How Armenian are you, really?

I am a third-generation Armenian. My great-grandparents fled the village of Ani, seeking refuge in Lyon, France, and Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. My father’s last name is Karibian; my mother’s is Minassian. I can sing the Armenian national anthem and a few hymns by heart. I can roll grape leaves into neat cylinders for dolma and recognize the distinct smell of manti roasting in the oven. By most accounts, I am considered Armenian. 

That is—until people learn that my knowledge of the Armenian language is introductory, at best. 

This first struck me one summer at an Armenian scouts camp. I was standing in line for the daily flag-raising ceremony when a girl with hazel hair and sharp eyes turned to me and asked, almost teasingly, “How Armenian are you, really?” I froze. 

What could I tell her, with my fair skin, blonde hair and green eyes? What could I say when my words faltered, when my accent betrayed me, when I reached for English in moments of hesitation? 

According to the United Nations, approximately eight to 10 million people of Armenian descent live outside their motherland, across over 100 countries. The Armenian diaspora is one of the largest and most widespread in the world. I am one of them, and like many diaspora Armenians, I carry my heritage in fragments—some in language, some in food, some in traditions passed down over generations.

This is clear in my everyday life. One moment, I’m savoring a dish of dolma or manti, sprinkled with a dash of Ethiopian berbere spice. The next, I’m mixing French and English at home, occasionally tossing in an Armenian word that captures a thought no other language can express.

Yet language—often the most visible marker of cultural identity—remains my greatest loss. My father speaks Armenian fluently, but he didn’t pass it down to me. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that the pressures of assimilation made it harder for him to do so. That loss, combined with my physical appearance, has made it more intimidating to claim my Armenian identity.

Research suggests that heritage language loss is common in diasporic communities, especially by the third generation. According to a study published by Cambridge University Press, first-generation immigrants tend to retain their mother tongue, second-generation speakers often struggle, and by the third generation, fluency is significantly diminished or lost. The pressure to integrate, the dominance of the local language and the lack of structured linguistic transmission all contribute to this erosion.

I am not alone in this experience. In a 2019 study conducted by the Armenian Institute, 72% of third-generation diaspora Armenians reported feeling disconnected from the language, despite engaging in cultural practices such as cooking Armenian food or celebrating national holidays. Many expressed guilt for not speaking Armenian fluently, feeling as though they were betraying their ancestry. Yet, when asked whether they still considered themselves fully Armenian, nearly all responded affirmatively. Identity, it seems, is not easily measured by language alone.

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I may not know Armenia by the way her vowels dance on the tongue, but I know her through the stories my family tells over steaming plates of khash and fragrant cups of Armenian coffee. I know her through the music of Sayat-Nova, the poetry of Yeghishe Charents, the paintings of Martiros Saryan. I know her in the way my grandmother still sings Dle Yaman with a voice heavy with longing.

When I ask my grandmother about her youth, she recounts stories of Cairo, where her parents sought refuge—the scent of freshly baked lavash, her mother’s hands weaving lace into intricate patterns. She never questions whether I am Armenian enough, because to her, my presence at the table, listening to her stories, is proof enough.

Rather than trying to measure my Armenian-ness, I’ve come to realize that being Armenian isn’t a checklist. Dismissing those who don’t speak the language or questioning how Armenian someone truly is, only undermines the unity we need as a people. For a community as small as ours, fostering division is not only unnecessary—it’s harmful. William Saroyan once wrote about the resilience of the Armenian people and how, despite persecution and displacement, Armenians continue to rebuild and thrive wherever they go. In that sense, it’s our collective bond—no matter how we express it—that defines us.

So when I am asked, “How Armenian are you really?” my answer is simple: fully. Completely. Unquestionably. Speaking imperfectly or looking different does not make me any less Armenian. 

I am Armenian in every way that matters. 

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Zoe Karibian

Zoe Karibian is a high school junior living in London. She is the Arts & Entertainment Editor for her school newspaper, where she enjoys writing in-depth investigative pieces on stigmatized topics such as adoption and discriminatory language at school. As a French-Armenian member of the diaspora, Zoe is particularly passionate about covering stories that explore the Armenian community and broader ethnic conflicts. She was awarded 1st Place Freshman Journalist of the Year (2023, Quill & Scroll) and 2nd Place Multimedia Journalist of the Year (NSPA).

Latest posts by Zoe Karibian (see all)

• We remember, even when you choose to forget - April 30, 2025
• How Armenian are you, really? - March 11, 2025