My Family’s Past is Fact, Not a Controversy

By Adroushan Mardirossian (Guest Contributor)

Germany, after over 100 years, has at last stopped dancing on the political stage and is now chanting the truth to the world. This influential nation has just passed a resolution recognizing the Armenian Genocide as what it was, genocide. Although this is undoubtedly a victory in the pursuit of justice, Germany’s acceptance of the genocide does not validate the facts of 1915. Neither Germany, the US, nor any other nation may tell me what did and did not occur to my ancestors over 100 years ago.

Obama can refrain from using the “G” word and Erdogan can continue to claim that the slaughtering of 1.5 million Armenians is a mere lie. That the Armenian Genocide never occurred. That my ancestors were not killed by Turks. That they did not struggle.  That they did not watch Turkish soldiers painfully kill each and every one of their family members.  That they were not marched to their own deaths, not physically abused, and not deprived of their rights.  But here’s the thing, my family’s past is not up for debate.

Every Armenian family has inherited a painful story.  These are stories that are hard to tell, and even harder to imagine. Stories of being robbed, raped, and killed. Stories that were never meant to be told and were supposed to end with the banishment of Armenians.  And although each story is different and unique, they all begin and end with the fact that we survived.   

If the leaders of the world’s nations fail to acknowledge these stories as the truth, then so be it. These political stances will not change what my ancestors endured.  They will not change their struggles, their strength, nor their courage.  They will not change what we have lost at the hands of the Turks.  And they will not change the facts.  

The fact is that we struggled, lost so much, but yet persevered. The genocide left our Armenian community in ruins, and present-day Armenia is only a fraction of its original size before the country was subjugated under Ottoman rule.  The most influential and educated Armenians in the region were taken on April 24, 1915 and later killed because they posed a threat to the Ottoman Empire. Despite losing our lands and intelligentsia, Armenians have remained strong and have overcome the obstacles they’ve faced despite losing nearly an entire generation of Armenians.

It is now up to us, the descendants of Armenian survivors. We exist and what matters is what we do with the stories we have inherited and the rich culture we are a part of.  101 years later, I will strive to be a part of the new Armenian intelligentsia.  I will strive to be a part of the modern threat to Turkey.  I will strive to take the place of those individuals persecuted on April 24, 1915. I will strive to make my ancestors proud of what has resulted from their strength and courage. And I will strive to make Armenia strong yet again.  

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Born and raised in Los Angeles, California, 15 year old Adroushan Mardirossian is a 10th grade high school student who spends his spare time playing ice hockey, reading, and writing. Adroushan also enjoys traveling and exploring in nature. 

Forget Me Not

By Dr. Kay Mouradian

I first heard about Ayline Amirayan’s talent from her voice coach Charles Gevoian whose tenor voice is well known here in Southern California.  When Gevoian told me Ayline would perform her first original song Forget Me Not for the 100thcommemoration at Montebello’s Armenian Genocide Memorial last April, I made a special effort to be there. When Gevoian opened the program with the finest rendition I have ever heard of The Star Spangled Banner, I knew the entire program would be filled with quality. I was not disappointed.

The Montebello Genocide Memorial opened in April 1968 and is the oldest memorial in the United States dedicated to Armenian Genocide victims. A yearly outdoor memorial service held every April attracts members of the Armenian community from all over the California southland and a capacity crowd of more than 500 attended the 1915 Centennial event on April 23rd.

Two well-known Armenian bands, the Element Band and the Greg Hosharian Band, along with solo vocalist Ayline Amirayan, helped elevate the somber energy. As I listened to Ayline, who was accompanied by pianist Greg Hosharian, violinist Garik Terzian and percussionist George Bilezikjian, I wondered why I previously had not heard of her.

Amirayan opened with three Armenian songs and her obvious love for Armenian music resonated throughout the audience and affected me deeply. I, an Armenian American born in Boston, do not speak or understand our Armenian language, and I realize how much of my heritage I have lost.

When I interviewed Ayline Amirayan she told me why she chose the Armenian songs she sang for the Centennial. Her first song “Kani Vur Djan” by Sayat Nova was meant to remind the audience that Sayat Nova’s music lives on and still influences the poetic artistry of the Armenian people.

Her second song “ Yeraz Im Yergir Hyernik” written by Yerevan’s songwriter and musician Robert Amirkhanyan is about the love for Armenia.  With today’s talented musicians such as Amirkhanyan, Amirayan understands the preservation, authenticity and beauty of Sayat Nova affecting Armenian music a hundred years later.

Her next song was “Hye Herosneri Yerke”. “I wanted to thank the heroes ofArmenia and honor those brave soldiers who have fought for the Armenian cause,” she said.

Amirayan prepared the audience for her closing song, Forget Me Not. “It was extremely important for me to write Forget Me Not in English”, she said. “As Armenians we know our story. For 100 years we’ve heard horrific stories through the eyes of our parents and grand parents. But I wanted the lyrics to be in English so non-Armenians would understand and feel why the title is “Forget Me Not!”

When I listened to her latest rendition of Forget Me Not, the melody and lyrics kept playing over and over in my head, which suggests to me that this is a song that will be remembered. I wanted to know and asked her about her creative process.

“The melancholy melody came to me easily as I pictured my ancestors,” Amirayan said. “The lyrics spoke to me through the forget me not flower, and I sang the song as if I were the flower itself. My voice reflects the flower’s black circle with the dark aftermath, the purple colors stretch toward unity and the yellow heart of the flower speaks to my vision of hope and my love for creativity.”

The day after the Montebello event Amirayan joined 160,000 Armenians in the April 24th 6 mile Marching to Justice walk in Los Angeles from Little Armenia in Hollywood to the Turkish consulate in Westward.  “We have a beautiful culture,” she told me and added, “the strength and determination of the march says we are all here, we hear the voices of our ancestors and as I walked uphill and looked back it was as if I saw thousands of our ancestors marching out of Turkeytoward Dier el Zor.  But, we were marching not to death. We were marching toward life.

“We are still here and free,” she continued.  “Not marching to death but marching to freedom.  How could an Armenian not be proud?  We are unique. Hearing stories like my grandfather, who at age six, while hidden in the barn, witnessed Turkish soldiers decapitate his three older brothers. We are the voices of those children who survived because of their strength.  Had my grandfather been killed I wouldn’t be here today.”

The story how Amirayan’s grandfather survived is every Armenian’s story.  It has taken 100 years for the world to recognize the depth of our Armenian loss in 1915 and Amirayan’s first songwriting experience gives our community a musical rendition of our tragedy. Forget Me Not needs to be in every Armenian home to acknowledge those who never returned.

Who knows how many beyond our community will be affected listening to the haunting melody and even just the first verse?  “My black eye weeps a suffering tear, Painful dark memories of 100 years. My heart wilts, my soul is denied, I cry out for truth for those who died.”

Dr. Kay Mouradian is an educator, filmmaker, and author of My Mother’s Voice, a book depicting her mother’s story as a victim and survivor of the Armenian Genocide.  She also wrote, narrated, and co-produced My Mother’s Voice, a documentary based on her book.  She holds a doctorate in education from Nova Southeastern University and holds degrees from Boston University and UCLA.

We Are Honest Soldiers

By Taniel Aram (Guest Contributor)

Grandma raises her index finger high into the air, waving in a circular motion as vibrations of the plucked qanun strings pass through the iPad speakers.  Badalian’s voice comes next and with a prideful smile, Grandma starts singing alongside him.

“Մենք անկեղծ զինուոր ենք, առանց ի վիճակ, Ուխտել ենք ծառայել երկար ժամանակ:”

Hayk and Pel. The Battle of Avarayr.  Survival after 1915. Through the annals of history, defiance has been an unwavering characteristic, a defining trait, of the Armenian people.

Existence is given to us. But defiance, defiance is earned, honored, mourned or canonized, through action, in a collective pursuit of justice.

Historical consensus indicates Armenian defiance as best represented by sharp wit, innovation, a moral compass for justice, or resistance to submission, rather than military might. Outmanned and outgunned, Karabakh was liberated with an impressive tactical strategy. Operation Nemesis members planned obsessively and took justice into their own hands, despite a cold shoulder from allied intelligentsia.  And of course the 250 Armenian intellectuals, the first targets of the Armenian Genocide, who were murdered for representing these very values of intellect as leaders of the Armenian people.

While military resistance can be interpreted as a form of defiance, what that struggle stood for, as a last effort to resist extinction and protect a race in its rightful homeland, was a more accurate definition for the Armenian case. “Ազատութիւն կամ մահ,” the Armenians shouted, an ode to American patriot Patrick Henry.

Grandma follows Badalian word for word. I see the emotion in her eyes as she continues to sing:

“Արիւն, սուր ու հուր, պատերազմի դաշտ կը սպասեն մեզի:”

The timeless ballad takes on Armenian resistance in the military sense. With trust betrayed, unanswered calls for help, thousands of churches and schools burned, and an entire civilization destroyed, the bravest of Armenian men and women took up arms to defend their villages and save their families. In the absence of leading Armenian intellectuals, the fedayi became the zinvor, and the zinvor, the fedayi.

The song reaches its emotional apex as grandma clenches her fist and pounds the breakfast room table, singing with hearty pride:

“Համոզուած ենք, որ միայն զէնքով կայ հայոց փրկութիւն:”

She takes a breath and stops singing for a moment, reflective on her family’s story of survival, yet afraid of changing times.

The songs and stories of old are nostalgic, but are, after all, at risk of fading.  Fading in a world of multi-million dollar Turkish denialist campaigns, in a world of corrupt, tainted oil money in Azerbaijan, and in the evolving geopolitics of the modern world.

Defiance. Defiance is our answer to this shifting landscape.

We are the new generation of Armenian intellectuals; lawyers, investment bankers, entrepreneurs, innovators, scientists, doctors, professors, clergymen, and researchers. We honor our ancestors and uphold moral integrity in our collective pursuit of justice. In thinking critically, chasing success and innovation, and challenging the status quo, we have returned to our roots of defiance, where the intellectual is the zinvor, and the zinvor, the intellectual.

Let’s ask ourselves- if we were alive on April 24, 1915, would we have been arrested for our leadership, based on our life accomplishments to this point in time? Our answer should be yes. If it isn’t, we have work to do.

Before she resumes singing, I correct Grandma:

“Համոզուած ենք, որ միայն գրիչով կայ հայոց փրկութիւն:”

By way of intellect, our defiance was, and anew is, our means for survival. As for the pen, that’s our weapon of choice.

Born in Germany and raised in New York City, Taniel Aram now divides his time between scouring the ancient ruins of fallen civilizations and surfing the waters of Southern California.  He holds three different degrees rooted in Literature and Anthropology from three different Ivy League universities, one of which he now conducts research for. Taniel still finds time in his busy schedule to explore the outdoors with his rescue golden retriever Dickens, swim with sharks, and run the occasional triathlon.

Msho Khr

By Natalie Kamajian (Guest Contributor)

msho

The Unity of my people.

Depends on my legs and internal rhythms

knowing these dances better than I do.

My soul understands the meaning of unity.

To be united, is to reach

beyond the self

& to become

One //

Movement //

Why speak of social change when we know not how to trust in Armenian dance?

Armenian dance is…

strength //

it is wisdom //

Armenian dance knocks you off of your ego,

and tells you to shut up, and F.E.E.L.

So.

Feel.

Feel the Dhol. Feel your brothers and sisters. And Move.

Ձախ—ձախ, աչ աչ ձախ—աչ աչ ձախ

“say it in your sleep,” said one ֆեդայի

“you will need it one day”, said Մայրիգ

To surrender to your movement

is to resist your erasure.

When you dance Մշո Խըռ…

Natalie Kamajian works at a community and economic development organization designing innovative solutions to responsibly revitalize low-income, urban areas around Los Angeles. After living in Հայաստան for a year she unearthed, as Charlemagne once put it, “her second soul.” She is an inbetweener: never here nor there, never making sense and never wanting to and liking it that way. Natalie loves to write but she feels life moves too fast, its moments too precious sometimes to do anything other than live it. Lover of lavender ice cream, homemade halva and handmade soaps; Gardening’s worst gardener and biggest fan; and best friend to both the young & elderly but not really the folks in between causing all the trouble. She practices traditional Armenian ethnographic folk dancing and will revel at any chance to do a mean Մշո Խըռ to some live dhol and zurna. She will gladly bring out her inner թագուհի when necessary and believes that only when she contradicts herself, is she able to seek truth. Check out her other poems, These Miraculous Hands and Kochari

Our Old Backyard

By Nora Serghany (Guest Contributor)

Let the night vie and struggle to shadow the land, but the light of truth will always pierce the darkness.

Nora Serghany is a 22-year-old Buffalo native who subsists off coffee fumes and late night studying.  She is currently studying medicine and has a passion for writing, inspired by Russian novelists.  More of her work can be found here.

Kochari

By Natalie Kamajian (Guest Contributor)

my generation

stands on the shoulders of our parents
on the bent backs of our grandparents
on the snapped necks of our ancestors

listen not, to what you think your people need
we know nothing without ancestors…ancient sisters
//my first sisters//

they have bled, knelt, marched, killed, hurt
loved, wrote, built and buried
so that I can breathe “hye”

strong women
&                                             ignite fires within my spirit
selfless men

when I dance Քոչարի…

IMG_3734

Natalie Kamajian works at a community and economic development organization designing innovative solutions to responsibly revitalize low-income, urban areas around Los Angeles. After living in Հայաստան for a year she unearthed, as Charlemagne once put it, “her second soul.” She is an inbetweener: never here nor there, never making sense and never wanting to and liking it that way. Natalie loves to write but she feels life moves too fast, its moments too precious sometimes to do anything other than live it. Lover of lavender ice cream, homemade halva and handmade soaps; Gardening’s worst gardener and biggest fan; and best friend to both the young & elderly but not really the folks in between causing all the trouble. She practices traditional Armenian ethnographic folk dancing and will revel at any chance to do a mean Մշո Խըռ to some live dhol and zurna. She will gladly bring out her inner թագուհի when necessary and believes that only when she contradicts herself, is she able to seek truth. More of her poetry can be found here.

The Weight Of Watchful Eyes

By Mher Apo Boghigian (Guest Contributor)

To Armenians, the month of April is a unique frame of time. At the core of its sentimental significance is a sense of history, remembrance, activism, and grief. On a less personal level, it represents a time when Armenians work to make themselves more vocal to those who are not Armenian. Public protests, exhibits, vigils, and educationals fill the calendar. Turnouts are analyzed. Absences are accounted for.

April’s enterprise repeats every year with more or less the same results: local papers include a piece on an event, bits of controversy are stirred, and those who spent the previous months preparing for the activism struggle to reap the fruit of their labor in terms of publicity. Perhaps there are a few exceptions, but this is more or less an honest evaluation. On a more positive note, it speaks to the passion of our people that these struggles have never resulted in relenting. A century passes and the children of children of leaders and parents who organized pioneering protests on all corners of the world now hold the responsibility of carrying our ever-important tradition of demonstration.

But what are the limits of passion? Or, more aptly posed, how long can this passion last? This is an admittedly frightening question I often ask myself.

To say that the burden of seeking publicity does not feel taxing at times would be an outright lie. For decades, those who cared to share in the public outcry are met with few compassionate ears and even fewer eyes. At times, it begins to feel as if we are doing it for ourselves rather than others. Falling under this impression is not hard.

But then, suddenly, a bit of  substantiation.

Following an abrupt and frankly unprecedented period of publicity, those that may have been previously regarded as unreachable have temporarily been unlocked. Publications that have millions upon millions of viewers are now glancing at headlines pertaining to the Armenian Genocide. We have—if only for a period of time—been heard.

Make no mistake, the degree to which the media is now covering the centennial is absolutely staggering. From The New York Times, to The Guardian, BBC, The Wall Street Journal, and even platforms of native advertising such as Buzzfeed, the knowledge of our collective history is at this time reaching ears that were previously light-years away. The unreachable has been accessed.

What has caused this surge?

Pope Francis has bluntly spoken to the world about the realities of the genocide—an incredible revelation.

The storm of media, regardless of what their motivations might be, follow a mega-star and his reality-TV wife to Armenia to capture their each and every movement. In the background of their makeup and flamboyant clothing, an entire country is made visible to those who might not have known that a country named Armenia has existed.

So, what has really changed?

Nothing has changed.

Apart from our growing access to education and evolving methods of activism that very well may have contributed to this frenzy, we have been endowed with a beautiful stroke of luck.

This is not a disheartening notion, though. Fortune always plays a part, and heaven knows that as a nation we are not too familiar with it. It’s vindication. Though those who have dedicated a greater deal of time in their lives to the remembrance of genocide can claim that their fire has never wavered, it would be naïve to think that the same applies to the majority of Armenians. Like it or not, it is often the case that people have a need to experience a return in exchange for hard work in order to maintain a level of performance. This is no different.

Thus, herein lies a personal confession of mine: I have personally suffered from this mentality.

But instead of continuing my tradition of self-deprecation, I told myself to look back on the body of work my peers and community have amassed. Let me tell those who don’t already know, what I found is nothing short of remarkable. When people who are Armenians say that the genocide has become a part of our identity, they are not wrong. In the past century, the ripples of the atrocity have engrained themselves into our cultural DNA. Our stubbornness in maintaining Armenian music and dance, our language and alphabet, the fact that I am a second-generation Armenian-American (my mother grew up in the City of Angels) and can read and write my language–these are all things I’ve personally taken for granted, or perhaps just overlooked. But this realization only strengthens my convictions about the potential of Armenia and the degree to which we can culturally prosper.

So, with the world’s eyes now somewhat fixed upon our country and what we’ve been vocally fighting for the last hundred years, what do we do?

I suggest that we do what we’ve done to get us here in the first place. We speak Armenian to one another as often as possible and help teach it to those who are willing to learn. We sing and dance and continue participating in terrific events such as Innovate Armenia at the University of Southern California. We continue to be ready for the challenges of publicity. If the diaspora kept a physical portfolio that represents everything we’ve done to battle the ignorance and perpetuation of denial, we would swimmingly ace the equivalent of a Harvard interview with its credentials.

Now, a final frightening question: After this year passes and we are faced with the not-so-sexy number of 101, will the interest that has grown in regard to our people falter, or slow down?

I don’t know the answer to this question. I do know, however, that in 2016, regardless of it being a marketable number or occasion, there will still be a very great number of people worldwide who have just heard of us, and more who still will. We are refreshed. Our country is still in its mid-twenties. We have soccer players playing for the biggest squads in the world (I’m looking at you Henrikh), artists and engineers sprouting from cracks in the concrete, and an ever-improving sense of our place and potential in the world. Despite there still being some very real and worrisome issues in the country, there will always be those who work to address it.

With the stage becoming larger and larger, I wholeheartedly believe that our actors will grow with it. Our decades-long training in perseverance and dealing with injustice will continue to yield habits of self-improvement. The weight of attention we have been looking for will not make us sink, but help us grow more able and resolute. Ultimately, it is because of our track record, our effort-filled past rather than our bright future, that I cannot help but feel astonishingly optimistic about the prospects of Armenia.

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Mher is a 21-year-old Los Angeles native currently studying English Literature at UC Berkeley, and is eager to pursue Journalism after graduation. He is a huge fan of football (soccer) and harbors a secret passion for acting.

This Thing Called Hate

By Patrick Davarhanian (Guest Contributor)

It is a word whose premise I fear,
Because I know all too well the evil it holds dear.
It is a word whose very etymology is written in cold blood.
History has proven that this word is one that makes hearts thud.

It was this word’s ancestors who butchered an entire race,
Their conscience filled only by emptiness and blank space.
It was this word’s legacy that filled our collective books of history,
With countless tales of sadness, woe, and misery.

It is this word that you can point to and blame,
For every kind of maleficence humankind has laid claim.
But this word does not start with tanks or bombs or even fights,
It starts with teases, whispers, and mean staring sights.

It starts with people who look at others and sneer,
People who cause others to shed a tear,
People who live their whole lives in fear.

It starts with boys and girls who live near and far,
It starts with men and women who inflict scars.

And yes, it even starts with you and me,
Especially when we fail to see,
That when we do not stand up to HATE,
The world around us will seal its fate.

Say something.
Do something.
For it is only when you stand with someone,
You shall see just how easily HATE can be undone.

Patrick Davarhanian was born and raised in Glendale, California.  He studied Education at the California State University, Northridge and he currently teaches in the Glendale area.  

Turkish Delights and Armenian Plights

By Avo John Kambourian (Guest Contributor)

Throughout my childhood I knew, quite extensively, about my Armenian heritage. My understanding of culture came from observing my family members. My parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins were like the lens of a camera through which I saw and experienced the world.

My parents met in Los Angeles after fleeing during the civil war in Beirut. Similarly, their grandparents had no choice but to flee from their homes in historic Armenia; places like Ourfa and Marash in present day Eastern Turkey. Whether it was enduring the horrific days of the genocide, struggling in the Middle East, or immigrating to the United States, each generation faced its own unique set of challenges but never failed to preserve our ancient culture. Knowing about these struggles made me cherish this rich culture that had been passed down from generation to generation.

But there were moments in my childhood that left me confused. Occasionally, I would hear my parents play Turkish songs or notice my grandparents transfixed by the compelling drama of a Turkish soap opera. This was a stark contrast to what I had been taught growing up: to consciously refrain myself from enjoying anything Turkish (because of Turkey’s lack of acknowledgment that there was a genocide), with the exception of Turkish delights, because no one with taste buds can avoid enjoying these. This duality struck me in an odd way.

In 2009, during my second year of college, I watched a concert film called Dave Chappelles Block Party, directed by Michel Gondry. This was a film about a block party in Brooklyn, NYC, hosted by world famous comedian Dave Chappelle.

Chappelle had musical guests on his sketch comedy show, which helped spread the word about artists like Kanye West, Mos Def, The Roots, Common, Jill Scott, and Erykah Badu, pretty early on in their careers.

So when I watched the film, two things happened. First, I became transfixed by the way live music was being shown in the film. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before, and I got very much into photographing shows and concerts solely because of it. Second, I started listening to some of the artists, primarily Brooklyn based artist Mos Def because I felt so aligned with his words about life, humanity, and injustice.

Saying that Most Def’s album The Ecstatic blew me away is an understatement. That album helped define a lot of my core political beliefs. What drew me to that album was Def’s interesting mix of diverse beats and sounds paired with his dark poetic lyrics.

Here’s his single off that album, called Supermagic, with a short intro by Malcolm X.

The song was somewhat of a revelation for me. It sounded so familiar, yet was like nothing I had ever heard before. After a quick search online I found out that Mos Def had actually sampled a Turkish song.

Why would he open his album with THIS song? Why? I was appalled, but I was also curious. When I looked up the translation for the lyrics I remember being very skeptical about what they might be. I was thinking it was probably about something I couldn’t relate to, but boy was I wrong.

I found out that the original song, Ince Ince, which means flaked in Turkish, is a song from the Turkish psychedelic folk artist Selda Bagcan. She is widely regarded in Turkey as a prominent left-wing folk singer.

To me she’s like a fusion of Janice Joplin and Jimi Hendrix. And I was amazed to read about such a prominent leftist figure in Turkey. I couldn’t stop listening to her music, and I couldn’t help but feel like a kid with a box of Turkish Delights.

The song, as it turns out, is about the mistreated minorities of Turkey, the people that were flaked by their government. In the second verse, Bagcan even calls out her government by saying:

Why isn’t Ourfa like your Istanbul?*
Poor Marash, dry Ourfa, what about Diyarbakır?
We’re doomed, we’re dead, a drop of water
Come now sir, please

It was like the song was calling out to me since the beginning. The mentioning of Marash and Ourfa, my ancestral villages, really struck a chord with me. Suddenly it all made sense, I understood why Mos Def had chosen to use this song to open his album and why Selda’s music resonated with me, even before I knew what the lyrics meant.

Here is Ince Ince in its entirety:

To me this song is about a region of the world still affected by its past, an oppressive government that continues to marginalize a vast majority of its population.

When we talk about Turkey, it’s important for us to remember that we’re talking about a country built on the spilt blood of our ancestors. But we shouldn’t forget about the many other minorities who are still being oppressed in that country today.

What I realized is that we, Armenians and Turks, aren’t all that different. I believe it’s vital for us to find a commonality between ourselves and our so-called enemies, not in acts of forgiveness, but in order to seek a common understanding. Although cultural identity may be established during the first few years of one’s life, I think any good work of art has the power to open eyes and connect people of all backgrounds; whether it be music, writing, or film, as long as it’s done with respect for telling a common story, something we can all relate to.

Avo John Kambourian is a filmmaker from Sherman Oaks, California. He holds a degree in Communication from UC San Diego, and claims to be really good behind the grill. His favorite films are Back to the Future, Godfather II, and Boogie Nights. Hes currently working on a documentary series called Echoes of Survival, which follows a diverse group of Armenian artists in the United States, whose works are directly influenced by their Armenian identity.

These Miraculous Hands

By Natalie Kamajian (Guest Contributor)

natalie

These miracle hands that breathe life into inanimate cloth // these hands that warm my soul // the hands that live by an imperfect perfection. Love. These seamstress hands that speak the language of Art // that root me on this earth // that have affirmed me with ancestry, with stories and with belonging. The seeds that have rooted me in place // Armenian hands that I call home // I hear each and every work of art underneath her soft wrinkles, I visualize the generations of women that have come before me, their stories floating through each movement as I watch her work. She breathes. Two miraculous hands snip and align; pin and shift. Patience and fearlessness leave me awed. Wisdom // Knowledge // Dignity. She speaks in libraries without saying a word. Hold up. Redefinition of Power. Maybe if I watch her long enough, my hands, too, will learn to speak.

Natalie Kamajian works at a community and economic development organization designing innovative solutions to responsibly revitalize low-income, urban areas around Los Angeles. After living in Հայաստան for a year she unearthed, as Charlemagne once put it, “her second soul.” She is an inbetweener: never here nor there, never making sense and never wanting to and liking it that way. Natalie loves to write but she feels life moves too fast, its moments too precious sometimes to do anything other than live it. Lover of lavender ice cream, homemade halva and handmade soaps; Gardening’s worst gardener and biggest fan; and best friend to both the young & elderly but not really the folks in between causing all the trouble. She practices traditional Armenian ethnographic folk dancing and will revel at any chance to do a mean Մշո Խըռ to some live dhol and zurna. She will gladly bring out her inner թագուհի when necessary and believes that only when she contradicts herself, is she able to seek truth.