A legacy of selflessness

There was an Armenian flag pinned up on the front door—a sign that said, yes, this is the place. 

I gathered my things and straightened out my old Camp Haiastan t-shirt (a relic from my years as a camper) and before I even reached the front steps, the door swung open gently and Sona Avakian met me with a smile. 

We had been corresponding throughout the summer, hoping to pin down a time for this very moment. She welcomed me inside, invited me into the den and there on the couch sat her father, Baron Bob Avakian. 

If you have ever been to AYF Camp Haiastan, you know the name. Baron Avakian was one of the very first campers, attending the first boys’ session in 1951 after receiving a sponsorship from his local Worcester AYF Chapter. He returned as a counselor and later served as director for many years, transforming the camping experience into what it is today. 

His legacy is still alive throughout campus—from the yellow iron gates that shut the campgrounds off from the rest of the world, enclosed in its safe little bubble, to the Olympic-sized pool living quietly in the back woods. Baron Avakian is the reason that there is an office upstairs, that the cabins have bunk beds and that their ceilings have solar-powered fans. He watched over and guided Camp Haiastan, setting the foundation for what it is today. 

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With his legacy in mind, I set forth to ask Baron Bob a few questions about his years at camp, his many contributions and the projects he is most proud of. Once he started sharing, I realized a common thread in all of his stories: he did not talk about himself. Instead, he spoke of all the incredible people who selflessly lent their skillsets in any way they could—people Baron Bob does not want forgotten and who, now, never will be.

These were the people who came together after World War II and built something for themselves, their kids and grandkids, and all of us thereafter. They cleared brush, cut down trees and built our beloved camp from the ground up, with care and selflessness tucked into every cabin.

They are the people who have kept its spirit alive, no matter how much has changed throughout the years. “It’s that spirit that keeps the camp going,” Baron Bob said. 

There was Mrs. Jansen, who found herself a displaced person after the war, and split her time serving as the nurse for Armenian youth at Camp Haiastan and Native youth on a reservation. 

Bob Aghababian, the lawyer who worked to secure the camp’s nonprofit status, which still continues to benefit us today. 

Gill Nersesian, who designed and built the camp’s first pool. In its place now stands the pavilion, but I am sure he would be proud to know that kids still play upon his foundation every summer. 

People like Gladys Fermanian, an IRS worker who offered her services whenever and however she could. When she learned that the camp was continuously being denied its 501(c)(3) status, she got in touch with a friend who just so happened to supervise the team that kept turning the camp down. All of the paperwork went through soon after; today, the Rec Hall bears her name.

There were people like Peter Eknoian, the plumber who, after a full day of running his own business and working long hours, would come to camp to install the pipes so the washstands would have running water.

Engineer Ara Aykanian brought a transformer to camp and boosted the power to the showers, washstands and bathrooms. On one occasion, electrician Al Derian instructed Bob on how to pull his body from a site with his belt, should he be electrocuted while working on camp’s circuits—ready to quite literally lay down his life for the camp’s well-being. 

Then there was Baron Yereshir, the camp’s very first cook. Bob and board member Sarkis DerBedrossian from Worcester would sneak off campus at night and into the counselor’s family grocery store, stealing heads of lettuce and Saran-wrapped packs of meat to stock the kitchen. I asked if the grocer ever realized things were missing from his store. “He did,” replied Bob, “but he never said anything. He knew it was for the camp.” And so, the kids were fed, even as the camp struggled financially. 

Zaven Najarian, the master cabinet maker who once built a desk for President John F. Kennedy, volunteered to construct the cabins that once lived up top, near the office. The JFK desk, secret drawers and all, now lives in a museum. 

Charlie Semerjian came up with a clever design to board up the mess windows—one that we still use today—bolting the wooden slats closed at the end of the camping season and sliding them open again the following summer.

There was Al Derian, an electrician who may have just saved Camp from being sold. When asked to assess whether to keep the camp or convert the space into a cemetery or assisted living center, Derian insisted a children’s camp would generate more value in the long run. I guess there’s no way to know for sure if he was right about the money, but the camp’s value is not the kind of thing you can put a dollar amount on anyway. 

Baron Bob’s late wife, Zabel and his two daughters, Lori and Sona, dedicated just as much of their lives to camp. They lived in Cabin 1 all summer with their dog, Duffy. They collected the mailed applications from the post office and organized them on their living room floor. They stuck stamps into the corners of outgoing camp mail and set them into neat piles based on their zip codes. The post office would offer them a discount if the letters were sorted beforehand, and they would do anything to save the camp even just a little bit of money.

And although Baron Bob’s memory is like a steel trap, recalling names and dates and dollar amounts with incredible certainty, naming each and every person who has helped camp in its 75 years would be an impossible task. “It is hard to even think of all the nice things people have done for camp. There were just so many of them,” said Baron Bob. 

What an awesome problem for a camp to have.