Preserving and propelling Richard G. Hovannisian’s legacy

There is a particular weight to a lifetime of gathered pages. 

I write this sitting at a large table inside a sunlit hall in the heart of Yerevan. Around me, the room is still finding its shape — a canvas of bare walls and newly installed bookshelves waiting to be filled. For now, it is crowded with stacks of plastic storage boxes. We are sorting through the personal library of the late professor Richard G. Hovannisian, approximately 10,000 books spanning centuries of thought and continents of research.

Like so many individuals of my generation who found their calling within the complex landscape of the Armenian diaspora, I knew the giant through his books long before I ever met him in person. To study modern Armenian history is, by definition, to read Richard Hovannisian. Yet, as a small, dedicated team and I handle these volumes today, my mind constantly drifts past the academic titles and footnotes, settling instead on the profound humility and dedication of the man behind the monument.

I still vividly remember the afternoon in 2018 when a friend and I interviewed the Professor for the Armenian Weekly’s special magazine issue dedicated to the centennial of the First Armenian Republic, a brief 20-month experiment in independence born out of the ashes of the Genocide. For professor Hovannisian, this short-lived state was not merely a historical curiosity or a footnote, but the ultimate turning point of our modern existence. During our conversation, he recalled a poignant analogy that His Holiness Catholicos Vazgen I once shared with him. In the dark depths of the Soviet era, when the history of the independent republic was either strictly forbidden or maliciously distorted by authorities in Yerevan, the Vehapar had quietly whispered a profound truth to the young scholar: “He said the Armenian Genocide was the crucifixion of the Armenian people … and May 28, 1918, was their resurrection.”

Hovannisian spoke of that rump state around Yerevan — an unplanned, unwanted and blockaded sliver of land — as a “blessing in disguise” or an “unfinished symphony.” He argued with fierce conviction that without that fragile nucleus of a state in 1918, there would have been no Soviet Armenia, and without Soviet Armenia, the current independent republic would simply not exist.

His intellect during that interview was as staggering as it was rigorous, but it was his genuine warmth and infectious encouragement that altered my personal trajectory. He possessed a rare ability to look at and speak to a young person, making them feel that preserving their heritage was the most urgent task in the world. It was precisely because of the towering standard set by mentors like him that I finally gathered the courage to pursue a lifelong dream. More than a decade after first graduating from university, I returned to graduate school to earn my master’s degree in Armenian studies. I owe at least a part of that leap to him.

As the years progressed, our relationship shifted in an unexpected and deeply meaningful way. Through marriage, we eventually became distant in-laws. With that familial tie, the formal distance between a legendary UCLA professor and a young editor dissolved into something beautifully intimate. Whenever we spoke or crossed paths, he completely dropped the academic gravitas that commanded lecture halls worldwide. Instead, he would greet me with a wide, unmistakable smile and call me pesa — the Armenian term for son-in-law or groom. Hearing that endearing colloquialism come from a titan of modern scholarship was a disarming, surreal experience. It revealed the immense capacity of his heart. For a man who spent his life documenting the grand, tragic movements of an entire nation, he never lost his appetite for individual human connection. He understood that a nation is not preserved merely through treaties and battle maps, but through the warmth of the bonds we forge with one another.

He carried that devotion to mentorship into every room he entered, regardless of his advanced age or the venue’s prestige. In 2019, I traveled to Los Angeles to present my English translation of Letter to Yerevan, a collaborative project I had completed alongside another deeply missed mentor, Tatul Sonentz-Papazian, who recently passed away. Our presentation was a modest community event; no formal invitations had been sent to the upper echelons of academia, and we certainly did not expect global luminaries to attend. Yet, as I looked out into the audience, there he was. At nearly 90 years old, Professor Hovannisian had willingly braved the notorious, grueling Los Angeles traffic just to support a young translator who looked up to him. He didn’t look for a prominent seat in the front row. In fact, he had quietly claimed a chair in the very back row — stubbornly attempting to blend in, as if an academic giant could somehow pass unnoticed at the rear of a small community hall. He simply wanted to be there to pass the torch, paying forward the historical debt he felt he owed to his own teachers.

Now, the grand narrative of his life has brought me full circle, right back to the soil of the republic he spent 50 years defending, mostly from afar. Today, I find myself working on the ground in Yerevan, collaborating with his grandson, Garin, and the rest of the Hovannisian family to bring the Professor’s absolute final vision to life. We are actively converting his vast lifetime collection into the permanent, world-class Richard G. Hovannisian Library.

Situated in the heart of our capital, this space is designed to be the exact opposite of a static, dusty archive or a solemn museum. There is immense work unfolding before us — completing the painstaking archival indexing of thousands of volumes and designing and building an environment that breathes with life. Our collective goal is to activate this landmark with a continuous, year-round calendar of public panels, international symposia and creative educational programming. It will be a dynamic power plant of thought where young students, researchers, and patriots can gather to learn and discover.

To push this massive endeavor across the finish line, the Hovannisian family has opened opportunities for global community support, establishing diverse giving circles tailored for students, colleagues, families and major cultural institutions alike. It is a collective invitation to take part in a piece of history in the making. I want to invite our community of readers, scholars, and friends worldwide to support this project at whatever level they can. Contributing to this campaign is a vital act of national service — a way to ensure that the Professor’s staggering wealth of knowledge remains fully accessible to the public, continuing to shape minds exactly where it matters most: in the capital of an independent Armenian state. Whether your name is added to the digital register alongside his former students or permanently inscribed upon the physical walls of the facility in Yerevan, your participation directly forms the foundation of this home.

Professor Hovannisian often remarked that the visionary generation of 1918 lived and died entirely with their people, never seeking to enrich themselves through positions of privilege or power. They were an idealistic breed. By establishing this library and filling this sunlit room with his life’s work, we ensure that the Professor’s own flame continues to burn with that exact same idealism, illuminating our past while propelling us directly toward our future.