Chidem Inch: Folding paper and fanning coals, a fond farewell to print

On June 25, 2025, it was announced that the Armenian-language Hairenik Weekly and the English-language The Armenian Weekly would publish their final print editions that week and transition to exclusively online platforms moving forward. From my perspective, it was not a matter of ‘if,’ but more a matter of “when.” Newspapers across the country and the world have struggled with the growth, and now dominance, of online media. The Armenian Weekly is no exception. The same content is offered online for free, whereas the print edition cost about $130 per year. Many folks I know read the Weekly online, avoided the subscription costs and accessed the articles as soon as they were posted—rather than waiting five to 10 days for the print edition to arrive in their mailbox. It was clear, anecdotally, that print subscriptions were in decline and online readership was on the rise. We knew that we needed to support the Weekly financially. So, we never gave up our print subscription. To help sustain it, we also gifted subscriptions to family members who had stopped subscribing to the Weekly. We supported the occasional Hairenik fundraisers and sponsored pages for the AYF Olympic Special Edition and a few of the special magazine issues of the Weekly. It was nothing exorbitant, but we felt we were doing our part. There is also something nostalgic about the tactile feel of an actual newspaper. Seeing the Weekly in the mailbox always made me happy. We would flip through paper the day it arrived and often reread the same articles we had seen online. When I think of the print editions of the Weekly, three stories come to mind. First, as a child, I fondly recall my grandfather, Levon Merian, sitting on the sofa or a glider on the front porch reading the Hairenik, which was a daily paper back then. I remember him slowly reading the words in a faint whisper. Admittedly, there is nothing profound in this memory—but seeing the paper in his hands, written in the script Mesrob Mashdots created, had me admiring my grandfather. It made me reflect on how he escaped the Turkish army work detail to make his way to Detroit—and it made me a bit prouder of our heritage. Were he reading the Hairenik on an iPhone…well, you get the picture. The second memory is when we relocated from Detroit to Wilton, Connecticut in 1990. With all the tasks and details involved in making such a move, we had to inform the Hairenik Association of our address change. I was excited when the first Weekly was delivered—not forwarded—to our new address. The paper seemed thicker. I wondered if perhaps it was a special issue. It was not. There were two papers—one inside of the other. Maybe I was getting the first two issues of the Weekly to our new address, I thought. No, they had the same issue. One was labeled with our name and address, and the second was to a Garo Lehmejian, who also lived in Wilton. This all happened standing by the mailbox, mind you. I looked up his number in an old-fashioned phone book and called him. We were about the same age—he was a New York Hyortik and I was a Detroit Tandourjian. We knew many of the same people, but not each other. Garo invited us over that evening, and we have been friends ever since. A print edition miracle, for sure. Lastly, once upon a time, my friend Tom Zakarian and I were discussing the intricacies and best practices of cooking kebab. We debated charcoal versus propane grills and the merits of this marination or that. We talked about the ritual of men standing around, offering opinions on whether this skewer should or shouldn’t be turned just yet. Then, we stumbled upon an insight that I am only now sharing with the world: our grandparents’ kebab tasted better because of one overlooked, obvious fact. They stoked the coals to the perfect temperature by using a newspaper folded in a most special way and fanned using an equally unique backhanded technique. What is the food science behind this? There is none. It simply is. In our memories, it made the kebab taste better. What will we do now for good kebab without the print edition of the Hairenik? It is most natural to lament when something we love changes or is taken from us. We didn’t like it when Uncle Ben’s became Ben’s. We were used to Uncle Ben’s—it was a staple in many Armenian households. It didn’t matter that it was the same product in the box with a different name and logo and that the pilaf tasted exactly the same. People also mourned the demise of an iconic department store in the center of town. For Detroit Armenians, it was the downtown JL Hudson department store—where they used to shop for clothes, furniture and other household goods. We had fond memories of that store, especially the magical place it was transformed into at Christmas time. Yet, no one stops to think that they hadn’t been to that store in a decade or so. It closed because it was just oh-so-convenient to shop in suburban malls where we all had moved to. With these kinds of changes comes an initial shock of losing something that was part of our lives. That shock quickly turns into nostalgia, which may well include mumbling about how much simpler and slower-paced life was back then. A generation later, even the nostalgia is gone. Product and service providers need to adapt to economic drivers and consumer whims to survive. If they don’t, they go bankrupt and cease to exist altogether. The sense of loss will eventually pass, especially if the replacement product or service offers more benefits. I can imagine a Weekly website that offers not only the core content we’re used to, but much more. We already enjoy free access to news that is more real-time than a weekly newspaper could ever deliver. If we miss an article from last year or a few years ago? You can search and read them with relative ease. Moving forward, I can see a toggle button on many—if not, all—articles, allowing us the option to read the piece in Armenian or English. While the print paper was limited to 12-16 pages, a web-based offering could provide much more content. We could have more commentary, photos, art, literature and poetry, as well as more articles by members of various organizations—especially our young people in the AYF and AYF Juniors. I can envision a subscription for premium content, which might include things like more in-depth articles, videos, podcasts and more. What is the downside? Well, for me, it is simple: I will feel the loss of the print version, which has been part of the décor of the family rooms in our home for decades. There is also the aforementioned loss of holding the paper, folding it and hearing it crinkle. I will miss the print edition, even though I’ve already been spending more time in recent years on the Weekly website than actually reading the print version. How will I cope? When I do miss the print edition, I will grab my phone or laptop, sit on the sofa, go to the Weekly website, select an article and then read it out loud in a quiet whisper. As for getting the kebab grill to the right temperature without the Hairenik or Weekly to fan the coals? Heck, I switched to propane in the 1980s. It was just so much more convenient.

Chidem Inch: Folding paper and fanning coals, a fond farewell to print

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Mark Gavoor

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This story is FREE for you...

Mark Gavoor

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