See the Ararat and Stay

Diego Benning Wang,
New York, NY, United States

"I have cultivated in myself a sixth sense, by the name of 'Ararat': it is the sense of belonging to the sacred mountain. Today, wherever my fate would take me, this sense will be dwelling in me and remaining with me for the eternity." - Osip Mandelstam

“Inchu es yekel Hayastan ashkhatanki? Aystegh pogh ch’ka!”

 

This is by far the most frustrating question I have ever been asked by people in Armenia.

The statement per se, however, is evidently flawed.  The convertible racing through the glittering streets of downtown Yerevan, the glamorously dressed women waltzing through the main pedestrian streets with equally dazzling lapdogs in their hands, the young people in upscale cafes dexterously flipping their fingers over the glossy touchscreens of their gadgets, and the magnificent palace-resembling condominiums lining up the highways leading to Ashtarak all defy the notion that Armenia is a country where the economic prospect is nowhere beyond gloomy. More importantly, illusions of the extravagant lifestyle of Armenia’s oligarchy that by all means contradicted the country’s fiscal statistics led to one of the most equivocal misperceptions I had of the country during my first visit.

 

Another less equivocal but more heart-aching perception I had of Armenian society was the ethnocentric intolerance, which I hereby prefer not elaborating on.

 

Despite the obvious incorrectness in all the above-stated perceptions, their corresponding phenomena do exist in today’s Armenia, and sometimes even prevail at the surface level. My first sojourn in the country, which lasted three months and was by and large confined to Yerevan, was far from enough for me to gain a comprehensive and unbiased insight into this newly independent country that is so strikingly full of contrasts—extreme affluence of the upper class vs. the sheer poverty of the rural poor, wholesale embrace of the culture of globalization by the young generation vs. staunch nationalism that often tramples upon the national esteem of neighboring peoples, Western-oriented political aspirations vs. profound nostalgia of a recent Soviet past, etc.

It would be extremely difficult to find a country where people are more eager to showcase their culture to the rest of the world than in Armenia. The true appreciation of the greatness of this nation, nonetheless, rests not simply in sightseeing or museum visits, because no monuments could recount the bittersweet stories of such a trouble-afflicted nation that has a glorious past and is struggling to regain its foothold on its ancient homeland in spite of the unimaginable traumas and upheavals of its recent past. The backbone of this nation is and has always been borne by its people whose spirit affects outsiders like me only through the stories they tell, both by words and through actions.

 

Unlike the vast majority of transient visitors who set foot on this ancient land for an array of purposes, I deeply feel attached to this country. And my attachment to Armenia all started with an arduous desire to behold the graciously snow-capped Ararat and my fellow Christians living underneath.  Due to the complexity of my backgrounds that most people in this long-isolated and ethnically homogenous society would find it difficult to comprehend, normal communications with locals were virtually implausible during my first visit of the country. Loneliness and alienation dominated my feelings alongside a never-fading fascination with the country’s culture.

Fortunately, thanks to the joint efforts of AVC and Birthright Armenia, I found a platform to truly integrate into this country that I now consider my second home. An intense working schedule that deprived me of at least three ours of sleep daily, challenging Armenian classes, daily rides on crowded and suffocating minivans, and regular visits to poverty-stricken towns and villages paradoxically kept me enthusiastic about my every second in Armenia.  My voluntary renunciation of the material wellbeing I had always taken for granted in America turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

During the two months of my second visit of Armenia, I met a myriad of brilliant people, some of which are friends worth cherishing for a lifetime. My homestay experience is particularly worth sharing:

My host family is a household of two—a widowed woman in her late 50s and her 18-year-old son (whose names will not be disclosed). The husband deceased because of an undetected brain tumor when the child was only 10. In order to avoid her son’s conscription into military service, the mother obtained a certificate of disability through her personal connections and thereby lost her job as a teacher of Russian language at a local public school. Unemployable because of the burdensome certificate, the family subsists largely on the mother’s meager subsidies that amounts to roughly 60 US dollars per month, help from her grown-up daughter who lives only two blocks away, and by hosting AVC and Birthright volunteers. The son is studying to be a masseur at a local vocational college on a partial scholarship (that compensates one-third of his tuitions) thanks to his skills in boxing and athletics.  Like many families on Baghramyan Street, the family is bilingual in Russian and Armenian. The mother, who attended a Russian school and finished college through a predominantly Russian-language curriculum, has a more proficient command in Russian than her native Armenian. Despite the economic hardships the family has been doomed into ever since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the mother still considers herself a true member of Yerevan’s Soviet-educated and remarkably erudite elite. The vintage but grandiose furnishing of her apartment still bears testimony to a materially abundant life during Soviet times. Moreover, unlike most of her former neighbors who have left Armenia for good, owing to her unrelenting love for her country, she has not only remained in Armenia, but also made dedicated efforts in promoting Armenia’s culture by hosting volunteers. I was even amazed at myself for being able to sit at a kitchen table talking for several hours every single day with a woman almost ten years older than my parents.

 

And such is the story of one morally exemplary Armenian. It is this kind of inspiring story, which you can expect to encounter on a frequent basis once you immerse yourself into this country that not only motivates you to make your own contributions to this country but also sheds light upon a future of a remarkable nation that is destined to withstand all future challenges to its sovereignty.

I have no Armenian origins whatsoever.  But I would wholeheartedly encourage you to volunteer in Armenia with AVC. No matter whether or not your roots can be traced upon this land of antiquity, the experience you will have here will definitely be life-changing.

Nursing in Gyumri

Natalie Hecht
USA

In May 2009, I graduated from the University of Michigan with a degree in nursing and a strong desire to do something other than work full time or enter graduate school. I was interested only in some sort of adventure. I remembered hearing about Birthright Armenia years before and knew this time was the perfect opportunity for me to head to Armenia and use my new knowledge to volunteer in hospitals.

After speaking with the Armenian Volunteer Corps director, I decided to live in Gyumri, Armenia—not Yerevan as I had anticipated. I was hesitant at first because I thought the culture shock would be tremendous and the language barrier would lend to difficulties. I was correct on both counts, but only in the best possible ways.

In Gyumri, away from the hustle and bustle of a big city, I was fully immersed in the daily life of my host family and new Armenian friends. I quickly gained a true sense of Armenia and the overflowing hospitality that comes with it.

One day, a nurse from work invited me to her home just outside of the city. I arrived in her village to find stone houses, chickens running about, vast fields of sunflowers, and the occasional animal “mooo”. The nurse and her grandmother showed me around their home, giving me samples of homemade lavash, butter, apricot jam, and matsun. Then, the nurse took me door to door and introduced me to everyone as Natalie—the Armenian volunteer from America. All reactions were the same: lots of hugs, bachiks, and generous offerings of food and homemade goods. I was touched. I could hardly communicate, but it did not matter. There was so much love and gratitude between us all. Sometimes, I think, it’s better not to have any words.

My internship took place at the Austrian Children’s Hospital in the intensive care unit. During my initial tour, I noted their lack of equipment, sterile procedure, and glove usage. I identified two personal obstacles right away: First, I was very unfamiliar with their outdated equipment and did not know how I’d be able to practice medicine in such a foreign environment. Second, I only spoke 20 words of Armenian, none of which were relevant in a medical setting.

But, as we say in Armenia, “Vochinch.” It’s nothing. The nurses welcomed me with open arms and worked with me and my Armenian-English dictionaries until we understood each other. As for the equipment, I watched the nurses until I could mimic their procedures. I learned quickly.

Still, I felt sadness most days as I walked around the hospital. Children’s illnesses were prolonged due to inadequate supplies of medication. Lack of sterile equipment led to infection. Outdated x-ray machines made for inefficient and unclear diagnostics. I was frustrated with the discrepancy between what they did not have and what they United States did.

The summer before this, I held an internship at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, a state of the art facility with the slogan: Hope Lives Here. During the first part of my internship in Gyumri, I couldn’t help but think: Hope does not live here. How could it in a place with so little?

One morning, I spoke with a doctor about an incredibly jaundiced infant. She told me in English, “Liver problems are very hard for us. But we gave her a blood transfusion last night. When her urine turns from brown to light yellow, we will know she’s okay, so we will wait.”

We will wait…

And so, I was wrong. Hope does live here—in this country with little money but with indescribable zest, personality, history, and tradition. Hope lives here. Maybe not in the same there-is-always-something-more-that-can-be-done attitude that Western medicine has, but in their own special Armenian way, physicians and nurses return to work day after day to do what they can with what they have. And they do it well. This realization was an important one, as it was the moment I stopped comparing Armenia’s medical system to America’s and, like the nurses, maximized the equipment available.

There are some things that words cannot express, and I’ve come across many of them while living in Gyumri. My unforgettable experiences would not have been possible, however, without my goals of complete immersion, eliminating preconceptions and taking advantage of all opportunities. I am so glad I chose Birthright Armenia and AVC as a way to spend my first few post-graduate months. Nothing else would have compared.