Day 5
And on came the rain, like the flood of 40 days. I looked for the ark on Mount Ararat and could see no trace of the boat, much less the mountain.
The day began with breakfast at Artbridge, joined by videographer Araz Artinian, a young woman who left Montreal as a repatriate three years ago and dedicated her life to helping Armenia. One project was raising $250,000 to rehabilitate the 50 art and music schools of Yerevan.
Araz, whom I have known since childhood like a second daughter, raised the money in six months with a big assist from Vivacell and the Hovnanians.
Her second project represents a study of 21 centuries of Armenian history, using children in costumes from 12 different districts.
The day was pretty much a wash so I decided to consume the time with interviews. After Araz came Artsvi Bakhchinyan, a 38-year-old research specialist on diasporan matters who, like others, appeared extremely bitter toward Armenia’s economic shortcomings.
Hard to believe that with a doctorate, Artsvi is earning but $135 a month to support a family of five. One thing won’t be deprived, he told me: his dignity.
That afternoon found me inside the Boxing School of Armenia where I spent 90 minutes talking to the young pugilists and their coaches. Not a soul there knew English so it was either speak their language or none at all. I managed to get some meaningful comments and a cache of environmental shots for an article.
That evening, we dined on some of the most scrumptious sarma I ever tasted with Jan and Liza. Our walk home was dashed by more rain. Being April 23, out went my partner Joe (Dagdigian) to join a youth march to the Genocide Memorial at Tsitsernagapert—a three-mile hike through puddles and muck.
I shall join the commemoration next day which is one reason why we chose this date for our visit. Whether or not we’ll ever spot Ararat again remains to be seen. Use of an iPod filled with Armenian music has made the solo walks that much more tolerable.
Being here with Joe is slowly disciplining me in language skills and the country’s rich heritage. It’s 11 o’clock and he has yet to return from the driving rain.
Day 6
It is April 24th in Armenia and this is what I call the genocide experience of a lifetime. No wonder the shops and schools are closed for the day. It takes that long to place flowers at the memorial.
If there are one million Armenians living in Yerevan, I would say they were represented en masse at Tsitsernagapert—all generations from every walk of life.
They arrived in droves on a bright, sunny day with a crisp breeze and a faint glimpse of Ararat. It took me two hours to reach the monument from home and another 90 minutes to cover the half-mile from the road to the monument, given the scope of the crowd.
It turned into a photographer’s paradise as the faces each told a story. Youngsters. Adults. Seniors. Age was no criterion when it came to paying your respects to the 1.5 million victims of 1915.
The arduous wait and being jostled by the crowd may have irked an ordinary tourist but not a conscientious Armenian commemorating history.
The most beautiful church music I ever heard on speakers helped pass the time prudently en route.
My arches were ready to burst. Because I couldn’t get a taxi back, I had no other choice but to leg out the three-mile distance to the apartment for what turned into a seven-mile hike round trip.
A cold beer and warm shower hit the spot, along with some fresh choreg and cheese I had purchased. Just sitting and reminiscing over such a monumental day was a moment that will be forever etched in time.
(To be continued…)
Tom Vartabedian
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