Living away from Armenia

by Maria Titizian

Published: Friday August 28, 2009 in Living in Armenia

Toronto. This file is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 2.0 License. Wikipedia

Toronto - I have been writing about living in Armenia for the past three years. I have written with as much candor as I could allow myself, typing words onto a blank canvass for all those who have cared to read them.

Today, I am writing about living away from Armenia, away from my home, my homeland, my life within the borders of the small land that I inherited. It has been exactly six weeks since my flight left the runway at Zvartnots Airport and brought me, after many exhausting hours, to Canada. I came home to my family. To my parents, uncles and aunts who seem to have aged overnight.

When I think of my parents, I still think my dad is 60 and my mother is 50. But this year, my dad turned 80 and mom is hanging in there at 70. Twenty years ago, 80 and 70 seemed impossibly old to me. Perhaps they are impossibly old, but I can't seem to wrap my head around this reality. It hit me like a truck the other day when my dad asked me to get a pen and paper because there were some stories he wanted to tell me. Stories he had heard from his father, stories about his family history, about life in their village, Haji Habebli in Musa Ler that he was always evasive about while I was growing up.

At first I thought it endearing that my dad, who can be a cantankerous man, wanted to pass along some family lore. But then it dawned on me that he was face-to-face with his mortality and he needed someone to remember; someone who would care enough to write about it, someone who would put words to paper and somehow validate his existence. It was then that I realized that my dad was indeed 80. It was then that I understood that he thought this might be his last chance because this time might be the last time he ever saw me.

I had been complaining bitterly about being away from home for so long. I felt disconnected and out of my element. I was in a city where I had grown up, where everything was so familiar yet no longer belonged to me. There were things I needed to get done while in Canada that prevented me from returning to Armenia and I was acting like a spoiled child. And then my father asked in such an achingly tender way, almost timidly to record some stories.

I learned a much needed lesson - never take for granted those people who are responsible for your existence and for who you are. While my childhood was far from ideal and while I always thought that my family invented the word dysfunctional, my parents are the reason for who I have become, for what I believe in, for the values that I adhere to and the reason why I was able to move to Armenia.

I am not sure when I will be ready to write the stories my father has told me. Some of them border on the mystical and spiritual - more like fables than real-life stories and you really need to have a lot of faith to believe that they are actual occurrences. I hope that one day I will be able to tell them.

In the meantime, I have to stay in Canada for a little while longer and even though I am thankful that I am able to spend so much time with my family, I am homesick. I miss my home with its glorious view of Mt. Ararat, which I am told was magnificent this summer because of the cooler temperatures. I miss the distinctive smells of Yerevan however unpleasant they may be. I miss my own family, my friends and co-workers. And thanks to the overly-cautious drivers here in Toronto, I even miss the crazy and risky driving techniques of typical Yerevantsis.

My garod is further punctuated by the fact that certainly not everyone but a lot of Armenians in Canada don't know much about their homeland. It was frustrating initially, but now it saddens me. There are so many misconceptions and so much misinformation. Someone asked me the other day if we had dairy products in Armenia. Dairy products! Sometimes you just have to walk away.

And then there was the typical announcement, "I personally don't want the border with Turkey to be opened." Really? Why don't you come and live in a country that is in a blockade by two of its four neighbors? As much as an open border with Turkey is fraught with unknowns, living with closed borders in the 21st century seems absurd, doesn't it?

And how can I forget the Chinese market I took my parents to so they could do their weekly grocery shopping? If a market like that existed in Armenia - well, there are markets like that in Armenia, but that's not the point - everyone would be complaining about the smell, the glaringly un-hygienic conditions, the way the dozens of fish varieties were placed in carton boxes full of ice, which was melting and seeping onto the floor.

While there are Armenians in the Diaspora who don't know very much about life in the homeland, they have created their own little Armenia here on these distant lands. They have a thriving community, a rich cultural life and a sense of belonging, which sustains them and gives them purpose. Everyone is trying their best to raise their children to be proud of their heritage and history. Everyone is doing their share for their community, school and church. The reality is that life is complicated and hectic and frustrating, here and everywhere. Being Armenian makes it even more so.

Living away from Armenia has allowed me to reinforce my own personal sense of belonging. Perhaps this extended absence from the homeland was necessary so that I could recharge my energy source and return to the place where I belong.