At each family gathering, I prepare the centerpiece of the table: freshly cut pomegranates, their ruby seeds glistening like jewels. Pomegranates are sacred in Armenian culture, representing fertility, unity and the resilience of our people.
Splitting one open is both an art and a test of patience, requiring careful precision to preserve the seeds without staining your hands. Is there a “right” way? Should I slice it from the top or start from the sides? Should I tear the skin carefully or cut it neatly into wedges? My frustration often grows when my mom calmly insists that it isn’t about cutting perfectly but doing so with care and intention, being mindful of preserving its essence.
“Getting it right” isn’t about following a rigid formula but about feeling the fruit in my hands, learning the subtle balance of gently scoring the skin and prying apart the segments. The beauty of the pomegranate, I have come to understand, lies in its imperfections. I have found myself wondering if the way I cut the fruit, neatly or chaotically, reflects the quiet tension of my place within my culture.
Like many Armenian women, I was raised in a culture that venerates tradition, often to the point of inscribing it onto the lives of its daughters. The notion that a woman must always be hamest — humble, modest and restrained — was not merely a suggestion but an unspoken commandment. It permeated every interaction, every posture, every tone of voice.
Hamest culture is a paradoxical cornerstone of the Armenian identity and of my life. One could say, it’s a double entendre. On the one hand, it instilled in me a deep sense of pride — an unyielding connection to my heritage. On the other, it imposed a quiet cage, one I often found myself confined to. Speak too loudly, and you’ll risk being seen as brazen; sit with your legs uncrossed, and you’ll appear unladylike. Voicing a less-than-popular opinion felt like a transgression, as though my very existence ought to align neatly with others’ expectations.
Rebellion isn’t inherently a rejection of culture. It can also be a redefinition and a reclamation.
The traditions that taught me to respect my roots also seemed to suggest that my growth as an individual could only go so far before it became rebellion. But rebellion isn’t inherently a rejection of culture. It can also be a redefinition and a reclamation. The evolving Armenian identity, after all, is not static. It is a living, breathing amalgamation of history and progress. In fact, according to the World Economic Forum, Armenia is moving closer each year to bridging centuries-old gender gaps, challenging the “traditional” ideals that have come to define its society. Armenia is a country in transition, and so are its people.
Preserving tradition and maintaining authenticity are not mutually exclusive. They can coexist, much like the countless seeds that fit together harmoniously in a single fruit. My language, my values, my memories and my sense of humor all encapsulate this identity. Yet, as with each pomegranate I’ve carefully opened, finding my “just right” requires a willingness to adapt and embrace individuality amid the collective.
As I scoop the seeds into a bowl, their juice staining my fingers a vibrant red, I am reminded that equilibrium is not about conformity. I am Armenian, and every part of me that I can describe is Armenian. Yet, tradition is not an anchor but a foundation from which to build something uniquely mine.
Pomegranate ~ More Easy to Say:
‘Noor’ In Armenian: ’Anar’ In Persian: ‘Grenade’ In French: ‘Melograno’ In Italian: ‘Rumman’ In Arabic
Pomegranate name so hard to say spell yet write
Translating thy name “seeded apple” sounds unkind
No similarities are seen between the two: in taste, in shape, in heart,
I see many differences … I feel to put it right.
After crunching an apple, my cramp starts
While after eating ‘Noor’ my throat chants…!
Look at it first, enjoy the color in a shiny hexagonal mass
Different shades of pinks, reds, anemic-faint
It has a crown, like angels when flying dawn
Reminds me of Fresco paintings inside the domes-reign
Wear an apron before you open the thick shell
Expect to spray your top with reddish rain
Never comes out from nice textiles
Unless the dress was painted in multi-color
With a million green–red grains… can’t visualize!
Enjoy opening the skin, hearing the rupture
Like the opening bottle of champagne
Once you open you feel, hunger-pain
Wait for a little with a joyful look …Till changes the mood
Of your astrocytes from gloominess to happiness…
When you look at each group of seeds
Covered as brides dress in honey-beads
Your eyes sparkle with treasures as rubies
More than six hundred unexpected can’t hide
So, start crunching the seeds with your teeth
Spreading showers in your mouth, tanning your tongue.
Do not listen…others … try to swallow the hard seeds
I have crunched for years…never had any complaint
Contain antioxidants that stop clogging arterial veins…
My hearty fruit stays a long time on the table, decorating plates
Like pretty lady never decays, often said
When I see in shops, I feel Christmas bells ringing in joy;
Start decorating your tree, yet viewing New Year’s happy lane.
December~2006
“Smashing a pomegranate on New Year’s Day is an Ancient Greek custom that
continues to this day as the red-colored nutritious fruit is considered a symbol
of life and good fortune. Ancient Greeks believed that the pomegranate ruby-like
arils, or seeds, symbolized abundance, perhaps because of their quantity.
They also represent fertility, eternity, and good fortune. ”