Public transportation is a space for ordinary people. Whether it be commuting to work and back, or going to see a loved one, the destinations of these passengers remain irrelevant to those on the outside. However, these often rusty and not-up-to-date vessels are places where the most interesting stories are found. This also applies to Armenia.
Since last year’s war in Artsakh, about 90,640 people were displaced, according to The International Organization for Migration. It reported in December 2020 74% of these spontaneous arrivals were hosted in urban communities while 26% settled in rural ones. Totaling to 27, 501 families in 593 communities.
My first experience on a train going from Yerevan to Gyumri involved meeting a few of these people, a family of five from Martuni.
The second youngest child, Nayri, 12, and his friend Arman, 9, caught my attention because they were peaking over the other side of their train seats and giggling. His round face peaked over the seat and asked where I was from.
“America and you?” I replied.
“Yes Gharabaghtsi em,” he said.
I became visibly surprised. I had never met a Gharabaghtsi before. Unfortunately, the struggle to remain in our ancestral lands has always been a prevalent part of being Armenian. This kid, and his family, are now a part of this struggle because we failed to keep them where they belong.
In Artsakh.
I wanted to ask their family about their experience in last year’s war, but that would have been irresponsible and off-putting. I took into account these people had to flee their homes and are reluctant to revisit those memories.
Nonetheless, our conversation was still a valuable one. I hope it was as valuable for them as it was for me.
Nayri first asked me about what my profession was. I told him photojournalist and when I asked he said without hesitation that he wanted to be either a singer or an actor.
His mom, Rita, told him to come and sit next to us and encouraged him to sing. Again, with confidence, he fixed his posture, placed his hands on his lap and began to sing. All of the volunteers on the train with me stopped their conversations and what they were doing to listen to Nayri.
I envied his confidence because you can’t teach it as a skill. You can perhaps gain more through repetition and experience, but some kids just have it from the jump. Maybe that’s why he initiated the conversation with me.
“It’s good that you’re not afraid,” I told him.
“I’m not embarrassed,” Nayri said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. “
Then we began to teach him, his friend Arman and his brother Alex some words in English. To my surprise he was picking up on it extremely quickly and again was not afraid to try. Occasionally, when he went back to sit with his family, he’d try to get my attention and sound out some words or numbers.
“Fiveteen,” he’d say with a smile.
Everything about this kid was unique, even his appearance. A bit of chubby kid with acne and scars on his round face, with his adult teeth still growing in and a gap in the middle. His right index or middle finger was half cut off from the bottom. When we asked his mom what happened she said he and his friends were messing around with an ax. Nayri also casually mentioned that he dropped boiling water on his left foot.
The mom was hopeful despite losing her home. I mentioned that I had never been to Artsakh and she suggested that one day I’ll be able to go, holding on to that hope that I thought would be lost with their home.
As full of life and optimism as Nayri and his family might seem, under that enthusiasm burns the unfortunate reality of losing your home because of last year’s war.
At one point in our conversation, we began to mention our ages and holidays, and Nayri’s mom said that since last year’s war they don’t celebrate anything, not even the kid’s birthdays. For them, holidays were celebrated in Martuni. That’s been stripped from their lives, and along with many others displaced because of the war.
As their stop began to approach, I did not want them to leave. The train ride was three hours long, but no amount of exhaustion could prevent me from continuing a conversation with these people.
Nayri and I shook hands and said our goodbyes. I don’t know if I’ll ever meet him or his family again but our conversation was worthwhile.
Nayri and I did one more firm shake and he was on his way.
I told Nayri the next time I see him he’ll be a singer or actor like he wished. These kids did nothing to deserve being removed from their homes other than living in a border city and being Armenian, of course.
How to Help Displaced Families
With 3,705 soldiers, volunteers and police killed in last year’s war, the result of these deaths are families without their sons, fathers and husbands.
Women and children are feeling the brunt of these deaths. About 88% of displaced people from last year’s war are women and children and are lacking the resources needed to sustain their lives.
Kooyrigs, a nonprofit that provides resources to the global Armenian network by launching community projects, implementing educational initiatives, and amplifying marginalized voices, has initiatives such as Looys, which helps provide aid such as medication, clothes, household essentials and locally sourced food.
They also have Mayreegs, an initiative that provides resources to pregnant women who were displaced because of the Artsakh war. They support mothers up to one month after pregnancy and deliver packages containing at least a $60 months supply of baby care. They also support the women by “locating doctors registering with a hospital, coordinating their birth plans, and also provide companionship to their doctor appointments so mothers do not have to attend alone.”
They currently have about 200 beneficiaries throughout Armenia.
Nayri’s family is not a part of the Kooyrigs’ program. She was vague when describing their current condition. As far as their future goes, Nayri’s mom is currently working as a teacher, and taking more classes in school to try and earn more money.
Hopefully, I see them on the train again sometime. As a diasporan, these conversations with Armenians, and especially Artsakhtsis living here are incredibly valuable. I’m no longer just sitting in my room in Santa Clarita, making assumptions or wondering what condition these people are in.
These conversations have the opportunity to reveal opinions and truths about Armenia, and not having them would be a disservice to not only myself but also Armenia. Then I’ll just be that diaspora who does a lot of talking and not enough listening to the people who have been affected the most.
Ughi means “route” or “way” in Armenian and is the title of this series. We often run into people on the same path as us, and the conversations we have are often just memories left on those paths. Whether you think it is by pure coincidence or destiny that you meet certain people in your life is up to you. This blog is just to document those conversations so they do not become forgotten when thinking in retrospect.
So, these conversations will continue and so will my reflections that follow.