The things we carry home

I won’t lie — these days, my trips to Toronto often begin with a sense of dread. The journey feels longer now than when I was younger. The once-exciting plane rides have become tests of patience, filled with cramped seats and stale air. Time zones feel harder to adjust to, and with each visit, I find myself feeling like more of a stranger to Canadian life than I ever imagined possible. But the moment I start spending time with family and friends, that all melts away. Every shared laugh and warm embrace reminds me why I made the journey. In Toronto, where (many) pieces of my heart still live, each reunion takes on a weight and meaning that makes the long trip fade into triviality. One afternoon, my wife Araz and I were tucked into a corner of a restaurant with my mom, Nairy Tantig and Osig Tantig — two women who’ve been like sisters to my mother for as long as I can remember. Nairy Tantig, the gracious host, insisted on treating us all to lunch. The gentle clinking of cutlery and warm conversation flowed around us as we ate, none of us knowing that this simple meal would soon become something extraordinary. As we were finishing up, Nairy Tantig brought out two statuettes: Saints Sahak Partev and Mesrop Mashtots. There was a gentle tremor in her voice as she began their story — that unmistakable tone that emerges only when sharing something held sacred through generations. These statuettes had made their way from Egypt to Canada back in 1963 with her grandmother, Digin Dikranouhi Artinian. A pillar of Toronto’s Armenian community, Digin Dikranouhi was the longtime principal of Sts. Sahag and Mesrop Saturday School and helped found the ARS Summer School (which would eventually become the ARS Private School of Toronto — my alma mater and former employer). She had guarded these statuettes like holy relics. Years later, they were passed on to her daughter, our community’s beloved Armenouhi Nene. She watched over them carefully until she passed away just a few months ago. With the statuettes, Nairy Tantig gave us her grandmother’s book, Memories of an Armenian Mother («Հայ մօր յուշեր»). She told us we’d find Digin Dikranouhi’s own words about these precious mementos in a story called "The Two Statuettes” («Երկու արձանիկները»). Back at my parents’ place that evening, as I turned the pages of Digin Dikranouhi’s book, her words in beautifully written Western Armenian hit differently. She wrote about the statuettes as guardians of the Armenian spirit, silent witnesses to a heritage handed down through time. Right after landing in Canada, she’d carefully tucked them among her Armenian books, like she was protecting the last embers of our culture on foreign soil. “My hands tremble as I unwrap the delicate wrapping paper,” she wrote in Armenian, “praying they haven’t broken on their long journey from the land of pyramids — wandering Saints watching over a wandering people.” In the fifth century, when Mesrop Mashtots created the Armenian alphabet with the backing of Catholicos Sahak, they gave us more than just letters — they gave us the key to our collective memory. Growing up in Toronto, that history felt distant, almost abstract. Sure, we learned Armenian, attended Armenian school and church, and went to community events. But there was always this feeling that we were trying to grasp something just out of reach, hold onto something that kept slipping through our fingers. Like Digin Dikranouhi tucking those statuettes among her books, we all were trying to carve out little pockets of Armenian life in this “foreign land.” For me, moving to Armenia was the end of a search I hadn’t even known I was on. Here, being Armenian isn’t something you have to work at; it’s as natural as the air you breathe (though given Yerevan’s notorious air quality, perhaps I should choose a different metaphor). The statuettes now rest in our home’s library, surrounded by Armenian books and the everyday bits and pieces of our lives. They’re more than just decorations or keepsakes; they tell the story of a journey from Egypt to Canada and finally home to Armenia. Looking at them, I can almost see Digin Dikranouhi’s careful hands wrapping them for their journey. I feel Armenouhi Nene’s decades of loving care. I understand Nairy Tantig’s wisdom in knowing their true home was here. These statuettes remind us that “home” isn’t always where you start — sometimes, it’s where your heart leads you. For us and for these statuettes, that place turned out to be Armenia. Every morning, when the sun rises over Yerevan and catches these statuettes in their first light, I smile, thinking about their incredible journey — from the pyramids to the land of Tim Hortons double-doubles and now to Armenia. I suspect if they could talk, these statuettes would tell me to stop being so sentimental and to just dust them once in a while. But I like to think Digin Dikranouhi and Armenouhi Nene can rest easier now, knowing their precious saints have finally found their place — in a library full of Armenian books, in the heart of an independent homeland. This essay was originally published in Western Armenian («Երկու արձանիկներու տունդարձը») in Torontohye’s Dec. 2024 issue.

The things we carry home

This story is FREE for you...

Rupen Janbazian

This story is FREE for you...

Rupen Janbazian

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