Revisiting the Armenian Genocide Memorial and Museum

 

As part of the ethnographic approach to my dissertation, I am trying to visit many of the more commonly visited museums in terms of school field trips.  One of the museums I had been putting off was to visit the Genocide Museum and Memorial.  Located on a hill side, there are several ways one can approach the area near the memorial and museum entrance.  I had taken the public transportation and got dropped off just across the street near the flower shop.  Conveniently located, I walked into the shop and saw four red roses sitting in a vase.  Vartuhi, my father's mother, was a survivor of the Genocide.  She walked through the Der Zor desert with her mother and baby brother and ended up being the only one to survive from her family.  Like many survivors, she ended up at an orphanage in Syria where my father was born years later.  My grandmother's name "Vartuhi" refers to "vart" or rose and in memory of her family, I felt the rose was most appropriate.  It was a chilly morning - around 38 degrees Fahrenheit - I guess it was cold enough for the grass to be covered in frost.  As I approached the path towards the museum, a car pulled up to the parking lot with a United Nations license plate.  Many folks arrived with their dogs to take them for a walk in park spaces surrounding the memorial and museum complex.  The Armenia-Diaspora monument can be seen from a distance which guided me.  Along my walk, I also saw folks out exercising - speed walking with their friends.  It seemed like a typical morning for everyone.

 

I decided to first pay my respect at the eternal flame and place the roses at the memorial.  Approaching the memorial, one can read names of the provinces where Armenians lived in the Ottoman Empire along this stone wall.  I paused to take a photo of my families' hometowns: my mother's side was from Berecik and and my father's side from Palu.  My mother says when she visited Armenia for the first time in 2006 that this site was the first time she had ever seen Berecik referenced which made her proud.  She often looked for Ainteb on the map or knew Berecik was close by which is how I remember her telling us where her family came from.

The memorial has twelve pillars representing the Ottoman provinces where Armenians once lived.  In the background, I heard Armenian church hymns amplified in the speakers.  An elderly lady had a broom and plastic bag where she was collecting trash.  She appeared to be a member of the memorial and monument complex staff and was cleaning the memorial area.  "Hurry up, let's go!" shouted a man standing at the top of the stairs.  Ignoring his request, she continued to clean.  Moments later she responded, "There are sunflower shells all over - I have to finish cleaning this off!" She saw me approach and smiled at me.  I greeted her and smiled back.  She cleared off a space near the center and said, "young lady, come place your pretty roses here - it will look nice here" as she finished clearing the wilted flower petals.  I had visited this memorial far too many times that I no longer kept track.  For me, its not just a memorial I visited on April 24th annually while living in Armenia - it was a place I visited many times with organized groups or at times, when I went walking with a friend.  Sometimes the fire wasn't lit - but today, it was burning.  The center is known as the eternal flame never to be turned off - always burning in memory of those who were massacred during the Genocide.  I stood still silently taking in the somber aura with the hymns, the flame, the carnations, the birds flying above.  It was cold, quiet, and calm.  On the night of April 23rd, Armenians annually walk up to this site for the evening march with torches and flags - some chanting swears against Turks, others singing.  The following day is a memorial day - everyone visits the memorial so streets are blocked off and crowds swarm around with their flowers.  My visit this morning was between me, the cleaning lady, and my thoughts.  I suspect the staff sensed I was a diasporan Armenian based on my Western Armenian dialect.  I also sensed not everyone typically visits this space besides the month of April so my identity is quite obvious in this given moment.  

Gathered near the museum entrance, I was surprised to see many tourists also visiting the museum - tourists, in December, at the Genocide museum I thought to myself.  Perhaps this is because of the recent passing of the US Senate Resolution recognizing the Armenian Genocide.  I thought to myself this might be a reason why more folks may be attracted to this site.  Moments after I entered the exhibit, three men dressed in suites entered with a museum curator and spoke English with an American accent.  The curator explained to the museum staff that she would be escorting their American guests and giving them a tour.  While the staff spoke to each other, these men were looking around and were in awe of the map of the Ottoman Empire on the wall.  They asked several questions and before I could look up, were out of sight.  It had been a while since I had visited the exhibit which allowed me to appreciate it and treat this as a new space and memory.

As I continued to walk further through the exhibit, the history was presented in chronological order and progressed from early Ottoman times, through the fedayee movement, and eventually sharing stories of survival.  While I was familiar with the history, I read the texts as if I had read about the Genocide for the first time.  The most challenging part of this visit for me was reading the details about how people were killed: children's bodies tortured, "shortly after this photograph was taken, they were burnt alive", or after they fought in WWI for the Ottoman army, Armenians were all killed off.

The Fedayee Oath:

"I swear with my honor and nationality to put all my strengths and if need be my blood to serve the just cause of liberation of Armenia against tyranny, therefore Armenian mountains will be my pillow and my innermost desire will be to die for the sake of homeland.  I'm glad and willing to bear the kiss of a sizzling bullet."

  

    

The orphanage room disturbed me most as the childrens' eyes looked so real that it felt like they were looking at me as I entered the room.  Their images had a reflection on the ground and their stories seemed more than just texts on the walls.  In one text, I noticed that they referred to a child who had lost their human identity.  Perhaps all too often the emphasis is on "Armenian" identity so the "human" element seemed more striking to me.

As I walked through the museum, I tried to imagine: what do school children think when they visit this museum and see this exhibit?  The history was from over a 100 years ago and for most of these kids, if a family member did survive the Genocide, it would be their great, great grandparents at this point in time.  Some of the images and descriptions on the walls felt like deja vu where I had just seen them in recent headlines with the attack on the Kurdish community in northern Syria.  

Upon exiting the exhibit one reads on the wall Adolf Hitler's infamous quote: "Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?"

In honor of International Human Rights Day

On December 7, 2012 at the US Embassy in Yerevan, I had the honor of presenting at a roundtable panel discussion on the occasion of International Human Rights Day with Mikayel Danielyan, a figure who I felt extremely unqualified to share such a space.  That day, I was invited to present some of my findings from a study on how peace education is taught in Armenia in honor of International Human Rights Day.  While I did not have the privilege of having a close relationship with Mikayel, I remember his contribution to Armenian society as he spent most (if not all) of his life struggling to fight for human rights in Armenia.  Even though Mikayel passed away in 2016, ironically - or maybe not ironically - I always remember him on this day.

This day also proves to be very important in my fieldwork, too.  Repeatedly in the last series of interviews here in Yerevan, teachers referenced instances where human rights had been violated in their stories and referred to the upcoming annual remembrance of the adoption of the UN Declaration of Human Rights on December 10, 1948.  Each interview has always proven to be a unique experience.  Leading up to the interview, I enjoy getting to learn and know each teacher I meet along this journey.  While the rest of the world might be falling apart, with ongoing wars - both with artillery, bullets, and tanks but also, the insane amount of hatred manifested back home in the USA with the current impeachment hearings - these teachers I've met brighten these cold, bare classrooms, breathing life back into this world through the hearts to the next generation (and selfishly, re-energizing me).  It is really a privilege and honor when these teachers open up with me and so far, every interview has been a humbling experience.  In honor of International Human Rights day, I wanted to highlight two teachers from my last round of interviews.
Note: I have not completed these transcriptions/translations yet because, as you're about to read, some of these stories are hard for me to return to (but also, I dislike hearing my own voice on the recordings).

Memories from childhood

Teacher 1

She started to describe herself as the "crooked one" in her family in that she didn't choose the same professions as her family members but also because she was never satisfied with justifications adults would give to her: "why, I always asked why and it seems, I always wanted to protect everyone else's human rights".  Throughout her childhood she was struggling to understand the violence she saw in society which has shaped her to becoming a true leader and teacher at her school today.  

"We lived in a neighborhood with regular people...I remember the days of the war, and fortunate for us, my father had a good job so we were ok...but I remember as a child witnessing violence by my neighbors husbands towards their wives and my classmates' parents who went to fight in the war.  In my class, I also saw violence...one my classmate's couldn't really study well because at the age of 6 or 7 he was the type of person who had to take on or carry his family's responsibilities and couldn't study well because of those responsibilities and couldn't keep up...perhaps he should have been evaluated in school differently based on his skills and knowledge...but I remember my teacher beating this student...and in those moments my classmates and I struggled as we couldn't move or show our agitation...and I remember watching him take the beating as a "man" without his eyes tearing up..."

As the story unfolded, I tried to hold back my tears.  I stay focused on the details of the story - the moments where she looked away but also the moments where it seemed that she returned from the memory back to the lounge space where we were seated comfortably with coffee.  Unfortunately, the violence this teacher witnessed as a child has led her to become a "teacher hero" fighting for children's rights, for humans' rights.  

She had an opportunity to hear stories of Armenian refugees from Azerbaijan who referred to Azerbaijan as their homeland and remembers these older folks longing to return to see their homeland.  In my experiences, it's often unheard of or, we might even categorize it as a a taboo for Armenians to describe the "enemy" neighbor's territory in a fond manner.  But for Armenian refugees, as this teacher pointed out Azerbaijan was their homeland, where they grew up and formed their childhood memories.  How can anyone judge or take away what is rightly theirs? After hearing many of these accounts over the last few months, I learned that many Armenian refugees from Azerbaijan later fled Armenia as they were unable to settle in Armenia, their "homeland".  

On my way home from school that day, before approaching the bus stop, I let my tears flow while listening to the sound of the traffic and the laughter of the children on the playground...I took a long pause.

*   *    *

Teacher 2

His father did not have a formal education however, this teacher said he learned a lot of important life skills from his father.  He described his father as a very hard working man and was a tradesman.  This teacher explained how his father traded goods with Azerbaijanis living in Nakhchivan bringing their goods and selling it in the markets in Yerevan.  As a child, he says one thing that was strange for him was how his father never weighed the goods (vegetables, grains, etc.).  Azerbaijanis would unload all of the bags off of the truck and his father would give the payment without checking or weighing these items.  The teacher asked his father, how do you know if they are bringing exactly what they say they did?  His father said he did not need to weigh or check because he trusted them.  One day the teacher decided he would check on the weights and measurements to be convinced that his father was not being scammed or anything.  After his father's Azerbaijani partners finished unloading the truck and drove off, this teacher waited til his father was out of sight.  The teacher says he weighed everything, calculated the costs, and prepared to present his findings to his father that evening.  Somehow, he brought up the topic again with his father about the goods and payments, and asked his father how much he received that day.  He confessed to his father that he had done some calculations and wanted to see if what the Azerbaijanis told his father added up to the same amount.  The teacher described how his father mocked him and his "calculations"and reaffirmed that he had full confidence and trust with his Azerbaijani partners.  At that moment, the teacher took out his calculations and showed his father claiming that they did in fact fall short of bringing the amount that they claimed to have brought that day.  He described how his father didn't flinch or show any doubt which surprised him even more.  His father asked him to recalculate his numbers - the teacher paused and reminded me here that his father was illiterate.  After recalculating, the teacher says he was surprised by his own miscalculation - he was taken aback by his own mistake!  To this day, the teacher remembers his father's smile and confidence from that very moment.

I believe this teacher brought up this memory to demonstrate that coexistence was not only a real part of our history, but involved real relationships based on trust and respect.  Today it would be unheard of to have these types relationships between Armenians and Azerbaijanis due to the amount of hatred and fear that has manifested right before outbreak of war and thereafter.  The point I am trying to make here is that long before politics and national leaders got involved, there are histories and stories of actual relations built on trust and loyalty.  How quickly we have come to erase these memories?  How quickly hatred replaced such peaceful spaces and relations?  I am still struggling to explore these answers.

Looking, from inside these windows

Looking, from outside these windows,
I see the colors of the leaves, changing - red, orange, yellow, green
their warm, bright colors shine through the glass of our school windows.

Standing near the window,
I hear the voices of children
calling to each other,
laughing with one another,
bouncing the ball,
whispering secrets.

Outside the window,
parents approach the entrance
holding their child's hand in one hand, and their backpack in the other,
reviewing their lessons and reminding their children to behave in school,
hugging and kissing, they wave goodbye to their children.

On the other side of the window,
teachers prepare materials,
arrange desks and chairs,
organize their classrooms for another day of learning, another day of working.

All of the schools' windows shattered
when the war broke out
hide in the basement, take shelter,
we're safe here - with a supply of water
wait, until the explosions stop.

Teachers taught during the day,
then went to guard the border through the night;
some never sleeping,
some days, teachers never went home in between
just changed into their uniform at school.

Plastic bags covered the frames
where the glass of the windows once stood,
sights of children, parents, and teachers were no longer visible,
laughter was replaced with the sound of plastic crashing against the cold wind
which flooded into the hallways.

Windows were installed when the principal secured funding
their village mayor could not support these expenses
the principal was left to her own devices
not all of the windows were restored,
some needed to be covered,
fear that if war were to return
shattered windows could cause harm.

Looking from inside these windows,
learning re-commences
new and former students filled the hallways
and teachers returned to their classrooms.

But, are you "really" Armenian?

Never once have I heard anyone question if Kim Kardashian West is “really” Armenian. Kim has most recently taken interest in her Armenian roots when her sisters, husband and children visited Armenia in 2015. Currently she is studying law and planning to pursue a new hobby: recognition of the Armenian Genocide. And as of recent news, Kim will return to Armenia to attend the World Congress of Information Technology in Armenia. Yet, no one ever questions her Armenian-ness during interviews or their infamous family television series "Keeping Up With the Kardashians". It's ironic for a celebrity who only recently came around to embracing her Armenian identity like Kim to never have to justify her Armenian-ness.

Unlike Kim, I don’t enjoy her status of being “really" Armenian. One of the most common questions I encounter during my fieldwork experience is whether or not I am “really” Armenian. For many of my friends who understand identities as complex and multilayered, this may come as a rather odd question while others may have a shared or similar experience. My brilliant friend Ana suggested, “those of us who had to leave Geo political spaces, or who feel the limits of borders and our bodies understand the complexities in a different way than those who never been asked this question”. Indeed, Ana is right.  Some people will never have to experience discrimination or interrogation due to their privilege(s). For me, this is one of those many moments during fieldwork where my inside/outside identity plays tricks on my body.

But really, what does it mean to be "really" Armenian? By now, I imagine(d) that the Armenian society would have moved passed a traditional notion of being Armenian and could understand identity from a wide(r) spectrum. More specifically, I imagined we wouldn't continue claiming that the "blood flowing in our veins are the colors of the Armenian flag" (tricolor: red, blue, orange). When forced to confront this question, "But, are you really Armenian?" I revert to my family history which does not go too far back. 

I relive my grandmother's survival story when traveling through the Der Zor desert and arriving in Haleb as an orphan as the rest of her family were killed off.

 I remember my parents' upbringing where education was expensive and at a young age, they needed to join the work force.

I recall my parents' stories growing up in Haleb and then moving to Beirut where they lived through many wars only to escape and eventually settle in the United States. As a child, my first language was Armenian.  Growing up in Rhode Island, I spent the weekends in our Armenian community where I went to Saturday Armenian school and Sunday School.  During the week, I attended public American school where I always knew I was "different".

Every time I encounter that question, I retell this story holding back my tears, never letting them know or see what "really" being Armenian has meant for me.

Does age matter? Reflections about (potential) participants

Throughout the last few weeks, I have been in contact with several different nongovernmental organizations (NGO) who agreed to assist me in targeting teachers that could potentially become participants for my dissertation.  Special thanks to the MoESCS, I have permission to enter schools in  various regions: Shirak, Syunik, Tavush and Yerevan.  While I am not limited so specific schools, it is challenging to identify teachers who may be willing to participate but also share their stories.  When describing the profile of teachers I am trying to work with, I find that most folks begin by thinking about teachers who are older or retired.  The primary reason for this is because most folks concentrate on the idea that individuals who may have coexisted with the "other" ought to be old(er).  However, very far and few think that the younger generation may have heard stories from grandparents' or other relatives' memories and experiences.  The older participants are (truly) important as they represent the generation of people who have lived with other ethnicities and are those who knew of (positive) interactions. 

The newer generation - or perhaps teachers my age - no longer have those experiences of coexistence.  Instead new generations of teachers may have experiences and memories of interacting with the "other" while being abroad for a training.  For the younger generation it is a foreign concept to interact with Azerbaijanis or people from Turkey.  Over the years as Armenian society no longer had contact with Azerbaijanis or people from Turkey, this may have contributed to feelings of hesitation, if not, fear to interact with them.  Perhaps history lessons attribute to their reaction and find it difficult to accept the "other" as anything but their enemy.

Considering these reflections, one might wonder, who has the right to remember and re-member?  

As I continue to further develop my fieldwork, I am eager to see what the average age of my participants will be and if in fact age will be a significant factor.

Armenia-Turkey Border: Fragmented thoughts and moments from a border village

After a week of visiting a border village school, I looked back at my notes, thoughts, and reflections.  I wanted to piece together some of these moments to help visualize this week.  While they appear as incomplete fragments of thoughts, I wrote it this way intentionally to reflect truly how I experienced these moments.

Listen...listen quietly...can you hear?  Borders tell us who belongs here and who doesn’t – you cannot touch the border, however be warned, the border can touch you, remind you that you don’t belong here or you can’t go past there.

You see, borders are not real – how can it be real if we cannot go near it, touch it, or stand on the other side? We live(d) on the "other" side - we live(d) together.  

When you approach the border, the border whispers gently, "you’re not welcome on this side".

Can borders be real because it marks where the land of one nation ends? Where you cannot go past unless you are allowed certain permissions? Some villagers are allowed to cross over to take care of their crops and return.

Borders cause fear and paranoia – what "globalized" world? What "global" citizenship?  But certainly post-national!

And, who are you?  Why are you taking pictures?  What are you doing here? Will you say and write good things about our village?

Illegal crossovers and other foreigners came through the village – why are they here?  We cannot have foreigners come through our village – only Armenians belong here.

Be careful of spies.

Scared of who, you ask?  Scared of the “enemy”.

Thinking about the future – if border village children want to leave and pursue a life away from their village, can they leave? If they leave, will they return?  

Stay here in the village, you don’t need to go out there.

Visiting border schools

A 30 minute, 200AMD ($0.42USD) gazelle ride from the Gyumri bus station can take you out to the villages along the Armenia and Turkish border. In the Shirak region, one retired teacher recalled her childhood memories growing up in this area.  She described how there were once 28 villages of which 7 were Armenian while the rest were Azerbaijani. Amasia is one of the Azerbaijani villages of the Shirak region.  Prior to entering Meghrashat, one passes Okhchoglu, another Azerbaijani village which was later renamed and is known today as Voghji.  The teacher recalled how closely they worked together under the Soviet Union but as the USSR was beginning to fall apart, she says relations began to deteriorate quickly.

There is only one school in the village I visited today - one cannot find any shops or other major places to visit.  One mother and former school cafeteria chef does not have decent employment in her village - her salary was based on each child she served which totaled 20 AMD which is equivalent to $0.042USD.

Upon sitting in the gazelle at the Gyumri bus station, I sensed that most of the riders were teachers based upon the way they were dressed and materials.  Later, their conversations about lesson plans and specific students confirmed my instincts.  It is common that many teachers traveled as far as 30 minutes to go to work daily to their neighboring villages.  Majority of the teachers were female.

Today, I met with and attended classes of a teacher who is a refugee from Azerbaijan.  In the teachers lounge, she made an announcement to describe why I was visiting and who I am.  "She is a Diasporan Armenian from America - guys, she is Armenian!"  I overheard one teacher's reaction to another, "I could tell she is Armenian".  The teacher felt inclined to also disclose that the primary reason why I was there was to interview and work with her because of her refugee identity.  Deep down I felt bad when she felt inclined to share or almost justify why I chose to interview and work with her due to her refugee status.  In my mind I had never thought about how the local populations receive(d) and perceive(d) Armenian refugees from Azerbaijan?  I did not manage to get to hear a lot of her stories yet but slowly, we began to develop a rapport.  

Both the refugee teacher and retired teacher were interested in learning about my identity and my family history.  While I spoke Armenian, I think they still needed to determine whether or not I am allowed to have "access" to such deep and personal memories.  My story usually went something like this: My parents were born in Haleb, Syria, where their ancestors were relocated as a result of the Armenian Genocide of 1915.  Typical of their time, they moved to Beirut later in their lives where they would eventually escape the wars...from what we know, my grandmother from my father's side walked with her mother and brother through Der Zor desert - Vartouhi (my grandmother) would be saved while her mother and brother later drowned themselves.

Today we've only begun to establish trust and rapport.  During one interview, we've only scratched the surface of memories of coexistence in Shirak.  And yet, each time I set off to visit a site, interview, school, or meeting, I always begin the day by asking myself, who am I to be allowed to enter these spaces, these peoples lives, classrooms, homes and memories?  Conducting fieldwork is both a great honor and humbling reminder of how fortunate we are to be able to enter [our] communities and conduct research.  Through this process, I am trying to reconcile with my researcher and community identity.  This will be a topic for another blog I'll have to return to soon.