My house no longer; my home always
It may not exist physically—the stacked up, dust-covered bricks, assembled and bound piece by piece with cement, crafted by the bare hands of the man I call my papik.
It may not exist physically, but somewhere in my timeline of memories that sculpted my identity, it lives on. When right becomes left, when I lose my sense of direction, I return to that dream—falling asleep, barely occupying one couch cushion—and my head drifts back to my homesick heart.
I see it clearly: the white lace curtain billowing in the kitchen, stirred by the force of the air rushing down from the mountains. That vision alone is enough to keep my pomegranate blood pulsing through my veins. The unspoiled flavors of nature in every meal still nourish my bones. My lungs remember the lasting smell of cigarettes smoked by my uncles. I used to scold them. Now, I wish for nothing more than to relive it.
This feeling that repatriates me is one that many cannot describe. It is discontent, mourning, longing, joy, laughter and quiet, but also a deep, bleeding anger toward the evil that wishes to steal it. When I feel it, I remind myself: this house may no longer stand, but it’s the feeling that I call home. This safety is the only thing I can mimic and chase.
I watch as my people crumble and wrestle to get back up again as their hope fades. This feeling I attempt to describe—that’s the medicine. Like the cement that once bonded the bricks of my home, it binds us. It is my heart, pumping blood, filling the body. It is the cushions my dreams rested on and the breeze that blew the curtain into my sunlit kitchen, enlightening this ineffable feeling.
As the world stays silent through our sickening, repetitive losses, we drink our bittersweet coffee, dance in our lines and sing the melodies of those who endured—reminders of the nation we come from. Armenia evolves. Our borders look a little different than they used to. We are divided by politics, land and dialect. Our ancestors might not recognize this Armenia or understand how we’ve drifted so far from our roots, but I’m certain that this feeling has kept us from drenching our fire.
This is something every Armenian has felt in every timeline. We are united by that old sense of home. Whether your Armenia is the desert your grandparents crossed or the traditions your diasporan family passed on—your community church, your friends at Armenian dance, the women who taught you how to make manti or the old man playing piano in Yerevan—we all carry that fire, that feeling. It’s what makes us hye.
That standing house may no longer exist, but the feeling of home always will. It will always be the reason I continue to fight.
Maral Zeitlian
Latest posts by Maral Zeitlian (see all)
- My house no longer; my home always - May 7, 2025
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Beautiful words from my sister who I’m so proud of :,)