Notes From Hairenik
April 24, 2015

My grandmother Clara Movsessian Russian, a survivor of the Armenian Genocide‬, is 100 years old, born October 28, 1914. She still lives in her home of 70 years in Arlington, Massachusetts. 
She was born in the village of Yegheki, located in the kaza of Harput within the province of Mamuratul Aziz-Harput. Her father Nishan was deported when she was only a few months old. She survived poverty, famine, typhoid, and always kept hope alive. Against all odds she made it to America by age 11. She married Hagop “Jack” Russian of the village of Sousoury, located just beside Yegheki. She was a founding member of the St. Stephen’s Armenian Apostolic Church in Watertown, Massachusetts and served on the Ladies’ Auxiliary for two decades. 
But she's more than just my grandmother, she's my heroine, my fount of inspiration. She taught me determination, resilience. And I love her very much.

Below is a fragment from her memoirs, which I am still in the process of editing.

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Clara standing beside her mother Haigouhi to the right. The woman seated on the left is unidentified. 


Krikor Guetchudian, who was a cunning man, had something in store for my mother that no one had predicted. He cleverly stole a picture of my mother and sent it in a letter to his younger brother Nishan, who was living in New Britain, Connecticut at the time. In his letter, he told Nishan to divest all his assets and invest in Krikor’s flourishing business. Since there were unrest and rumors of war in Turkey, Krikor intended to profit from the situation in flux by investing in provisions such as flour, sugar, olive oil and nuts. He also told Nishan to consider marrying my mother, since she came from a prominent family, was well educated and very attractive. Nishan was a sentimental guy, and he was also very homesick, not to mention lonely. He figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea to return to he Old Country and get married. After all, he could always move back to Connecticut since he had been established there and knew the ins and outs of making a living in America. So he left Connecticut in 1913 with gifts, jewelry and fine clothes for his future bride. 
When Nishan arrived in Liverpool, England, where he awaited his ship that would travel along the Mediterranean Sea to Armenia, he just happened to meet a young Armenian woman who was on her way to America. It was a weird coincidence to both of them. 
“Where are you going now?” the woman asked.
“I’m off to Kharpert, to my village where I’m going to get married. My brother found a bride for me.”
“I’m from Kharpert, too. I was born in Husenig.”
“My family home is in Yegheki.”
“That’s where my sister teaches now.”
Then he remembered he had his bride’s photograph in his jacket pocket. He removed it and showed it to the woman. 
"That’s my sister, Haigouhi!" she yelled. Teriz and Nishan embraced in tears. She made him promise he would be a good husband to her and treat her well, otherwise she would come back and severely beat him. Then she hugged and kissed him again, the tears from both of them ruining her makeup, and they parted ways. They would never meet again.
Back in Yegheki, when he felt as though he had saved up enough money, Nishan went to my grandparents’ home to ask for my mother's hand in marriage. A time-honored custom was observed, with the girl having no decision in the matter. There was a very extravagant wedding attended by many friends and family members, and the joyous festivities lasted for an entire week. My mother moved into Krikor’s home with her new husband. 
“What are we supposed to do now?” Haigouhi asked Nishan one day when they were alone, walking through the lush fields. “You know, all this marriage business.”
“We’ll have a family, I guess. What did you have in mind?”
“A daughter.”
“I think we can manage that.”
“What about teaching?”
“You’re a schoolteacher.”
“You won’t stop me?”
“Why would I do that? Besides, I still need to learn things myself.”
“Learn what?”
“Things, you know. English for one thing.”
“What do you mean, silly?”
“I mean, you know… like yours.”
My mother blushed. “Aren’t you going to hug me?”
My father, who was very handsome and dressed sharp in American suits, was 27 years old when he married my mother. He was a self-taught musician, who played both oud and violin. He wept when he sang his melancholy songs, and so did everyone else listening. The instruments were washed with tears, a premonition of the tragic days that would change our lives forever.
I was born on October 28, 1914. My mother suffered three days with severe labor pains and was on the verge of death. My father rode to Kharpert and found a proficient midwife, who miraculously saved our lives. I was christened in our local Armenian church and named Hayastan in honor of our motherland, Armenia. But I wasn’t destined to have that name for very long. After my father gave it some more consideration, he decided to change my name, fearful that the Turks might regard him as a revolutionary. During this time, my mother was reading a book, which included a heroine named Clara, which was how I received my new name.
I was four months old when in January, 1915, the Turks were beginning to arrest all young men and intellectuals. It was the spark of the inferno that would consume the lives of over a million souls and deliver ruin to hundreds of thousands more. 
My father was arrested and imprisoned for many months. All my mother told was that he was arrested under “suspicion,” but they never told her what for. Hundreds of men went to jail the same way, without explanation. Of course, no one yet understood what was going on or could have predicted what was coming. While in jail he contacted typhoid fever and was sent home by the authorities. I guess they were afraid of catching it, too, it’s not like they suddenly cared about his health. My mother tended to his illness until he recovered and was once again arrested and jailed. By now, he was an embittered man and fearful of his destiny. My mother would bundle me up and carry me in her left arm, and we would visit him. We would bring him some sarmasini kufta or something else he liked to eat wrapped in paper, so the guards wouldn’t suspect anything and snatch it for themselves. She would hand him things between the bars when no one was looking. He would hold my tiny hand the same way.
“Will I see the day when my daughter Clara takes a gift from my own hands?” he asked my mother once.
“You’ll come home soon, I know it,” she smiled.
“I miss you in here. It’s getting very hard to take sometimes.”
“It’s a test of our faith. We’ll get through this.”
“I need my wife and my baby by my side,” he cried.
“And we need our man. We’re not going anywhere.”
The fateful day came when a messenger of death announced that all Armenians from neighboring villages, both young and old, were to be deported to the town of Urfa within one month. They were allowed to take with them only as much as they could carry. Before the day of departure, they congregated inside St. Vartan Church to hear Father Mampre’s last mass and sermon. They confessed their sins and received their last communion. With agonizing tears, they embraced each other and prepared for their departure. 
My grandparents and their children came to Yegheki to bid farewell, knowing that they would never see one another again. They and 45 relatives of my mother were deported to the desert of Der-el-Zor in Syria. Husenig’s entire population of 3,000 people ceased to exist. My grandfather did not fear hunger because he had always fasted for 40 days during lent, but he was dreading the unbearable thirst awaiting him in the desert. Two weeks later, my father and his brother Asadour were deported with their fellow villagers from Yegheki. My mother was completely devastated, she couldn’t speak a word for days. As my father was marched away he never turned around to look back. 
No word was sent from my father, and we had no idea where he really went. There were rumors coming that men were being hung, shot in the head, and even beheaded. Then they were being tossed into ravines to rot and eaten by animals. The rivers were filled with corpses and were finding new routes around them. My mother was now a widow at the age of 18 with a six-month-old. She was distraught at the thought of Nishan’s demise and agonized inconsolably, and if it hadn’t been for me she would have given up living. Having been nurtured in a very religious environment at home, she not only lost her faith but also questioned God—"Why?"— just as countless other Armenians begged to comprehend.

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March 23, 2015

The last three days with my son Areg have been very special. I feel we have really bonded, and the relationship we have built, based on love, mutual respect and enjoyment of life, has become tighter.

A few months ago I went back to Boston for four weeks. It was Christmastime. Not only was I visiting my family, I was also starting my studies for my MFA in Creative Writing at Lesley University, taking part in their Low Residency program. That means I have to be on campus for a week each semester and attend workshops and seminars.  For reasons out of my control, I could not take Areg with me, although he wanted to go and was clearly conscious of my intent to travel. Areg is a lot smarter and cognizant of his environment as well as life situations than many in my opinion, including family members and friends, imagine. Although we communicate on Skype as often as possible when I’m away, it’s still not the same as having physical, interpersonal contact. Two weeks into my stay I noticed that he was uncommunicative, meaning he would not converse, although he wanted to show me things and sat attentively in a chair or in the camera’s view for several minutes at a time while I constantly engaged him through discussion, interaction with family members, showing him the Christmas tree up close and so forth. But he wouldn’t answer my questions or comment about anything. We speak almost exclusively in English, but sometimes in Western Armenian so he gets used to it.

When I returned to Yerevan in mid January he kept refusing to talk. And I learned that he wasn’t talking to other members of the family or his peers and instructors at his kindergarten, either. He apparently only spoke with his mother, in Armenian. In fact he was hesitant to return to kindergarten after the holidays, acting as he did when he first started going last August—complaining and hesitant to stay, although everyone there as well as the environment were now familiar to him. 

The lack of verbal communication persisted for another two months. Areg would communicate by pointing and grunting, or with body language—if he needed to sit on the toilet he would hold his rear end, or his crotch when he had to pee. When I asked if he was hungry or thirsty he would either say nothing in response or say “uh huh” when he was. That was it. Areg will turn four on April 1 so his silence was disconcerting. Sometimes he would start to cry for a few moments when I didn’t understand what he wanted. He did sing, but only songs that he had recently invented (a songwriter in the making) and none of the ones we used to sing together. Although I was naturally patient with him and just as loving, it was frustrating not to hear him give his perspective on things in the world, what he experienced or heard. He always had something to say about any given thing, and being his dad, I always probed him to tell me more. Now it was if I were talking to the walls. Oddly, I began to forget what it was like for him to argue with me about the names of colors, letters or shapes—I intentionally give him the wrong name of something so he will correct me, thus getting him to think and focus. Discourse had ended. A psychologist we visited recommended art therapy, which I intend for him to undergo.

Then just over a week ago there was a breakthrough. It was Saturday night. I began suggesting the wrong names for objects or letters and he suddenly began correcting me. Then he wouldn’t shut up. His perspective on things—letters, colors, objects, toys, concepts, whatever—became revealed once again. We linked up with my mother via Skype so she could share in the surprise. It was an ecstatic moment for all of us I think.

The following morning he was silent again, grunting and pointing. I couldn’t figure out why there was a relapse but we continued our routine of dressing, washing up, eating breakfast, watching Mister Rogers (he started getting into it that weekend, which may have had an influence I suspect) and walking Chi Chi. It was a warm day, in the 60s, so I decided to take him to Lovers’ Park, which was a five-minute metro ride away. We strolled down the paths and eventually ended up in the sand pit, where he sifted, piled, poked and stirred. After about 40 minutes he wanted to move on, so we walked around some more in the park. I was desperate to get him speaking again. On a cement wall in the far right along a path where the landscaping ends there was some graffiti art, with “Im Yerevan” spelled out, (“Im” meaning “my”). So the quiz commenced—“what letter is this, is it an X? What about this one, is that a Q?” After a couple of minutes the arguing began. “That’s not an X, it’s a Y. Why did you say it’s an X? It’s not X, it’s Y.” Then he was expounding on the shape and style of the letter. He insisted that the lowercase V in “Yerevan” was actually a lowercase Y because the diagonal stroke continued past the baseline and curled up to the left at the end. I could not refute him, the damn thing was indeed a Y. The artist’s intent was to make it appear as a footpath leading to the front door of a home, but the footpath metamorphosed into a piano keyboard for whatever reason, further complicating matters.  Then we began to study the design of every letter, wondering why windows were drawn within them, and why were they made to resemble apartment buildings, and he gave his feedback willingly. On the way home down the escalator to the train he suddenly announced, “I have chishig” so we went back up to use the restroom in the park (which is remarkably clean). I treated him to hot chocolate at a nearby café in our neighborhood and I ordered a club sandwich for myself, which I ended up splitting with him. Although I intended to keep him overnight and encourage him further, his mom came by and carried him off. We made quite a bit of headway, though. And this past weekend was even better.  

Anyway, here’s some advice to new dads (not like I have everything figured out yet obviously):

1. Engage your children constantly. Throw as much stimulus at him or her as possible through conversation, play, music, reading, visual stimulus like Sesame Street or Baby Einstein—whatever it is. All of it is beneficial, especially talking, playing, and reading.

2. Speak with your child like you would with an adult. Oftentimes you hear people talk to their toddlers with cartoonish tones of voice and condescending, simplistic language, as if to assume the kid can’t comprehend the idea conveyed or the correction. I find this to be the case especially in Armenia. It’s nonsense to talk to kids as if they’re kids. And talk about anything—nature related, the stars and planets, how the coffee machine functions, whatever. They understand things quite well and they’ll pick up whatever you’re trying to illustrate, fast. Not only that, the tone of their voice will sound more mature. That’s what I’m finding in Areg’s case at least.

3. Never tell your kid he or she can’t do something. “Can’t” implies discouragement, and it leads to diminished self-esteem, something no child should ever endure. If you don’t want your son climbing on the future, tell him “no,” or “don’t do it.” I always add “buddy” or “please” when I want to correct him, then I either praise or thank him. Speaking of which…

4. Praise as much as possible, too much isn’t enough. My son thrives on praise; he aims to please. He’ll do whatever it takes for me to tell him how proud I am of him or how smart he is. He expresses his excitement by shaking both hands in the air rapidly like he wants to whip them off his arms and running across the room, squeaking (admittedly I do the same thing to this day on occasion, it must be genetic). He’s hilarious.

5. Laugh and have fun. One of our favorite activities is baking cookies. He mixes the salt and flour in a separate bowl while I measure out the sugar and butter. He also gets the mixer going—it’s stationary—and we have a blast. His favorite part of the process is licking the mixer beaters. We also work with play dough, play a marble run that we construct together, and we draw as well as paint. Areg loves to play with his dad, not to mention my friends that come over, and I bet the same can be said of any kid. He loves to show and describe something that he created, and he loves the attention. Who wouldn’t? 

I think I’m on to something here and I’m eagerly anticipating what’s next. There’s still Shant to contend with. Now if the three of us were only allowed to spend some quality time alone, who knows what would happen? 

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February 2, 2015

Today's my birthday, which coincidentally falls on Groundhog Day. Yes, that indeed is a hilarious coincidence. Good thing no one in Armenia knows what Groundhog Day is, never mind a groundhog.

I have only two wishes for my birthday:

1. Peace and happiness. We're living in turbulent times. Tensions are high on Armenia's borders. The economy is starting to tank. Regional stability is fragile. Let's pray for peace. That will come from inner peace, inner stability, confidence and self reliance. Most of all peace comes from tolerance and empathy.

2. Evenings when both my sons sleep over in their own home together, in their own beds. I never imagined how difficult going through divorce is, probably because I never fathomed having to endure it several months ago. But although my marriage is finished, my relationship with my boys isn't. Our father-son relationship remains eternal, and nothing will ever come between us. Nothing. On my birthday and every day I send my undying love to my boys. I'll see you soon.

I hope that's not very much to ask for.

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This month Notes From Hairenik celebrates its decennial, online for 10 years straight. I can’t believe a decade has passed already, seems like I just moved here a few years ago. It’s unbelievable how quickly time passes.

Over the years I have documented all facets of my personal life and observations about Armenian culture, society and politics on this blog, and I’ve told the stories of countless citizens, usually ordinary people no one has really ever heard of. I’ve written about all sorts of subjects related to life in Armenia, what to do to keep busy, how to get around, must-see places to visit, where to have a fine meal. I’ve also documented both my delights and frustrations with living in this often under-appreciated country, one that offers a lot more than what people mistakenly, even sarcastically believe.

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My goal was to portray Armenia and its capital Yerevan the way it actually was, or at least the way I began to see it, having crushed the rose-tinted glasses under foot long ago. The mindsets and even psychology of Armenians have been explored in my posts, some of which were controversial while others fondly appreciated. I thank both my critics and admirers over the years, all of you have pushed me to keep me writing about my passion for this craggy, stunningly beautiful country. I grew significantly both professionally and personally during my stay. I have also seen my share of hardships, which I am not unthankful for in retrospect. I had a health problem five years back resulting in the removal of my gallbladder, thankfully a relatively trouble free ordeal. Frustrations with chauvinism, complacency and fatalistic, jaded personalities have worn down my enthusiasm on more than one occasion. Two marriages have crumbled in the span of a decade.

But I have had real triumphs. The two eternal sunshines in mylife, Areg and Shant, remind me every luminous morning what it means to be alive, to love life and be thankful for every passing moment.  They never cease to inspire and fill me with pure joy, blazing white energy. In September 2013 one of the most important events of my life took place when I spoke at TEDxYerevan. And I have made true, everlasting friendships with people that have endured. I’m truly grateful and lucky for all that I have had in my life.

Thanks to all of you for your support and encouragement over the years. I couldn’t have kept this blog going without you.

With much respect and gratitude,
Christian 



































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November 3, 2014
As I lay in bed trying to finally kick the lingering, sinus-stuffing virus that has swept Yerevan, my children included (they affectionately gave it to me in the first place), I thought I'd post some golden moments from the last six months. Shantig my little one has grown up a lot and after only one year (his birthday is tomorrow!) is ready to start walking already—seems like it's just a matter of minutes. And big brother Areg has a great appetite for fine foods as you'll see. I love these kids more than anything, they're my two sunshines and they fill me with energy and hope every day, even when we're apart.




























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