What happens when the dream comes true

by Maria Titizian

Published: Saturday November 24, 2007 in Living in Armenia

Demonstrations in Freedom Square, April 24, 1965. Photolure

My generation was blessed with witnessing sweeping changes in our world. As a child we were taught that the threat of nuclear holocaust was imminent. In eighth grade, The Chrysalids, a science fiction novel set in a post-apocalyptic future after God had sent "tribulation" (nuclear holocaust), was required reading in our school. We were instructed what to take with us in underground bunkers should a nuclear bomb be detonated. Images of the atom bomb exploding, obliterating everything in its path had become commonplace. Deformities caused by radiation was the stuff of our nightmares. I realized how dated I was when my children stared at me in astonishment when I told them about it. Foolishly, I thought they were taught about the potential of a nuclear war. Don't ask me why, sometimes I'm in a time warp. But that's when I realized how much the world has changed.

The 70s were an achingly boring decade if you discount the "hippies" we were warned about by our mother, the ones who used to hang out on our street with their long hair, beads, and bell bottoms. I had visions of them attacking my father every night when he went to take the trash out. The 80s on the other hand was a decade of big money, big hair, and even bigger shoulder pads. I cringe every time I think about it.

Vietnam, the peace movement, the civil rights movement, and the women's movement were all things the generation before us had lived through, instigated, and realized. There were student riots in universities across the globe. They were breeding grounds alight with ideas and passion. They had something to say about the world they lived in; they had a message and a mission. And they did change the world.

The 1960s was also a time of Armenian national rebirth. It was 1965 - the 50th anniversary of the Armenian Genocide. While officials and dignitaries were quietly commemorating the slaughter of their nation in the Opera and Ballet Theater in Yerevan, thousands of Armenians demonstrated outside in Freedom Square demanding recognition of the Genocide and shouting "Our lands." After decades of forbearance, the Armenian people had suddenly awoken from their slumber and even while in the clutch of the Soviet Union, they risked their lives for a purpose, a mission, a dream. Those demonstrations then provided the impetus which would lead to the construction of the Genocide Memorial, the Tzitzernakaberd, two years later, in 1967.

The most extreme thing we did in the 70s was sport shag haircuts and wear clogs. The generation who grew up in the 60s were different and we reaped the benefit of their vigilance, their commitment, and ultimately their sacrifices. My generation was considered a write-off. We grew up with the Brady Bunch and Gilligan's Island. I don't know if those shows were meant to numb us or trick us into believing the world was a safe, solid place. But we were indeed blasé.

And then the world seemed to shift off its axis. Especially for us. It began with the Karabakh Movement when hundreds of thousands of Armenians began demanding reunification. And then the earthquake of 1988. In a matter of seconds lives were wiped out, families extinguished, and a whole nation was brought to its knees. We were inundated with images of devastated cities and towns, their streets crammed with plywood coffins, rescuers digging through the ruins, a ravaged population in shock. The Soviet Union, the West's greatest enemy and "threat to humanity," let out a whimper and suddenly died. The ominous symbol of a separated Europe, the Berlin Wall was torn down. Armenia found its voice again and demanded independence - more demonstrations, a referendum, and then the declaration of independence. Who among us truly believed we would ever live to see the tricolor flying at the United Nations?

Not only did my generation witness all of these sweeping changes that bestowed us with a free country, but we were lucky enough to understand the significance of it and young enough to be an integral part of it. My parents' generation didn't have that luxury. They were survivors or children of survivors who had little time to feel sorry for themselves. Dreaming for a homeland was an extravagance. They had to struggle to survive with nothing to hang on to for their history had been wiped away. Pain and hardship were a constant in their lives. When independence came it was bittersweet. Wherever they lived, whether in the Middle East, Europe, or the U.S., they had settled down and integrated. They had moved, not across neighborhoods or cities, but across countries and continents. Uprooting once again and heading off to the homeland was more of a burden than a dream.

Then there's my children's generation. For them Armenia has always been free. The dream itself of an independent homeland for them is non­existent. They never had to dream for it. It is a part of their reality. My daughter was only an infant when Armenia became independent; my son was born almost a year later. What do they know about the Cold War, the Soviet Union, about the threat of a nuclear holocaust? What do they know about trying to balance identities? What do they know about trying to explain to people where Armenia is on a map - somewhere between the Black and Caspian Seas, across the border from Turkey, presently part of the Soviet Union - this is how I remember explaining it to people. My children's generation is stronger, confident, and more importantly empowered by the existence of an independent homeland.

But my generation? We are the lucky ones. We lived and breathed with the dream of having a homeland. This dream sustained us and gave our lives substance although none of us really expected it to come true. We too had a purpose, a mission. And we were blessed because the dream came true. We are the generation who cried when we saw Mount Ararat for the first time.

We had the chance to throw caution to the wind and repatriate. To rebuild the nation of our forefathers. The lingering question for me is why didn't we? Why didn't we when we could have? Why didn't we when we should have?