Prior to setting foot on Armenian soil, I had yet to fully grasp the deep connectivity of Armenian culture to geography. As a Diasporan with roots in Cilicia and the Middle East, my concept of Armenianness is unique to me and my experiences, and the same is true for each and every Armenian, whether in the Diaspora or in Armenia proper. This geography is more than simply a location, it is a state of mind, and that, above all, is what I came to realize during my travels to Artsakh.

The Birthright Armenia three-day excursion to the Zangezur region and Artsakh in July followed a geographic and symbolic path. We began our travels at the incomparable monastery at Tatev, where the sheer scale of the surrounding mountains forced us to open our eyes and our hearts, preparing us for the events to follow. At Tatev we sat above a deep valley, surrounded by lush greenery and haunted by the echoes of one of our compatriots singing Der Voghormia in the ancient church. Forced, we were, perhaps against our will, to abandon the clutter in our minds and hearts that had accumulated since our arrival in Armenia and start afresh. As we descended down the windy, unpaved road from Tatev, I could not help but feel like a blank slate, ready for new imprints from my country.

We continued to wind our way through the mountainous southern region and, ultimately, crossed the checkpoint into Nagorno-Karabagh. The stories and descriptions about Karabagh are not overstatements. The physical surroundings alone: the air, the scenery, the mountains, the atmosphere, are breathtaking and continued to keep our hearts open and connected as we passed through the hills and arrived in the town of Shushi.

A beautiful church in front of us, a quaint, renovated hotel behind us, and in between, a field where dozens of local children had begun to gather to greet our bus and see who had come to visit their little town. With warmth I had not yet encountered, even among the children of the villages in Armenia proper, the children of Shushi descended upon us and, literally, took our hands and brought us into their world. Slowly, as we began to look past their adorable smiles and innocent laughter, a more dismal reality set in. The dirt under their small fingernails, the maturity in their eyes, their matted hair, the desperation with which they asked us to buy them ice cream; boys wearing girls' dresses and shoes for lack of proper clothing, the awe with which they peeked into our purses, as if a dream lived inside them. And slowly but surely, the facades of the hotel and the grandiose church faded in the twilight and those of the dilapidated apartment buildings between them sprung into focus. The children's spirit, their smiles, touched us all in different ways, invoking tears, laughter, and above all, a sense of urgency with no target.

As we settled in with our host families in Shushi, exhausted by the physical and emotional journey, the sparkling eyes of those children haunted me. One different shift of my ancestors and I could have been one of those children. Any of us could. And though our circumstances and lifestyles would have been very different, our sense of Armenianness would be nearly identical. As we sat and chatted with the local families, listening to their perspectives on life in Nagorno-Karabagh, the political circumstances, and the life without a single luxury that the war has forced them to live, the connection to this place and its people deepened. And I realized, with resignation, that I feel more connected to Armenia in Artsakh than I do anywhere else and with great sadness, I realized why.

For, as a Diasporan Armenian, whose ancestors were forced to flee their homes during the genocide, who lived in host countries in the Middle East among sometimes hostile neighbors, and who never had a true homeland to call their own, I identify with the struggle of the people of Artsakh, both physical and psychological. My sense of culture is infused with struggle, a feeling of not belonging, of having hurdles to overcome. Whether that hurdle is genocide recognition or negotiations with Azerbaijan, or a simple need for self-determination and belonging, the soldier who fought in the war and I, two people who have lived diametrically opposed lives, are one and the same.

And so, as we, the Diasporan youth who have come to experience our culture in the only land we will ever have to call our own, knelt in the church that was renovated with our Diasporan money, surrounded by apartment buildings without running water, gas for heat in the winter, and flushing toilets, we prayed for the people of Shushi and for guidance as to the best way to channel our sense of culture into aid for the people of these lands.

I returned to Yerevan with a heavy heart, as the ghosts of Artsakh and the spirit of its children have made permanent homes in my consciousness and will not allow me to forget them. For that, I am grateful, and I know, that these ghosts have a comfortable place with me. They know that I understand their pain. That I feel their disjointedness. And that my sense of self and culture is grounded in their struggles.

Nairi Tashjian (USA),
AAA volunteer and BR/DH participant