Returning To My Grandfather’s Homeland

Author: Michael Karapetian

Mount Aragats was staged to my right. Its four snowcapped peaks stared back at me as the taxi drove along. Maybe they were just as curious about me as I was about them.

I was leaving Yerevan, the capital city. It was a place I had completely fallen for despite my short time there. The “Pink City” was dotted with buildings built from volcanic stone. In a short walk around the city, you could findfamous stray dogs and drinking fountains that always had the crispest mountain water. From the Cascade, you can get a perfect view of Mount Ararat, an iconic symbol of Armenia and its people.

This year, I had already left my home, job, friends, and life behind in the United States to come to Armenia and to reconnect with my roots, culture, and the people here. I was nervous about leaving all this to begin volunteering in Gyumri, the second largest city in the country.

I am volunteering through Birthright Armenia, whose mission is to bring volunteers from the Armenian Diaspora back to the country to volunteer and truly experience it. I’ve always wanted to see this country authentically, so I signed up.

My grandfather left Armenia as a young man because he was forced to fight for the Russians in World War II. After months of exhausting battle, he was captured in Poland as a prisoner of war. He spent four years in a prison camp, barely surviving hunger and the cold, until the war finally ended.

He knew if he returned to the Soviet Union, he would be sent to a Gulag in the Siberian tundra. Stalin had made this policy to punish the prisoners of war for failing to do their duty during the war.

Instead, he decided to go to the United States and begin a new life there. He wouldn’t see his home in Armenia again until decades later.

From Left to Right: My Great Grandmother Varsenik, My Grandfather Karo, My Great Grandfather Harutun

And now, as his grandson, I have returned to Armenia.

I tell people I returned to volunteer because I wanted to learn the language and reconnect with my roots. And while those reasons are absolutely true, I can’t ignore the magnetic pull this place has. As part of the diaspora, you feel it calling even if you never understand what that feeling is.

I’ve never felt out of place in the United States, but being here, despite it being a completely foreign land, with a foreign language, it somehow feels like home. My grandfather passed away when I was very young, and I never knew him well. But here, I feel very close to him.

The taxi dropped me off in Gyumri. It was much colder than Yerevan. There was snow and ice still on the ground. Winter here lingered longer than at my home in Florida.

Gyumri doesn’t feel like a typical city. The architecture carries an imprint of the Soviet era, and a Russian military base sits just minutes away from my house. Yet the atmosphere is anything but rigid. It feels loose, even playful.

The stone roads are tight, there are no tall buildings, and potholes exist everywhere, making it impossible to go faster than 25 kmh. But in the center square, the Church of the Holy Savior and the Cathedral of the Holy Mother of God sit directly across from each other. Between the two churches, there is sacred stillness.

In 1988, an earthquake that killed tens of thousands of people struck the region and destroyed Gyumri as well. The two churches in the center were severely damaged. But the country, and the people of Gyumri, rebuilt. You can still see the scars in the city, with structures left partially unrepaired. But the scars are shown off. The Churches proudly displayed the old domes that sat at the top of the church prior to the earthquake on the front lawn.

Armenians have a unique sense of resilience. From surviving empires to genocide, to rebuilding after a devastating earthquake, and making Armenia what it is today, the resilience of the Armenian people is unique and inspiring. I’ve seen it in my grandfather, who rebuilt his life after four years in a prisoner of war camp, and I know I will continue to learn from it as I’m here in Gyumri.

Statue of Vardan Mamikonian, situated in the center between the two churches

Now weeks later, I’m getting used to life in Gyumri. I’m north of the four peaks of Aragats. I see them as I walk the streets — and they see me.

I feel myself falling in love with the magic of this city. Each week, I meet new people, both volunteers and locals, who crack open my view of the world a little each time we speak. Every new monastery I explore, every new street I walk, unlocks the mysteries this ancient country has.

Haghpat Monastary in the snow

Still, it’s challenging. But I guess that’s what I wanted in the first place.

There’s a dichotomy of living in a country that simultaneously feels like home, but is also so foreign. Not just the linguistic difficulties, but I’m also navigating cultural differences that feel alien to an American like me.

As a volunteer, you get a host family. I didn’t know that in an Armenian’s house you can’t be barefoot, so my host mother, Yeranuhi, gave me pink slippers that are 4 sizes too small. I trip around the house while walking with them.

So every day I shuffle along awkwardly. I could get new slippers, but I don’t really want to. I hear discomfort makes you grow, and that’s why I’m here.

I often wonder what my grandfather would think of me doing all this. There are different reasons that draw us to Armenia, and different reasons that force us to leave. I know, regardless of how different his life was when he was here, Mount Aragats watched over him as it does me.

As I look to the mountains every morning, I feel peace in knowing that my own time here — no matter how awkwardly it shuffles along — has its place.

The Four Peaks of Mt. Aragats and Me