Village memorial service offers a glimpse of life

by Tom Vartabedian

Published: Tuesday April 27, 2010

Children of Nor Armavir visit the cemetery in memory of a prominent town official. Tom Vartabedian

Nor Armavir - The element of surprise is often prevalent in Armenia, especially from an unsuspecting outsider looking to act normal.

It was that way one bright afternoon in a village called Nor Armaveer, nor far from a more familiar destination point of Etchmiadzin.

We were meandering through some of the more clandestine areas of the country when a well-disguised historic church drew us to the vicinity. My colleague Joe Dagdigian went searching for the vank while I was more gravitated toward the population. My eye caught an entourage of people off in the distance.

I was curious. So was my camera. Some of the best photographs of Armenia are those you least expect to take. A cathedral doesn't move. It takes no ingenuity to capture that scene. On the other hand, people are spontaneous and far more challenging.

It's always been my philosophy that the history of a country is more apt to be portrayed in its population as opposed to the more inanimate settings like churches, monuments and statues.

In any case, the small coterie of villagers inside the local cemetery attracted me and off I went. I was a dead give-away with my manner of dress --- white sneakers, short sleeves, and a camera draped over my shoulder.

"Are you from America?" one curious woman asked.

"America the beautiful," I responded.

"What is your business? We are paying our respects to the patriarch of this village. Would you care to join us?"

This was no ordinary hokehankeest by any stretch. The children were joined by their parents and grandparents. The group included about two dozen dressed more casually than I. They were there to mark the one-year anniversary of the man's death.

Prayers were recited. There didn't appear to be any clergy represented. Incense was burning over a hunk of charcoal as a surge of white smoke filled the air. The aroma was very ecumenical, much like I would inhale back home.

The group lined up in single file and one-by-one passed by the gravesite containing a photo of the deceased while offering condolences. The children appeared as enamored as the adults, as if memorials were common fare.

It was almost like a scene from "Brigadoon" in which two lost hunters stumble upon an enchanted village in which the folks awake from a century of inertia and live again for one more day.

I happened upon my own version of "Brigadoon."

It was then when my senses became aroused. Right there before the gravestone, a makeshift table was placed and out came some food. You name it. Lavash, Cheese. Olives. Soujugh. Beverage.

"What's your pleasure? a gentleman asked.

To refuse such hospitality would have been --- as the Armenians would say --- given etiquette a bad name. I noticed some bottles of Jernoog sparkling water and said, very casually, "You can pour me a glass of that. I'm very thirsty."

Somebody snickered. An 8-ounce glass was produced and the drink was casually poured. Another person smirked. A third rolled back his eyes.

"Enjoy it, my good Armenian friend. Best of health to you."

It took one sip before realizing I was cajoled. This was not the water I had suspected but something entirely different.

This was "oughi," the kind my own grandfather used to distill in the cellar of his home at 150 proof. One sip would send your head into a tailspin.

Before me was a full glass.

"Drink up, my friend," came another voice. "There's plenty more."

Here it was, mid-afternoon in a strange village of Nor Armavir, and I'd been thrown for a loop. To offer back the liquor would have proved unmanly. Down the hatch it went, one swallow at a time, refusing the refill in the best interests of time.

"My friends are waiting for me," I volunteered. "Thank you for making me a real Armenian today."

And off I staggered toward the car, waiting to depart.

"Did you get your shot?" my photo companion wondered.

"Did I ever!!!"