The lexicon of the ancients?

by Maria Titizian

Published: Saturday August 04, 2007 in Living in Armenia

Isn't it time we had a serious national conversation about unifying the spelling of the Armenian language? This is a question which begs an answer. Life, however and its many perplexing and unexpected revelations has demonstrated that there is another national conversation we need to have before we begin public discourse on whether the Mesrobian spelling or the much later simplified spelling that was imposed by the Soviets in the beginning of the 1920s should be the official spelling of the official language of the Republic of Armenia.

The other conversation I am talking about involves comprehension - pure and simple comprehension. The fact that the Mesrobian spelling is baffling to those who were raised on the later Soviet spelling is further compounded by the differences between the Eastern and Western Armenian languages, and to add oil to the fire if you will, is a new phenomenon we'll dub Yerevan-Speak.

Yerevan-Speak, in its purest form can be an utterly incomprehensible jargon, which mixes in slang, decimates words, and proper grammatical expressions, adds new terms, primarily Russian, sometimes Turkish, and then discards anything that it feels no longer fits its mold. One brilliant soul several years ago just before the first Armenia-Diaspora Conference published a small dictionary for the befuddled diasporan Armenians flooding into our ancient capital and who would most likely have absolutely no clue what the Yerevantsis were saying. It was called "‘Chotki' Hayeren." Chotki, a Russian word, roughly translates into ‘exact' or ‘precise.' The following passage is an example of Yerevan-Speak provided by the author:

"Svetaforuh cher ashkhatum. Pavaroti vra tormuz tvetsi, benzakalonki mot. Skorosti ruchken jartvets. Karochi avaria tvetsi. Mi kerp kyasar jampekov mta hayat."

Translation: The traffic light [Russian] was broken. On the curve [Russian], I slammed on my brakes [Farsi] near the gas station [Russian]. The stick shift [Russian] broke. To make a long story short [Russian], I had an accident [Turkish], took a short cut [who knows what language] and barely made it back to the hood [Farsi].

Aside from the slang, even when speaking literate Armenian, the different definition of words or variations in pronunciations have been the root of many misunderstandings and tension. I can't tell you how many times I have walked out of a store in such frustration only because the salesperson hadn't been able to understand what I had requested - sometimes something as simple as milk which I pronounce as ‘gat' and they pronounce as something like ‘kaat'. As much as it irritated me, I now understand where the confusion comes from. If someone were to say in English, "That child's behaviour is pat," instead of "bad," I too would be confused.

Friends of ours visiting from Canada relayed an incident that will go down in my own personal history as one of the most unbelievable instances of misunderstanding. This is not their first trip to Armenia; they come every year. They have a home here, a business, a car, and with all its flaws, a deep commitment to this country. The reason for the history lesson into their lives is to under­score the fact that these people are not un­familiar with the many differences of our spoken language and most times are relatively successful in being able to be understood. A few days ago they had gone up to a resort at Lake Sevan, called Harsnaqar, which has a pool, a mini-waterpark, access to the lake, basketball and tennis courts, jet skis for rent, and pretty good barbequed Ishkhan fish. You can spend the day at Harsnaqar by purchasing a day pass and it usually serves as a ­repreive from the dust and heat in Yerevan.

At the entrance to this resort, my friend whom we'll call Mher, asked the ticket seller, "Avazane dakatsvats e?" To a Western Armenian, this means, is the pool heated? First of all in Armenia, when referring to a swimming pool, they say "basayin," which I believe is Russian, and not "avazan." "Avazan" for the locals means basin. So when my friend asked if the "avazan" was heated, the ticket seller for some reason gave him a look of disgust and waved him off. My friend, at this point agitated, asked what the problem was. The ticket seller asked him how it would be possible to heat the "avazan" to which my friend replied, "There are certain advances in technology which allow for a pool to be heated."

The ticket seller, apparently became even more disturbed and began making gesticulations with his hands, implying that Mher was a little light in the head.

In the midst of this exchange, another employee tapped Mher on the shoulder and said, "Sir, the pool is heated." Mher looked at the ticket seller, the ticket seller looked at Mher, and then it dawned on my poor friend what had just transpired. The ticket seller had understood the question as follows: "Is the basin heated," i.e., "Is Lake Sevan heated?" He turned back to the ticket seller, trying hard not to strain his vocal chords and said, "Did you think I meant Lake Sevan?!"

When the ticket seller nodded, Mher lost most sense of decorum and asked, "Do I look like I have horns on my head? Why would I ask if Lake Sevan is heated? When I said, ‘avazan,' it means pool!"

To which the ticket seller retorted, "Then why didn't you just say, basayin?"

This story has been making the rounds in several social circles around town. It illustrates quite vividly that a national dialogue addressing the issue of spelling or the inherent differences that divide Eastern Armenian from Western Armenian is pointless if we have difficulty simply understanding one another. We need to delve deeper and take a more thoughtful look at the things which separate us apart from the obvious. There is a psychological impasse we need to negotiate. Pronunciation, different meanings to words or expressions are simply the manifestations of that which alienates us from one another. The brutal division of our nation imposed by history and seemingly perpetuated by our own ignorance will continue to fester until such a time that we become so foreign to each other that we no longer have the willingness to understand what the other is trying to say.