Picture it: 1988. I am a first-time counselor after spending six years at Camp Haiastan as a camper from 1979 to 1984. I am nervous, anxious, excited and energetic all at the same time. I did not grow up in a traditional Armenian household. My parents divorced when I was 10 years old, and although we had the love and support of both parents — my mom is half French and half Armenian — we did not grow up speaking the language or doing many Armenian things. Sudbury, Massachusetts, was not the mecca of Armenian activity. Camp Haiastan was my connection, and here I was eight years later to fulfill what I declared around the campfire during my last session as a camper in 1984: “I will return as a counselor one day!”
Camp Haiastan in Franklin, Massachusetts, holds a special place in the hearts of many who have made the drive down to “lower camp” as a camper, parent, grandparent, sibling, friend or supporter. It evokes memories that remain with people for years to come and, like any meaningful childhood experience, conjures feelings of excitement and longing. Camp Haiastan treated me no differently. I remember my first week on staff as if it were yesterday, and I reflect on it every time I am lucky enough to be on the grounds.
“Unger Josh, where are your campers?”
It was Wednesday, July 6, 1988. It was Baron Peter Jelalian — a legend. He expected us to know where our campers were, what their likes and dislikes were, where they preferred to be during free time, and how to encourage them wherever they were and get involved in their experience at Camp Haiastan. For 75 years, Camp Haiastan has shaped generations of Armenian youth by creating lifelong friendships, strengthening cultural identity and fostering a deep sense of community and belonging. Camp Haiastan has had a lasting impact on thousands of campers, counselors, volunteers and families, and it continues to hold a special place in the hearts of so many. That was not lost on me at that moment, and I had to know the answer to his question. The whole staff was expected to know it.
I learned to answer the question. In fact, I learned so many things that summer. I learned love for my nation — in this case, Armenia — love for my people and, most importantly, love for the passion and dedication that Camp Haiastan delivered to our youth and all those nurturing them.
On Oct. 10, 2026, we will gather on the sacred ground that so many worked hard to build into what the camp is today. Log by log, shovel by shovel, individuals from miles away and right next door came to clear brush, build structures and sing songs, all in the hope of creating a legacy that would withstand the demands of a diaspora intent on assimilation. Many of those individuals have long since passed, but the legacy they left for us to cultivate remains strong and tested. The responsibility we bear 75 years later is palpable and unique — a blessing.
We are gathering as a community not only to celebrate 75 years of Camp Haiastan at 722 Summer St. in Franklin, Massachusetts. We are coming together to pay homage to the individuals and institutions whose foresight was so grand that, 75 years later, multitudes of marriages and children have been gifted to our communities, ideas have been generated that have improved our nation’s standing and advanced her struggles, and tears still flow as we leave the grounds and the people we have befriended and connected with.
Camp Haiastan is so much more than a summer camp. It is a sacred piece of land where Armenians from around the world have been able to keep alive the memory of these individuals and the spirit of a nation that long ago could have assimilated here in the United States. It continues to inspire and nurture the minds and passions of our youth, who will carry these traditions forward for another 75 years and beyond.
If you were part of it, supported it, appreciated it from afar or simply agree with what the camp has done, I implore you to be present. Join us in celebrating what was, is and will be over the years and beyond. Let me be clear and blunt, as I type this with a lump in my throat: Buy a ticket, give generously and be part of Camp Haiastan.
Picture it: 2026. I am 57 years old. I have a 5-year-old daughter who just finished her first year of day camp at Camp Haiastan. I am nervous, anxious, excited and energetic all at the same time about successfully celebrating Camp Haiastan and making sure my daughter and her future children have a place as special as the one I had to attend and cherish, creating self-worth and value as Armenians.
“Ayo, Baron. I do know where my kids are.”
I saw them last Saturday, Aug. 8, 2026, driving up from lower camp after picking up their children, who had just spent two weeks or more at camp. Smiles on all their faces, tears in their eyes, passion in their hearts for Armenia, and hope that next year will arrive quickly so they can do it all again. Both children and their parents — or, as I call them, “my kids.”
My kids are where I wanted to be back in 1988 and where I am happiest to see them in 2026. I may not be able to see the next generation, but I will be happy knowing we did all we could to make sure it happens.
So I boldly say: “Meet me under the trees on Saturday, Oct. 10, 2026.”
Not because I want the event to be successful — although I do — not because you “owe” anything to the camp, but simply because you want to be there and value what Camp Haiastan embodies for our community. You do not have to have been a camper or counselor, served on the board or volunteered your time. You just have to recognize the value of the work being done there and be present to support the mission.
My kids are where I wanted to be back in 1988 and where I am happiest to see them in 2026. I may not be able to see the next generation, but I will be happy knowing we did all we could to make sure it happens.
It was the most influential place in my life, with the most influential people. Let’s make sure, together, that it stays that way for years to come.
Unger, proudly, Joshua Tevekelian
Boston, Massachusetts
