reliance. Most of all peace comes from tolerance and empathy.

2. Evenings when both my sons sleep over in their own home together, in their own beds. I never imagined how difficult going through divorce is, probably because I never fathomed having to endure it several months ago. But although my marriage is finished, my relationship with my boys isn't. Our father-son relationship remains eternal, and nothing will ever come between us. Nothing. On my birthday and every day I send my undying love to my boys. I'll see you soon.

I hope that's not very much to ask for.

Notes From Hairenik’s 10th Anniversary

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 08:12:00 +0000

This month Notes From Hairenik celebrates its decennial, online for 10 years straight. I can’t believe a decade has passed already, seems like I just moved here a few years ago. It’s unbelievable how quickly time passes.

Over the years I have documented all facets of my personal life and observations about Armenian culture, society and politics on this blog, and I’ve told the stories of countless citizens, usually ordinary people no one has really ever heard of. I’ve written about all sorts of subjects related to life in Armenia, what to do to keep busy, how to get around, must-see places to visit, where to have a fine meal. I’ve also documented both my delights and frustrations with living in this often under-appreciated country, one that offers a lot more than what people mistakenly, even sarcastically believe.

A rejected banner image

My goal was to portray Armenia and its capital Yerevan the way it actually was, or at least the way I began to see it, having crushed the rose-tinted glasses under foot long ago. The mindsets and even psychology of Armenians have been explored in my posts, some of which were controversial while others fondly appreciated. I thank both my critics and admirers over the years, all of you have pushed me to keep me writing about my passion for this craggy, stunningly beautiful country. I grew significantly both professionally and personally during my stay. I have also seen my share of hardships, which I am not unthankful for in retrospect. I had a health problem five years back resulting in the removal of my gallbladder, thankfully a relatively trouble free ordeal. Frustrations with chauvinism, complacency and fatalistic, jaded personalities have worn down my enthusiasm on more than one occasion. Two marriages have crumbled in the span of a decade.

But I have had real triumphs. The two eternal sunshines in mylife, Areg and Shant, remind me every luminous morning what it means to be alive, to love life and be thankful for every passing moment. They never cease to inspire and fill me with pure joy, blazing white energy. In September 2013 one of the most important events of my life took place when I spoke at TEDxYerevan. And I have made true, everlasting friendships with people that have endured. I’m truly grateful and lucky for all that I have had in my life.

Thanks to all of you for your support and encouragement over the years. I couldn’t have kept this blog going without you.

With much respect and gratitude,

Christian

My two sunshines

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Mon, 03 Nov 2014 08:24:00 +0000

As I lay in bed trying to finally kick the lingering, sinus-stuffing virus that has swept Yerevan, my children included (they affectionately gave it to me in the first place), I thought I'd post some golden moments from the last six months. Shantig my little one has grown up a lot and after only one year (his birthday is tomorrow!) is ready to start walking already—seems like it's just a matter of minutes. And big brother Areg has a great appetite for fine foods as you'll see. I love these kids more than anything, they're my two sunshines and they fill me with energy and hope every day, even when we're apart.

Boys in action

Time to Let Go

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sat, 01 Nov 2014 18:13:00 +0000

When you fight to cling to people who are no longer meant to be in your life, you delay your destiny. Let them go.

—Mandy Hale

Life as taught me in my 42 years that traumatic or disparaging events happen without reason, with little or no warning. Getting over the hurdles make you tenacious as a human being, and your character, who you are as a person, also strengthens. Your sense of how to live a peaceful life, and your understanding of the importance of fostering empathy for others and their own misfortunes, develops and becomes acute. You become more rational and tolerant. Sometimes in order to live a full and happy life, you do indeed have to let go of things that are extremely important to you, despite the title of my TEDx talk that I gave last year, “Never Letting Life Go.”

My second marriage after only five years has failed. My wife and I have been unhappy together for well over a year. She claims I don’t give her “support” (she could never properly elaborate on what she really meant), which is her roundabout way of saying that she simply doesn’t want to be an equal partner in our relationship or even loves me. She couldn’t ever bring herself to tell me directly for months or perhaps years, but she finally found the courage to look me in the eye and state that she wanted a divorce.

It’s not possible to live with someone that you don’t respect as an equal partner. Relashionships thrive on trust, mutual compromise and empathy. Although she was undoubtedly aware of this, she nevertheless chose to continue building a family with me, while carefully guarding the absence of love, going through the motions until she would eventually shut herself down to me. In the meantime I kept encouraging, supporting, loving, giving my all to our union. But we both eventually realized that we were simply not meant to be together.

I am no saint. I can be difficult to live with and irritable, especially when I have something important to me on my mind. I’m also human. I grew up in a household where expressing surprise or frustration with misunderstandings in a boisterous manner--but without any real anger--was a normal thing. Indeed many Armenian-Americans I’ve known in my life often spoke in a tone that sounded as if they were perpetually annoyed. Like any tight family we would have infrequent disagreements, but we always ended up coming together, our love for each other stronger than ever.

My emotions and tendency to become volatile when facing adversarial life situations, unprovoked rudeness or exasperating conflicts were interpreted by her as personal affronts when they had in fact nothing to do with her. She’s even used past negative experiences I endured five or more years ago, linked to personal problems in my life totally unrelated to her and our relationship, as reasons for separation. This self-centered frame of mind I have never understood, and it also eventually led to the marriage’s dissolution.

I’m not the man I was seven years ago when we first met or even last year. I am constantly working on myself and my ambitions, to be a better person, more in control of my emotions and thoughts, my outlook on life. I struggle to balance the reality of the moment with the dream of tomorrow.

Despite the break up I am remarkably happy. I see my boys and Areg stays over three nights a week. Chi Chi keeps me sane; she’s always there to hear out my frustrations, and she comforts me when I’m blue. Regardless of the setbacks I’ve had I’m moving on, and I don’t dwell on mistakes I made as I used to. I’m letting the negative aspects of my past go, not life in its entirety. And I know that so long as I continue going forward keeping true to my word, striving as best as I can to cease making assumptions, to not take things personally, to give life my all, I will keep happiness close to me. I wish the same for her, regardless of the life path she chooses to journey along.

But nothing stops me from missing the laughter of my boys late at night as I try, sometimes in vain, to sleep.

A Visit to Yerevan’s Sole Hatter

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Thu, 17 Jul 2014 08:14:00 +0000

I love hats. I’ve been collecting them for years of all shapes and sizes, Borsalinos and wool caps by Kangol (back when they were still made in Great Britain). The coolest Kangols had a built-in ear flap that folded out to protect against the extreme cold, which I used rarely fearing I’d look ridiculous. In the last several years I started purchasing baseball caps for the summer, usually without team logos, although I found a replica of a hat that used to be worn by a Black team called the Pittsburgh Crawfords in the 1920s in Marshalls of all places -- there’s a large white C printed just above the visor which is essentially why I bought it. And two weeks ago in front of “Kino Rassia,” a fantastic building that looks like the mysterious ship from the early Alien movies located south of Republic Square—originally a two-screen movie theater that’s been converted into a giant department store—I acquired a rip-off Burberry cap for 2,000 dram. They sell all sorts of counterfeit caps by Gucci, Nike, Adidas and other brands, even sunglasses, all for cheap.

But at 5 Tigran Mets Street, a two-minute’s walk down from Republic Square, just past the Hanrapetutyan Street intersection, on the left is a tiny hat store, and the space is shared with a watchmaker. The proprietor Jirayr tells me he’s the last hatter of Yerevan, no one else in the entire city is in the business of making hats. He was featured in a short film that appeared in YouTube recently.

I’ve been meaning to venture in there for years but kept postponing my visit. But the other day as my head was about to sizzle under the 100 degree F sun I decided to pop in to see what summer cotton caps he had on display. I found him behind the sewing machine as he was stitching a plaid cap. He took one look at me and got up from his table immediately. I asked what he had to offer, something light in color, like off white or beige. He had two styles--with or without a button on the top center of the cap. I didn’t want the newsboy style had so he showed me several other hats, all more or less one size with no way of adjusting the rim tighter. I quickly noticed that all of them were dirty, and I surmised they were because his hands were probably oily from the sewing machine lubricant, or else judging from his thick wide framed glasses he simply didn’t see the dust that gathered, or else he didn’t care that much.

“Check these out,” he starts to boast as he flipped through the pile. “What do you think, huh? No one makes caps like these any more. You know what people are doing? They’re buying my hats, they sew tags and brand name decals inside and sell them for 2000 dram down the street.”

“Oh, that’s impressive. So how much do you sell them for here?”

“What, these?” He patted the pile of filthy hats. “These are 1000 dram, and [pointing to the button hats] those are 1500.”

He continued on about being the sole hatter left and having the best caps anywhere in the city, handmade and sturdy, while he opened an old green safe from Soviet times, filled with even more stained hats. I didn’t see a single relatively clean cap anywhere. He crushed a white one in his hand to demonstrate how durable they were.

“You can fold it up and put it in your pocket, later take it out and wear it again, never loses shape.”

“Can I put it in the washing machine?”

“What do you think I’m telling ya? Look at this,” he said as he rumpled it again then let it fall on the table. Indeed, the visor didn’t appear to have been creased or damaged in any way.

I told him I would make change and return later in the day, since I only had a 10,000 dram note on me. Then he told me if I left I shouldn’t come back since I wouldn’t find anything better, which I thought was an odd thing to say. But hey, the guy is proud, he must be in his 80s, he’s had his fill of bullshit over the years.

I relent and ask if he can make change. “What’s the problem?” he said and removed some cash from his shirt pocket. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. “Here’s one, two, three…” when he stopped at eight I told him that was enough. Then he chooses what must have been the most problematic cap to clean, sporting a line he drew with a blue ballpoint on the right side, assumingly to indicate where to sew the seam. I didn’t make any fuss, I thanked him and left in a hurry, sorry I entered in the first place.

Later when I took the crushed hat out of the scrunched cellophane shopping bag I noticed some red streaks on the top of it. Turns out it had been turned inside out and the coated red lettering used to identify the supermarket wore off onto the hat.

Quite honestly, I really don’t care if the marks and blotches can be cleaned, at least I can say that I supported him, that I visited the little hat store I’ve been meaning to go to for a dozen years. Jirayr had some really good-looking winter wool caps on display on the walls as well, but I’m going to wait until it gets cooler before I return to try some on.

Jirayr’s tiny store is difficult to notice, so take a leisurely stroll down the street. It’s sandwiched between a clothing store and an electronics repair shop, both equally easy to miss. Here’s hoping you get the stains out.

Realizations

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Fri, 16 May 2014 20:05:00 +0000

Today I came to some realizations about life, bittersweet yet somehow comforting at the same time. I now understand that no matter what good intentions you may have in your actions or deeds, no matter what kind of person you are — whether you are true to your word, you are honest with yourself and others, and you live by an ethic of morality and selflessness — you are never going to please everyone, even those who you think are closest to you.

They may feel let down at times for your mistakes or things that happened in life that veered out of control due to paradoxical circumstances you never intended to find yourself in. But if they can’t get over those hiccups and forgive you for your shortcomings then it’s really time to discover how your relationship is to flourish, or else wither.

During the last year I’ve made a lot of deep, introspective decisions in the way I want to live my personal life, not just for my own sake but more importantly for my sons’ well being. I continually yearn for the state of contentment and inner peace that I thought I had attained, as it’s always so hard to guard, to keep close to me. The way to maintain it is undeniably through the disciplines of meditation and prayer, vigilance and perseverance. Despite the strides I’ve made in keeping my emotions in check, to be true to my word, to not take things so personally, I still stumble along my path. But I keep going forward, I never retrace my steps to figure out what I tripped on, unlike how I had done for so long in my past. And I can’t be held back by people who want me to remain where I slipped and agonize over it, with tears of despair and dread dampening the lifeless red clay soil of spent misfortune.

We make mistakes, things happen that we don’t expect. We move on. We make due with the circumstances, we learn from where we erred, and we strive to be better people. There’s really no alternative in order to live a meaningful, honest life, one that is fruitful and thrives on unquenchable ambition to be stronger, exceptional. Keep a-goin’.

Photos from my archives.

Generations

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Thu, 24 Apr 2014 19:30:00 +0000

My grandmother, Clara Movsesian Russian, a survivor of the Armenian Genocide, was born in a small village just outside of Kharpert (now Elazig) called Yegheki in 1914. In this photo taken in 2011 she sits with her great-grandson, gazing at him in wonder. She does this because the Ottoman menace that intended to eradicate the minority populations of Anatolia was an utter failure. She will be 100 years old this October, and she's in near-perfect health, as she suffers from vision and hearing problems now. But she has the best memory of anyone I know.

April 24 for me is a celebration of life, and my two boys remind me how precious life is every morning. I thank my beautiful, sacred grandmother for the nurturing she has given me in my 42 years and the love she radiates to my children.

Armenians are Survivors

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Thu, 24 Apr 2014 18:08:00 +0000

This year I decided to take Areg with me to the Tsitsernakaberd Armenian Genocide Memorial. It was his first time there, and although he had to be carried part of the way he didn't complain once during the entire walk up and down the hill. I told him that we were going there to remember the Armenian families, and my grandmother, who I don't think he recalls. For now in Areg's life, April 24 is about living, enjoying a sunny afternoon together with age-old friends as we walk together, for the common goal of united remembrance. As he gets older, he'll learn more about the tragedy and horror associated with that date. But while he learns more about the past, I hope he never fails to love life and all it brings.

Armenians are survivors.

Shantino

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sun, 20 Apr 2014 13:36:00 +0000

Areg is Three Years Old

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Fri, 04 Apr 2014 11:38:00 +0000

It's hard to believe that three years has passed since my first son Areg's birth. Time flies very quickly, and he's shot up in no time. He is fluent in English and Armenian (as fluent as you can be at that age) and can sing cartoon songs in Russian. He knows is ABCs and can count to 100. He is reasoning, debating, even contradicting me when I think something is humorous (It's not funny, daddy. No, it's not funny). And he's just hilarious, we have nothing but fun together. There's not a day that goes my when I am not thankful for being a dad.

Here's some random pictures of Areg, from the day he was born to just yesterday (wearing the traditional Armenian hat).

My TEDx Talk is Now Online

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Fri, 21 Feb 2014 07:26:00 +0000

I'm pleased to announce that my TEDx talk, "Never Letting Life Go," has finally come online.

Apart from being a father and beating the illness that I describe, this TEDx talk is one of my life’s greatest achievements. Thanks again to TEDxYerevan curator Kristine Sargsyan for valuing my story and her devotion. I’m still amazed by how enthusiastically it was received, the experience was truly humbling. My hope is that anyone viewing this talk will appreciate it.

In the talk I discuss how I overcame the most traumatic experience of my life and moved on, hoping that I would inspire others to conquer whatever personal challenges they face rather than giving in or believing that nothing can be done to reverse their misfortune. I'm thankful that I put that period of hell behind me at long last, I hardly ever think about it any more, and this talk as well as my two boys certainly helped with that. The memories haunted me for years, and now there all but gone from the top of my mind. With every day that goes by, every morning when I look upon my children's beaming faces, I feel more grateful for what I have now.

I want to again thank my fellow TEDx speakers for the inspiration they bestowed unto me. They are all super intelligent, kind and make lasting impressions--I have certainly learned a lot from them. I strongly encourage all readers of this post to watch their TEDx talks; they are all very insightful and persuade you to examine circumstances of life from various perspectives. I am proud to know them.

Please share your thoughts about the talk and tell others about it if you feel so inclined. Thanks!

My Wishes for 2014

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Fri, 03 Jan 2014 05:03:00 +0000

Another year has passed like a fleeting moment in time. The older I get the quicker the years seem to fly by. Apparently I’m not alone, friends have complained the same to me.

Last year was laden with the typical highs and lows that life offers us. I am thankful for the birth of my healthy, rotund as a compact, naked turkey ready for the oven second son Shant, who is another sweet joy in my life. Back in September I was honored to give a TED talk in Yerevan, one of the most monumental endeavors of my life, third to being a father and actually recovering from the sickness I discussed during the talk, which incidentally was warmly received much to my delighted surprise.

I have many wishes for the new year, not only for myself but everyone around me, for the entire world.

1. Live a healthy and happy life. This sounds like a cliché. Who doesn’t want to be content and well? It’s something we take for granted, though. Those of us who are less fortunate may have difficulty raising their heads above the water, while others are too caught up in the frantic pace of their daily lives that they forget to appreciate what they have. No matter where someone is in his existence, wish them peace, and in turn be happy that you did. We as human beings need to feel empathy towards one another in order to grow and survive.

2. Stop taking things personally. Earlier this year I read a book by Don Miguel Ángel Ruiz called The Four Agreements, perhaps it can be labeled with a “self help” title but actually it is written in a way to simply make you realize things you do every day without fathoming how damaging they are when they constrain you from achieving. Ruiz encourages readers to prevent letting others get to them, no matter what they say or do. When you convince yourself that it’s not worth taking seriously, or to empathize and try to imagine what the person you are in contact with might be going through deep down, you conserve energy for what you need to accomplish. You cease being offended and ignore impulses that you have been slighted in some way. You walk away, dissolving the conflict in your mind and pushing away the negative thoughts that may have germinated in the conflict waiting to happen. This method is extremely challenging; deflecting bullshit demands patience and practice.

3. Taking the previous step further, stay away from energy sapping people or situations. It’s best to avoid contact with others that you feel have been tapping into your valuable emotional resources. Sometimes it’s really hard trying to come to understandings with those who are close to you, whether they are dear friends, family members or co-workers. But if the possibility exists short of separating from your spouse, give the relationship a time-out.

4. Get out of situations where you are unhappy. I know from personal experience that it is pointless to stay in a place or a relationship where you are miserable. Follow happiness, even if it means taking a huge risk or a significant pay cut. It’s not worth your nerves or your sanity to remain disappointed or unchallenged.

5. Do your best. This might seem like another standard cliché, but it will always hold true. Designate something in the day for which you’ll do your best to achieve -- I usually choose being a good father. You don’t have to do or be your best in everything obviously, it’s impossible. So long as you give it your all for something that’s important to you on a daily basis, whether it’s a specific work-related task or more personal in nature, that’s more than enough.

6. Give yourself a break. No matter how relaxed and ecstatic you want to be in your life, something discouraging or unnerving might come your way and set you back. I’ve had to deal with some rather surprising and frustrating episodes during the last two months, and I felt myself slipping away from my sustained level of contentment. But I always caught up again. If you focus and never stop loving life you will always reach happiness.

This list will get longer as the year progresses, and it should. To dwell in happiness you need to continuously identify what will sustain it and the steps that must be taken when you lose your footing. That’s what makes life so wonderful.

Happy New Year!

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Wed, 01 Jan 2014 01:05:00 +0000

Wishing all my friends and family a wonderful year in 2014. Health and much happiness to all.

Hard to believe this blog will be celebrating its 10th anniversary. Thanks for all your support over the last decade.

Here's Shant!

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sun, 10 Nov 2013 21:09:00 +0000

Here he is! Little Shant, born on November 4 around 9:30 pm. He weighed 3.2 kilos and measured 51 cm in length, apparently not bad for a 37 week-old preemie. But as the photos attest, he is gorgeous. As a newborn he looks like a photocopy of his older brother. They may be mistaken for twins as they age, who knows?

Shant can best be described as a peanut. I think he has grayish blue eyes, just as his older brother did, he keeps them shut most of the time. His hair is dark chocolate brown, like his mom’s.

Not much has changed since last time around with Areg in terms of the administrative headache--infinitely worse than two years ago--and the hospital amenities. But to remedy the latter problem of sitting in a room with crumbling plaster and drafty, dried-out wooden windows, we opted for the “lux” room at around $25 a night. It is equipped with plenty of furniture, a good size refrigerator, new vinyl windows, a decent bathroom and a proper bed, as opposed to the wire hammock Anush and Areg were made to endure last time when the fancy room was unavailable to us. This suite is the only part of the entire maternity ward that’s been renovated in what must be several decades. And make no mistake, it is a moneymaker for whoever’s running the place, the overall dilapidated condition both inside and out is unacceptable. Sad that the entire floor doesn’t have similar comfortable living conditions for all.

But we’re all obviously ecstatic that Shant has made his grand appearance, and as we get to know him more, he will be continuously dosed with love and affection, just as Areg continues to be. Can’t wait to watch them play together. Mom and baby are due to come home Monday.

I am so honored to be a father. It’s without question the best thing that ever happened to me, besides getting married.

Real Lahmajune Found in Yerevan

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Sat, 12 Oct 2013 12:36:00 +0000

If anyone in Yerevan is looking for authentic lahmajune (i.e., not 'lamajo') look no further than a tiny place called Gaydz. It's the real deal.

Lahmajune is sometimes known as "Armenian pizza" although you can eat it throughout the Middle East. A mixture of ground beef (or lamb, depending on the recipe), tomatoes, onions and parsley is spread on round thin dough, similar in shape and size of a large flour tortilla, about 8 inches in diameter. Bake it for five minutes, take a bite and indulge in a wonderful melange of flavors bursting in your mouth, if it's done right. Wash it down with cold tan, the perfect, forever fun snack.

Except it is extremely hard to find lahmajune in Yerevan. Had not a friend of mine, Hrant, checked Gaydz out yesterday I would still be clueless about where to go. There is a famous place on Tumanian Street mostly frequented by tourists that claims to offer "Aintab-style" lahmajune, it's been there for over a decade. But there's something not quite right about it, the consistency, look and feel are all off. The meat is too greasy for one thing, and the expected savoriness is just not there. But the proprietors of Gaydz are from Aleppo, and the place has been in business for about 6 months.

Here's a photo of what the ideal lahmajune looks like. I didn't have a chance to photograph what I ate. This is what to expect at Gaydz. Photo courtesy of armenianfood.com.

What is found in abundant supply in Yerevan is something known as "lamajo," which is basically imitation lahmajune. The crust is thin and round, but instead of ground beef, salted pureed fat is used. They also sprinkle a little chopped cilantro for some color, since it's usually lifelessly gray. I've had it about five or six times in my life, and it was never anything special. It's actually kind of gross.

To get to Gaydz, drive or walk down Khorenatsi Street from Mashtots. Just before you get to the Zakyan intersection on your left you will see a supermarket and some other storefronts and then an archway will be visible that leads to the courtyard behind the building. At the end make a left and on the right beside a garage you'll see the unobtrusive place. It looks like a shack basically. There is zero ambience, but the food is fantastic. They also offer lahmajune with some pomegranate molasses (what they call Arabic lahmajune) and the Yerevan lahmajune has a kebab ground beef topping, neither of which I've tried, yet. And the people there are very friendly.

The official address of Gaydz is Khorenatsi 9/4. Place your order ahead of time by calling 094-27-84-90 or 077-33-21-18. If you love lahmajune you will certainly not be disappointed.

Thoughts on TEDx Yerevan 2013

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Tue, 17 Sep 2013 13:01:00 +0000

Now that I have had time to decompress from all the anticipation and inspiration related to TEDx Yerevan 2013, I want to attempt to assess it all, and express my gratitude.

First of all, I want to convey how much of an honor it was to participate at TEDx Yerevan. Last year as I had written I was blown away by all the speakers and the ideas they shared -- it was as if the level of creativity within me increased a notch each time a talk completed. I felt differently this year I suppose since I was the one who wished to inspire, that was my hope at least. I could not predict how the talk would be received, but it turned out to be far greater than I had imagined. Having said that, I did not expect the enthusiastic response from the audience and the standing ovation, which was very moving. I think I was too shocked to become emotional; ordinarily I would have burst into tears.

A few months ago I met someone who would take great interest in my personal story of survival, so much so that she decided it should be a TED talk. Kristine Sargsyan is one of the most insightful, not to mention wonderful people I have ever met. She has a clear vision of what she expects from each speaker, and she molds them to give their best, casting out their complexes to ensure their message is delivered effectively and lucidly. Together we revised my talk about four times, and she gave me the direction about how to present myself that I needed badly. For instance she decided that it would be best for me to present my talk while seated, and to take a deep breath for a few seconds with my eyes closed, as if to prepare the audience. It was my first time addressing an audience of over 300 people. Kristine started out as a translator for TED, translating from English to Armenian, at first for her son so he would understand the message a speaker had conveyed in a talk that was broadcast on TED.com. In 2010 she founded and became the licensee of TEDx Yerevan, and she also teaches children how to think at TUMO Center for Creative Technologies. I am deeply indebted to her for her guidance and friendship. I know I can always rely on her not only for helping me present myself before an crowd but for advice on a lot more than public speaking. She transmits an energy, an aura of harmony that you become addicted to -- I found myself running to every appointment we made to discuss the talk. I must confess I have been very fortunate in the last six months to meet and work with so many inspiring, knowledgeable and genuine people like Kristine. And another very special person in my life, Gohar Khachatryan, was instrumental in making my meeting with Kristine, not to mention my talk, happen at all.

Back to the event. My fellow speakers also had a huge impact on me in terms of the scope of their outreach and the extent of impact on others’ lives. One person who particularly impressed me was Lilit Asatryan, the founder of her own NGO called Let’s Help the Armenian Children, which helps kids receive the medical care they need through fundraising initiatives and they also give them the moral support they yearn for. In her 23 years she’s experienced quite a lot, both the hopes and frustrations related to ensuring the well-being of an unfortunate segment of Armenia’s youth. You only have to interact with her for a few minutes to understand her passion for her life and work. She is also gorgeous, by the way.

TEDxYerevan 2013, Speakers and Team Members

The other speakers were political scientist and fervent activist Irina Ghaplanyan, who talked about how to run a sustainable business in Armenia, the land of paradox and nonsensical bureaucracy, and who incidentally is one of the most elegant women I have ever met; Adam Pervez, the globetrotting happiness guru, an inspiration to me and hundreds of others out there; amiable composer and science enthusiast Edward Manukyan, whose magnificent work for violin and clarinet was sampled by the audience; U.S. Ambassador to Armenia John Heffern, the archeology lover who is arguably (I say certainly) the most proactive, compassionate ambassador Armenia has ever had the pleasure of receiving; entrepreneur Nigel Sharp, who despite facing the walls of defeatism managed to break through and develop with his core team a mind-blowing interactive collaboration platform we all will be using before too long; writer, artist and anthropologist Dana Waltrath who uses her remarkable art of storytelling to promote awareness of well-being and individuality; Nazareth Seferian, the expert in Corporate Social Responsibility, an extraordinary thinker who conveys his message in one of the most soothing voices I have ever heard (he needs to start his own podcast); management consultant and staunch advocate for social and economic proactivity Sergey Tantushyan, whose need for privacy regarding the way he raises his children I can definitely relate to; solar technologies genius scientist Suren Gevorgyan, whose company is about to change the world very soon; photographer Vahan Stepanyan, passionate for preserving Yerevan’s rich, yet decaying history through imagery; and fellow writer/photographer Anahid Yahjian, with whom I can identify for her perseverance and dedication to her word.

Of course I can’t forget the lovely, vivacious Madlene Minassian, one of the first repats from the U.S. back that I met in 2002, and thanks to TEDx I am happy to be back in touch with her after so many years. She and her husband Arthur Ispirian are a wonderful, warm couple. Arthur incidentally performed some Armenian popular classics after my talk, and his voice is instantly recognizable if you’ve heard it only once. He’s the only true Armenian soul singer whose velvety voice and heartfelt approach to song is reminiscent of the vitality of Otis Redding and his idol, Stevie Wonder.

Finally, perhaps the most important thing that I took away from TEDx is the need to be a better, more tolerant person. My 2013 new year’s resolution was to stray from all potential conflicts by removing myself from negative environments and life-disturbing situations, whether work related or otherwise. As Sergey pointed out in his talk, the video of which will be online soon, it is extremely easy to fall into the trap of having to let strangers know that they need to mind their own business and not infringe on personal space, and I think I’ve done a good job thankfully of letting it go during the last 8 months. But it's still not enough. I have to learn to not take things personally and be truer to my word, and I’m think I’m getting there.

I’ve understood finally that I must not absorb the negativity and fatalism Armenian society as a whole tends to project, that I can simply walk away from it and surround myself with my fellow TEDx speakers and others like them I am blessed to have had in my life, like my wife and her extended family and my close friends I’ve known for many years. Most of all, it is my son who has helped me cleanse myself of the poison of pessimism in the social environment, to build an immunity to it. And I feel that I’m getting there.

Again I want to thank my fellow speakers for inspiring me to live a happier, fuller life -- happier than I already am. I’ve learned so much from all of you in such a short time, and I feel a connection with each of you that I had not at all anticipated, as if we attended a long-awaited, cherished family reunion. The TEDx experience is an extraordinary one that has become a part of me, that has certainly transformed me; it has promoted a new level of awareness and being that I am still trying to absorb and accept as my own. But I’m getting there.

Lake Arpi: Another Wonder of Armenia

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Garbis) — Mon, 19 Aug 2013 21:19:00 +0000

On Sunday with a group of friends I finally made it to one of the most elusive parts of Armenia, due to its remote location and the collapsed roads leading to it. The destination was Lake Arpi, located in the northwestern corner of Armenia in the Shirak region, within a 10 km distance from the Turkish border to the west and the Georgian border on the north and east.

There are two roads you can take to get there, one through Amasia or another via Ashotsk. Either way, you have to travel down roads where the crumbling, choppy asphalt that from a distance can be mistaken for violent rapids is a vague remembrance of what things were like when government actually gave a damn about infrastructure. There's a reason why makeshift roads were carved out in the fields running parallel, which were like driving on butter by comparison. Even though it irks me that the roads are not properly maintained in more remote parts of Armenia, perhaps its best that few people visit Lake Arpi National Park because the nature is simply pristine.

Like Sevan and many parts fenced in by mountain ranges in Armenia, we found that the weather conditions at Lake Arpi change on a dime. Although for the most part the wind gusts were fairly robust, it wasn't as cold as I thought it would be perched 6,637 feet above sea level. But as these photos demonstrate, because of the mostly overcast sky conditions the light would change dramatically.

I was told by a policeman stationed nearby that various species of fish live in the lake and we saw several gulls and even hawks flying, one of which I tried to track with my camera.

A Wikipedia article claims that the reserve is protected by the Ramsar Convention, and only recently in June US Ambassador John A. Heffern went on a excursion there with his wife to go bird watching. Incidentally, Heffern has to be the most active US Ambassador to Armenia that I can remember. He seems to be everywhere at once--he's the only ambassador I have personally seen several times walking around in Yerevan, so it's impressive, although not surprising that he has been there. It takes a good 2.5 to 3 hours to make the trip from the capital.

I can now say that after all these years I have finally been from one corner up north to the southernmost of Armenia. It took a while but the wait to see Lake Arpi was certainly worth it.