HAYKAR Or: HACHAR – “A type of stone, originating from the land of the Armenians”…
The Armenian Highlands, famous for their therapeutic mineral waters, have also played a crucial role in the history of mining, metal extraction, and metallurgy, thanks to their vast natural resources. Due to the presence of rich ore deposits, metal tools were already in use here as early as the 5th–4th millennia BCE. Ancient specimens have been uncovered on the shores of Lake Van, in the Angegh Tun province, in the Ararat Plain, and along the shores of Lake Urmia… By the 3rd millennium BCE, Armenian Mesopotamia, Rshtunik, Julamerk, and Sasun served as the “metal storehouse” of the ancient Near East. Later, in the 2nd millennium BCE, they held a dominant position in metal extraction and exchange. Excavations in Lchashen, Metsamor, Karmir Blur, and the regions surrounding Lake Van, the Erzinka Plain, and other sites within the Armenian Highlands provide evidence of an advanced metalworking tradition.
From ancient times, both Armenian and foreign historians have documented the wealth of Armenia’s mines and the exceptional quality of its valuable minerals. Movses Khorenatsi, in his History of Armenia (Book I, 23), praises the Ancestors and glorifies the great Tigran, emphasizing how he expanded the “treasury” of gold and silver (“He multiplied the treasures of gold and silver…”).
The Roman writer, naturalist, philosopher, and military commander Pliny the Elder, in his 1st-century work Natural History, while discussing pigments and the minerals used to create them, mentions Armenia’s mines (“Mines of Armenia”) and the superior materials they produced.
Lapis lazuli, with its mesmerizing, unfading deep blue, has been referenced in written sources since ancient times, including in the Epic of Gilgamesh. Traded from Egypt and Mesopotamia, it eventually reached Armenia, where it was surrounded by myths attributing mystical powers to it. At the site of Ebla, an important Hurrian cultural center about 60 km south of Aleppo, archaeologists discovered 25 kilograms of lapis lazuli. This precious stone was crafted using raw materials imported from Armenia.
For over 6,000 years, the famed Lapis Lazuli, known as the Blue Stone, has been valued as a symbol of protection, courage, success, and victory. It was believed to ward off evil and serve as a link to divine wisdom, enhancing spiritual awareness and enlightenment.
Theophrastus (371 BCE – 288 BCE), a notable Greek philosopher, naturalist, botanist, and alchemist, and a disciple of Aristotle, mentions Armenian stones in his writings on minerals, noting their use in seals and various applications. He also refers to a special “earth” from Cilicia, which, when boiled, became sticky and was used to protect grapevines from pests.
Theophrastus calls the famous Lapis Lazuli the “Stone of Armenia” or “Lapis Armenis”, also known as “Arménium” or “Haykian Stone.”
This name persisted throughout the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, with the mineral often called “The Blue of the Mountains.” In 1824, geologist François Sulpice Beudant named it “Azurite,” based on its deep blue color.
In medicine, the “Haykian Clay” (“Kav Haykian”), was known to Galen as “Haykian Earth.” Various Armenian earths—some blue, golden, or reddish-yellow—were widely prized since antiquity.
Pliny the Elder mentions natural resources from Armenia, including palegues (Book 33, §15) and describes the finest Chrysocolla—with gold-bearing veins—as originating from Armenia (Book 34, §5).
In Book 35, he refers to Arménium (Azurite), writing: “Armenia exports the material that carries its name. It resembles Chrysocolla, with the best variety being the one closest to it in deep blue hue… In medicine, it is used mainly for hair treatment, particularly for eyelashes (bol d’Arménie).”
Since antiquity, crystalline bodies, composed of varied chemical elements such as copper, oxygen, and others, have intertwined to form new materials that accompany humanity.
One such crystalline mineral, copper arsenate (pghndzarjasp), known for its deep lazurite-blue hue, has been used extensively despite its high toxicity. Apart from being crafted into talismans and jewelry, Haykar also served as a pigment. Several colorless and colored stones and powders found applications in medicine, mirrors, and other fields—some of which are recorded in ancient Armenian dictionaries…
“Hachar—a type of stone originating from the land of the Armenians,” note medieval medical texts (New Dictionary of the Haykazian Language).
“Haykar—a variety of khazhak stone, bluish and soft, resembling gojasm.” (Arménite, Pierre d’Arménie – Armenite, Armenian Stone).
“Gojasm—a precious deep blue, opaque stone with golden veins; there also exists a yellow variety.” (Ligourion).
“Lajvard—an exquisite blue pigment extracted from gojasm.”
“Lajvard—a precious blue stone, classified among the flint family, once used to produce lajvard or lazurite pigment (Lapis lazulite).” (S. Malkhasyants, Armenian Explanatory Dictionary).
“The Tale of the Hamaspyur Blossom” or “Concerning the Flower”
Ուպան (Laserpitium)
Fairy tales serve as a magnificent reflection of national thought—often originating from ancient myths and passed down orally through generations, whether as magical (fantasy) or realistic stories…
Rich in symbols and allegory, these age-old tales, which have accumulated wisdom over millennia, also preserve traces of various customs and traditions.
The fairy tales passed down from time immemorial offer a vivid portrayal of human thought.
Within them, we also find numerous ritual scenes, such as references to the mystical power of pearls and coral, mentions of the magical properties of different stones and flowers, and detailed descriptions of them (as we referenced in Beads from Shamir’s Sea)… Interestingly, modern scientific studies confirm that certain natural stones can have either beneficial or harmful effects on the human body.
The concept of Fire obtained through sunlight—generated by friction with flint and concentrated using a mirror to harness the Sun’s rays—held deep significance in our ancestors’ worldview, symbolizing the connection between the Celestial and Earthly Fires…
And these ideas echo through fairy tales as well.
In the enchanting folktales beloved by our ancestors, there is even mention of a wondrous flower called Hamaspjur.
In S. Malkhasian’s Armenian Explanatory Dictionary, it is described as follows:
“It has twelve branches, each bearing a flower of a different color; it restores sight to blind eyes, and its fragrance provides strength.”
In the Armenian Dialect Dictionary (Yerevan, 2001), its equivalent in the Van dialect is given as Khambek…
At the Matenadaran in Yerevan, among thousands of ancient manuscripts, nine unique manuscripts preserve an ancient legend about the miraculous Hamaspjur flower, titled The Story of the Hamaspjur Flower or On the Flower (also known as Hamaspran)…
Reflecting on research into these manuscripts decades ago, S. Avdalbegyan wrote:
“This tale recounts the miracles attributed to this flower.”
The conversation states: “If you bring it to your ear, you will hear and understand all human languages, as well as the voices of animals, beasts, and birds. If you bring it to your eyes, you will see all living beings. If you bring it to your nose, you will perceive the sweet fragrance of the heavens. If you bring it to your tongue, you will speak in all languages and dialects, share wisdom, and teach knowledge. If you bring it to your fingers, you will master all crafts… And many other great and mighty miracles are attributed to the flower.”
Another version quoted by S. Avdalbegyan, in Mkhitar Gosh’s 26th fable, tells of the selection of the king of plants. While the flower’s previous abilities are not emphasized, additional qualities are listed:
“After much debate—some claiming the lily, others the achrizan, and many favoring the hamaspjur—it was ultimately decided that hamaspjur was the most worthy… for it holds dominion over all things and, above all, has great healing powers, curing the sick, sharpening vision, enabling one to walk on water, and granting wisdom to the ignorant.”
In the 17th-century poem Hymn to Flowers, David Saladzortsi writes:
“The little serpent king, white as snow, Follows Hamaspjur and draws strength from its fragrance.”
This “serpent king” derives its power from the king of flowers, while its own strength lies in its deadly gaze.
According to legend, during Alexander the Great’s siege of an Asian city, the serpent king killed 300 of his soldiers simply by staring at them from a crack in the fortress wall.
Hamaspjur is also mentioned by Ghevond Alishan in his book Ancient Faith or the Pagan Religion of the Armenians, linking it to medieval healing traditions and spiritual rituals.
Medieval texts describe Hamaspjur as:
“A flower with a single root and twelve branches, each bearing a different colored bloom—blue, crimson, lily, and others—adorned with every hue.”
Said to bloom in summer, “it appears most radiant to those who seek it in the darkness.”
Pliny the Elder also noted Armenia as home to rare medicinal plants, including the highly prized Opopanax, revered in ancient Rome for its healing properties.
Upan and Hamaspyur, once revered as plants of life, were relentlessly exported from Armenia for centuries, only to vanish completely from the Armenian landscape.
The Tree of Life, known as the Tree of the World, finds its embodiment in Hamaspyur, a flower that, according to Mkhitar Gosh, frees humankind from death, bestows wisdom, grants strength, and endows one with the power to walk on water.
The sacred beauty of Hamaspyur has been celebrated in the verses of Armenian poets and minstrels (David Saladzoretzi, Minas Tokhattsi):
There exists the Hamaspyur, the flower of flowers, a bloom of a thousand hues. It grants light to the blind, if the Lord so wills for mankind. With twelve roots it stands, blossoming once every twelve years. Each stem bears a flower of a different color, and angels revel in its sweet scent. The King Serpent reigns over it, white as the driven snow, Chasing after Hamaspyur, drawing power from its fragrance…
Hamaspyur blooms in unreachable heights—upon the Mountain of Love, at the springhead of Makphut, on Mount Darun, Mount Bardu, within the gorges of Maseats, and in the mountains of Surmaru and Tsoghkert village.
Both Hamaspyur “Melamin” and the “Navruz” balsam are watched over by the Shahmar serpent (For the legend of the King Serpent drawing strength from the Hamaspyur, see Manuscript No. 1495, dated 152).
The same tale is echoed in Saladzoretzi’s hymn and in “Praise of Flowers” (G. Srvanztian).
The balsam flower Hamaspyur is intertwined with the cosmic tree in Armenian thought—akin to how the twelve months of the year mirror the twelve parts of the human body, or how a tree rising from the primordial sea in mythology mirrors Hamaspyur blooming in a mountain gorge, while the sacrificial bird or serpent at the tree’s base reflects the Shahmar serpent.
In mythology, whenever disorder touches the world or the human soul, it is seen as the work of chaotic forces disrupting cosmic harmony—forces that sacred rituals and incantations seek to repel.
“The healing power of Loshtak, Hamaspyur, and Penna (Paeonia officinalis, the ‘Crucifix Wood’), derived from their natural plant hormones, led to their veneration as sacred medicinal plants in ancient Armenia. This reverence has echoed through Armenian folklore and ethnography,” writes Tamar Hayrapetyan in her work “Healing Rituals and Biophysical Indicators in Armenian Folk Tales.”
Tumanyan, with keen insight, saw these ancient tales, steeped in ‘eternal symbols,’ as ‘chasms—deep, infinite, and boundless’… To me, they are also ‘A Garden of Fragrance.’
P.S. According to the “Dictionary of Toponyms of Armenia and Adjacent Regions”, the Hamaspyur flower, blooming once every twelve years, was a treasured gem of the Drunk Mountains in Upper Basen. David Salnadzortsi, a poet from Salnadzor village in the Motkan district of Bitlis Province, extolled it in his “Praise of Flowers”:
“The wondrous Hamaspyur blooms but once in twelve years.”
Today, among a select few, the “Flower of Life”, believed to restore youth, is Astragalus—a rare bloom in yellow and violet hues.
Wishing you days filled with the scent of flowers…
HAZARASHEN also known as “The Beam Passing Through the Skylight…”
Ancient creation myths highlight the triumph of Light over Darkness.
In discussing theories on the formation of the Universe and Life, Eznik of Kolb (5th century), in Refutation of the Sects, critiques the Epicurean idea of a “Self-Existing, Self-Sustaining World.” He illustrates the concept of creation by describing how dust particles in the air become visible when a ray of light passes through an opening.
(338) The Epicureans believe that the world exists by itself, like dust floating in the air when a beam of light shines through an opening, making the particles visible. They claim that the first elements were indivisible and eternal, and that through their condensation, the world formed—without God and without any guiding force shaping it.
Hazarashen (Photo by Samvel Karapetyan)
Since ancient times, homes and religious structures throughout the Armenian Highlands have used natural sources of illumination, known as Loysijots or Lusantsuyts—roof openings (yerdik). Depending on the season, these were covered from the outside with waterproof layers of vegetation and soil, while in temples, a long pole-controlled shutter was used to regulate them from within.
One of the most remarkable examples is the Hazarašen, a wooden structure built from thousands of beams, with concentric polygonal frames of short logs that gradually taper toward the yerdik.
More than just a source of light and ventilation, the yerdik symbolized “the household, its members, the family, the hearth, and its smoke.”
Armenian chroniclers (Eznik, Agathangelos, Buzand…) and later historians estimated population sizes based on the number of roof openings, a method known as smoke-counting. As Buzand recorded: “Twenty thousand Armenian households.”
The domed roofs of traditional Armenian homes, originating in ancient times, were built on wooden frameworks in two main styles.
The first style, simpler in design, consisted of log frames placed parallel to the walls and gradually narrowing toward the roof opening (yerdik), with rough wooden planks filling the gaps between them. This type was commonly found in regions with abundant construction wood, such as northeastern Armenia, the Chorokh Valley, and the villages of Karabakh. It had various names, including Kondatsatsk, Soghomatsatsk, Soghomashen, and more frequently Gharnavush, Gharnaghush, among others.
The second style had a more complex polygonal structure, made of concentric frames of short beams or logs that gradually shrank toward the yerdik. This method was used in regions with little timber, heavy snowfall, and frequent rains, particularly in Upper Armenia. It was widely known as Hazarašen or Hazarašenk. The term was most commonly used in Kars, Bayazet, Bulankh, Basen, Mush, Alashkert, Sebastia, Bayburt, Derjan, Sasun, Leninakan, Akhalkalaki, Akhaltsikhe, and surrounding areas.
Additionally, in some places, Hazarašen was called Dastatsatsk (in villages of Ghukasyan and Leninakan), Soghomak’ash (in Yeghegnadzor, Lori, and Shabin-Karahisar), Soghomak’agh (in Alaverdi), and in other regions as Syurmak’ash, Shushatsatsk, and more.
These terms were often used interchangeably for different roofing styles, mainly due to frequent population movements and resettlements.
Still, the most widely recognized and authentic name that has endured is Hazarašen, derived from the fact that its roof was built using “thousands” of wooden pieces. (As cited in S. V. Vardanyan’s study, “Hazarašen and Its Significance in Armenian Architecture”).
From ancient Armenian temples, where the sunlight illuminating the deity’s sculpture held great significance, to the earliest Glkhatun dwellings with central openings (yerdik) and hearths, to medieval palaces and modern structures, Hazarašen has, for thousands of years, drawn our gaze upward—toward the Unfading Light…
The ceiling of the Ethnographic Museum exhibition hall, in the style of a “Hazarašen.” Photo by N. Chilingaryan.
“Trndez – Witness the strength of the rising smoke, Plant a single seed, gather a thousand in return…”
Trndez: The Festival of Fire and Renewal
Trndez is a festival symbolizing fire, a sacred and life-giving flame that warms the Earth and its people. According to Kurm Harut Arakelyan, following the Armenian Haykian Sacred Calendar, Trndez is celebrated on the Hrant day of the Hrotic month (February 15). The festival is marked by special rituals meant to assist the transition from winter to spring.
Like Barekendan, which is observed around the same time, Trndez is associated with the rebirth of nature. It is a celebration of prosperity, hoping for a successful and fruitful new agricultural year. The rituals performed are believed to ensure fertility and abundance.
Because humans are deeply connected to nature and the cosmos, this festival was also a time to celebrate love, new marriages, and the promise of future generations.
“The festival fire is brought by the Kurms from the eternal flame burning in the temple. They light the fire and empower it with magic through sacred rituals. At the end of the festival, people take the fire home to light their hearths, ovens, or in modern times, candles,” explains Kurm Harut Arakelyan.
How Trndez Was Celebrated in Kharberd (From “Hushamatyan”)
“In February, bonfires are lit in the evening on the rooftops of Armenian homes in Kharberd, Hüsenig, and Mezire. Large piles of branches burn for hours, as boys and girls dance and sing around the fire. Some jump over the flames.
In rural villages, the festival—called Melet—is celebrated in a grand manner. First, an evening church service takes place. Then, with candles lit, villagers head toward their neighborhoods to ignite the bonfires.
In some villages, the fire is only lit in the churchyard. In Barjanj (Bergenj/Akçakiraz), the largest donor of the day has the honor of setting the bonfire ablaze.
After the fire is lit, people return home with burning candles, and the celebrations continue on their rooftops. Families light smaller fires, singing and dancing late into the night. Dried branches (tsrdeni) are often used as fuel.
Young men eagerly participate in gathering firewood for the festival.
Even the ashes of the bonfire are believed to have protective powers. Villagers scatter them over rooftops to keep snakes and scorpions away during the summer. The ashes are also spread in barns, henhouses, fields, and vineyards, as people believe Melet (Trndez) brings fertility and prosperity.
In Datem village, Garib Shahbazian mentions that newly married men must follow the tradition carefully. They are required to bring firewood and place it at the church entrance. If they fail to do so, the evil spirit Shvot might punish them by taking away their young wives.”
Blessings, Fire, and Songs
As the bonfires burn, people express their wishes:
“May our hens lay eggs, may our cows give milk, may our brides bear children…”
Songs celebrating love and marriage have been sung during Trndez for generations:
“Girl, your name is Vardanush, You are beautiful, your kiss is sweet, What harm is there in a kiss? It will neither fade nor grow old…”
“Oh Gurgen, Gurgen, you talked too much, But you did not say what was needed. To love is foolish, But to hold back is worse.”
“Oh, girl Vardanush, I will carry your burden, I will carve the stones, And I will keep you happy.”
“Love is for those who cherish it, And wine is for those who drink it sweetly…”
The photo is from Kurm Harut Arakelyan’s page, with thanks
“The Heist of the Century: The Dispossession of the Armenians in the Ottoman Empire”
“The Heist of the Century” by Anahit Astoyan
For centuries, Armenians have fought for their independence, the restoration of their statehood, the liberation of Armenia from the rule of the Ottoman and Russian Empires, and the unification of the Armenian people within the Armenian Highlands, their ancestral homeland, to rebuild a strong and sovereign nation.
Following the Russo-Turkish War of 1877-1878, the “Armenian Question” became an integral part of the “Eastern Question.” To rid itself of this issue, the Ottoman Empire implemented various measures—systematically weakening and destroying Armenians economically and materially, subjecting them to massacres and extermination. Yet, despite repeated violence, plunder, and the confiscation of Armenian lands and wealth, Armenians held a prominent place in the Ottoman Empire’s economy.
Until the early 20th century, numerous Armenian and foreign sources documented the economic strength of Armenians.
In a memorandum submitted to the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs on June 12, 1917, by Poghos Nubar Pasha, head of the Armenian National Delegation, it was stated that Armenians controlled 60% of imported trade, 40% of exported trade, and more than 80% of domestic trade. In the six Armenian vilayets (Erzurum, Van, Bitlis, Diyarbakir, Kharpert, and Sivas), Armenians dominated 69-86% of commerce, industry, and various crafts. All Armenian schools were under the full care of their communities, constituting more than 80% of the country’s total number of schools.
A 1920 article in the New York-based newspaper “Call of Armenia” (“Kotsnak Hayastani”), titled “The Situation in Bursa”, noted that before 1915, 40 out of 50 silk production enterprises in Bursa and its surroundings were owned by Armenians. Other Armenian and foreign sources reveal that in Erzurum, two-thirds of the city’s 3,000 shops belonged to Armenians, or, as M. Vrochenko wrote in 1835: “The wealthiest merchants in the inner cities of Asia Minor are Armenians.”
One of the rare studies on the material losses suffered by Armenians due to the 1915 Genocide is Anahit Astoyan’s “The Looting of the Century: The Dispossession of Armenians in the Ottoman Empire, 1914-1923,” published in Yerevan in 2013. This work, of exceptional significance, compiles irrefutable historical facts, archival documents, testimonies from Armenian, Turkish, and foreign sources, and press reports, reaffirming the systematic looting and expropriation of Armenian property by the Turkish authorities and others.
Here are a few excerpts from the book:
“Among the Christian subjects of the Ottoman Empire, Armenians stood out due to their numbers, resilience, and abilities, occupying a leading position. They controlled key sectors of the empire’s economy—crafts, trade, and industry—and were among its primary taxpayers. Yet, Armenians became victims of Ottoman authorities and the Muslim population. Through persecution and massacres, the Ottoman rulers succeeded in weakening the Armenian people, while the Muslim population, exploiting the situation, continued to exterminate Armenians by fire and sword, seizing their wealth.” (From the book “Militarism” by Italian historian and writer Guglielmo Ferrero).
“British diplomat Pearce considered one of the main reasons behind the Hamidian massacres to be the fact that Armenians had managed to concentrate significant economic power in their hands and had played a pioneering role in the empire’s economic development.”
Some photographs from the mentioned book
On October 31, 1915, from Constantinople, the Italian Commissioner for the Protection of Italian Nationals in Turkey, Talayan, sent a telegram to Italy’s Foreign Minister, Sonnino: “The confiscated property of the deported Armenians is being handed over to the emptied state treasury, but more often, it simply enriches Turkish officials’ personal wealth.”
Johannes Lepsius summarized the situation bluntly: “A robbery of this scale, unmatched in history, could only take place under Turkish rule.”
In another work, he noted: “The deported Armenians had no choice but to leave behind everything—their homes, land, livestock, household and farming tools. The deportation was, in reality, the systematic seizure of Armenian wealth.”
U.S. Ambassador Henry Morgenthau described it even more starkly: “The true aim of the deportations was plunder and destruction; it was a new method of extermination. When the Ottoman authorities ordered these deportations, they knew they were signing the death warrant of an entire people. They understood it fully and did not even try to deny it in our discussions.”
Fridtjof Nansen, in his book The Betrayed People, wrote about the Armenians’ financial losses: “The Turkish authorities not only displaced and massacred entire populations of desperate people but also stole all their assets, worth billions.”
The material losses suffered by Armenians during the 1915-1923 Armenian Genocide at the hands of the Turkish government were so vast that their full extent is almost impossible to calculate. The challenge is even greater because the precise value of Western Armenian wealth before the genocide remains unknown.
One account from Karin (Erzurum) illustrates the scale of the looting: *”Only during the deportations did the staggering wealth of the Armenians of Karin become evident, shocking everyone. If even a fraction of this wealth had been used for self-defense, it could have changed the fate of Armenians in the region. The forced deportations merely exposed these hidden and often denied fortunes.
Tens of thousands of sacks filled with valuables were stored in the Surp Asdvadzadzin Church, American institutions, and even in the homes of Turks once considered friends. Thousands of ox-carts carried away the essentials and precious belongings of Karin’s Armenians, along with vast amounts of gold—hidden on family members or within household items.
This gold and property were plundered and distributed across the region, from Karin to Baberd, Erzincan, Kemakh, Akn, Arabkir, Malatya, Adıyaman, Urfa, Suruç, and all the way to Aleppo—traded, stolen, and handed over to Turks and Kurds as bribes or ransoms.
As a result, hundreds of Armenian women, girls, and even some men and boys were able to escape and reach Urfa, Suruç, Aleppo, and Mosul. They survived the massacres and later testified to the atrocities—the systematic genocide committed with official approval by the Turkish government, using criminal police forces, bloodthirsty Turkish and Kurdish militias, and violent mobs.”*
“Armenian wealth was seized not only by the Turkish government and local Turkish, Kurdish, and Circassian populations but also by foreign interests. Reports in the Armenian press following the Mudros Armistice confirm this.”
Today, as the world faces critical political decisions, recognizing the Armenian Genocide and seeking reparations—including compensation for victims’ descendants and the Armenian nation—demands the preparation of a legal case against the Republic of Turkey, the successor to the Ottoman Empire, to restore rightful Armenian lands and property.
«“The Wild Rose Embodies My Land” or “Spring Will Arrive in Armenian, Your Centuries Will Arrive in Armenian”…»
On this day, April 14, 1914, the Armenian poet Hamo Sahyan was born—a poet who glorified his homeland, his birthplace with its “dewy lips,” and sang the “Song of the Cliffs.”
Deeply rooted in the culture of our ancestors, with an unshaken and pure spirit, this great Armenian poet has left us verses we often recall…
The singer who fought for the “Nairian Green Poplar,” the symbol of our historical homeland—the Land of Nairi—wrote:
You sway with grace in your emerald robes, Shading the path of my childhood’s green fields. Your call rings clear and loud In the deep gorges of my heart, O my far, far Nairian green poplar!
Ah, you burn like a bonfire, A blaze of green flame! From afar, I embrace you With the longing fire of my heart. You fill the fields with your familiar rustling, O my far, far Nairian green poplar!
My skylark-child plays in your shade, Singing your praise With lips like a budding rose. Bless his life, cradle him like a sleepless father, O my far, far Nairian green poplar!
I am a singer of fire and steel; I desire nothing but your love. With a life as green as yours, I have fought for you. I shall die, so long as you may whisper free through the ages, O my far, far Nairian green poplar…
“The wild rose is the symbol of my country.
…It asks for nothing. Even in drought, it bears good fruit. It blooms multiple times—greens, whitens, yellows, reddens… Humble, giving, yet covered in thorns.
A foreigner should recognize me by the wild rose bush, clinging to the rock. It has the richest scent, the most vibrant color, the sweetest fruit. Its roots run deep, strong, and firm—just try to uproot it…
The wild rose does not know how healing it is, how beautiful, how essential. It does not know—and could never know—that it is Armenian, That it carries the spirit of our people, so deeply characteristic of our nation.
It is we who must know this and show it to the world.
The wild rose holds the same worth as Tumanyan’s rock…
Through the essence of the wild rose, we must come to understand ourselves.”
These are the words of Hamo Sahyan (from Susanna Babajanyan’s Facebook page)…
“I am the eyes and ears of Mother Nature, The consciousness of her embodied form.”
Thus, Sahyan described himself…
In one of his letters, Paruyr Sevak called Sahyan “one of the finest versifiers of our poetry.”
Here stands the proof…
«Our language»
Our language is our conscience, The sacred bread on our table, The righteous voice of our soul, The very taste upon our lips.
Our language is the smoke of our home, The weight that holds balance in this world, The salt of our identity, The essence of who we are.
Our language is our blood, More precious than blood itself, Our fragrance, our color, Our language is us—it is our existence.
It must be our first And our last love, For what else in this world Belongs to us so completely?
“Spring Arrives in Armenian”
Spring arrives in Armenian, Your snows cry in Armenian, Your waters surge in Armenian.
Your birds sing in Armenian, Your plows carve the earth in Armenian, Your letters endure in Armenian.
Your sun rises in Armenian, Your trees blossom in Armenian, Your words burst forth in Armenian.
Your seeds sprout in Armenian, Your hands mold and forge in Armenian, Your stones keep their silence in Armenian.
Your valleys breathe in Armenian, Your martyrs rest in Armenian, Your sorrows ache in Armenian.
No matter how much has been taken, You have remained Armenian, Your mountains still rise in Armenian.
May God protect what still stands, And no matter what the future holds, Your snows will cry in Armenian, Your spring will arrive in Armenian, Your centuries will return in Armenian.
…«From the reed pipe, smoke ascended,From the reed pipe, fire blazed,And out of the flames emerged a golden-haired young boy.»…
With the genius insight of Khorenatsi, the few lines of the hymn “The Birth of Vahagn” carry within them an extraordinary depth of ancient philosophical thought.
Flame and Smoke, Sacred Fire (Sun, Light), revered as life-sustaining forces and sources of vitality by our ancestors, were also personified in the chief deity of the pantheon—Thunderer, Lightning Bearer (known as Teshub or Tork, the God of Thunder and Lightning akin to Zeus and Jupiter, later evolving into Aramazd, Mihr, and Vahagn).
Through the currents of millennia, these beliefs, though slightly colored by time, have endured, reappearing during festivals and sacred rituals…
Even today, the blessing “May your hearth be prosperous,” often heard in traditional households, resonates with us. It conveys the timeless message to “keep the hearth’s flame alive,” passed as a sacred duty to future generations.
The Land of Nairi (Mitanni, later evolving into Urartu or Biainili, with territorial changes), referred to in cuneiform as the “Land of Fire,” still reflects the glow of its fiery temples. This can be seen today in rituals of candle-lighting, Chragaluyts (lamp-lighting ceremonies), and torches ignited on special occasions.
Although slightly altered, the essence remains…
What was once the Celestial Fire of ancient reverence is now symbolized by the “Lantern,” which inspired this reflection.
The ceremonial torch lit from the “Lantern” during the Pan-Armenian Games reaches back to antiquity, to Mount Olympus, the site of the legendary Olympic Games.
Prometheus, the son of Iapetus and forefather of Armenians, as well as a descendant of the Giants, stole Fire from Olympus and brought it to mankind—a source of divine wisdom and enlightenment.
For this, he was condemned, bound to a rock.
Thus, the quest for knowledge is a path born of toil and suffering.
By bestowing the Sun’s fire upon mortals, Prometheus enabled the development of many disciplines—metallurgy, architecture, astronomy… (In Sumerian mythology, it was Enki who spread Light, Wisdom, and Magic through Oannes, a mythical amphibian figure).
The sacred Eternal Fire of ancient temples was symbolically “harnessed” from the Sun using a parabolic mirror (skaphia).
Athletes would then carry torches lit from this celestial fire from Hestia’s sacred hearth to the games, paying homage to the Old Gods.
In homage to these ancient traditions, torch-lighting ceremonies are sometimes performed by white-robed “priestesses.”
As the great Varuzhan once sang, “…Through the reed pipe, Light arose…”
Below: A refined seven-branched lamp from Metsamor, bearing the weight of 4-5 millennia of history.
The Byzantine Sources – About Armenia and Armenians
Over the centuries, numerous enemy invasions into Hayk brought about profound changes, shattering the political stability of the powerful Armenian World, diminishing Armenia’s dominant role, and weakening the strength of its noble houses.
The Roman-Persian treaty of 387 AD resulted in significant changes to the borders of the Kingdom of Greater Armenia.
“Procopius of Caesarea stands as one of the most prominent historians of Byzantium. He was born either at the end of the 5th century or the beginning of the 6th century in Caesarea, Palestine.” … “Procopius lived during the era of Emperor Justinian, a time regarded as both one of the brightest and darkest chapters in Byzantine history. When Justinian ascended the throne in 527, he was determined to restore the ancient borders of the Roman Empire and revive its former glory. For this reason, his long reign saw continuous wars—against the Persians in the East, the Goths in the West, and the Vandals in Libya,” writes Hrach Bartikyan, who translated and published Procopius’s works concerning Armenia and the Armenians (Foreign Sources on Armenia and the Armenians, Vol. 5, Yerevan, 1967).
Here are selected excerpts from this work…
“…Corruption had reached staggering levels. It was possible to buy one’s way into the highest political and military offices, as well as the most exalted positions within the clergy.” “…Even the judiciary, an institution meant to safeguard justice, had succumbed to corruption. Through bribes, one could even gain access to the royal guard.
Procopius of Caesarea, in his Secret History, laments bitterly that the royal guard—once composed solely of individuals selected for their exceptional military and physical abilities, a guard that historically admitted only Armenians—had, under Justinian’s reign, become open to anyone who could pay. Even slaves could join if they had the means. These flaws in the Byzantine state extended to Byzantine-controlled Armenia as well.
Historical documents reveal that corruption was rampant in First Armenia, Second Armenia, and Greater Armenia. Popular discontent against Justinian’s regime often manifested through the rise of various sects, which proliferated across the empire during this period.”
“…Justinian’s reign was a calamity for the Armenian people. It delivered the final blow to the remnants of Armenian independence, particularly the hereditary satrapies in southern Armenia, and sought to dismantle the Armenians’ ancient rights.”
“Within the Roman army, there was a commander of Persian-Armenian descent named Artavan. A long-time deserter, he had joined Roman-controlled Armenia voluntarily but in an extraordinary way—by slaughtering 120 capable Persian soldiers. This act was seen as proof of his loyalty to the Romans.
Artavan approached the Roman commander Valerian and requested 50 soldiers from his forces. His request was granted, and he proceeded toward a fortress in Persarmenia (Persian Armenia).
The Persian garrison, numbering 120 men, welcomed Artavan and his soldiers into the fortress, unaware of his betrayal of the Persian state and his plans to rebel. Artavan killed the entire garrison, seized the fortress’s immense wealth, and returned to Valerian and the Roman army.
This act cemented his reputation as a reliable ally to the Romans, and he participated in their subsequent campaigns. During one notable battle, Artavan, accompanied by two Roman soldiers, ventured into the enemy ranks.
A group of enemies approached, but Artavan immediately struck, using his spear to kill one of the fiercest and most powerful Persian warriors, unseating him and ending his life. A nearby barbarian retaliated, striking Artavan on the head with a sword, though the wound was not fatal.
One of Artavan’s companions, of Gothic origin, managed to strike the barbarian on his left side as he raised his weapon against Artavan, killing him. Terrified, the remaining thousand enemy soldiers retreated, awaiting the arrival of Khoryanes, who was advancing with the remaining Persian and Alan forces and soon joined them.”
Nerses the Armenian – Byzantine General
An excerpt from Procopius (On the Wars, Book 8, Chapter 31):
“…The armies were aligned for battle as follows: both forces stood face-to-face, forming a front line as wide and deep as possible. On the Roman left flank, near a hill, Narses and John commanded, leading the finest Roman fighters… On the right flank were Valerian, John Fagas, and Dagistheus, overseeing the remainder of the Roman forces…
In the center of the line, Narses placed the Lombards, Heruls, and other barbarian troops. He instructed them to dismount and form an infantry unit to prevent them from fleeing immediately in case of cowardice or betrayal during the battle.
…For a while, neither side made a move; both armies waited patiently for the other to attack first.
Eventually, from the Gothic forces, a man named Cocas, famed for his courage, rode his horse forward, stopping in front of the Roman army to issue a challenge for single combat. This Cocas had once been a Roman soldier but had defected to Totilas.
Without hesitation, one of Narses’ spear-bearers, an Armenian named Anzalas, mounted his horse and rode out to confront him.
Cocas struck first, aiming his lance at Anzalas’ abdomen. However, Anzalas quickly maneuvered his horse to the side, rendering Cocas’ charge ineffective. Taking advantage of his position, Anzalas drove his lance into Cocas’ left side.
Cocas fell lifeless from his horse to the ground. The Roman forces erupted in a triumphant cheer…”
Firm as the homeland’s soil, pure as water, are the figures crafted by Mushegh Galshoyan—true children of their ancestral land, steadfast in their struggles, their fates intertwined with an unquenchable longing for home, and hearts aching with loss.
“Longing—oh, how mighty it is! There’s nothing stronger than longing in the world. With longing, sorrow deepens. Ah… longing is sorrow, tender—tender sorrow. And that sorrow… That sorrow gives birth to greatness, magnifies the soul, and transforms a person into a giant, a hero.”
“There is nothing sweeter than earth and water in this world. A person draws strength from the soil! As long as the earth under one’s feet remains theirs, they are undefeated; but once taken, they are enslaved. The greatest loss in the world is that of a human being. The loss of a person is irreversible. The loss of homeland and soil is grievous, but soil is eternal; it will never yield to another master. The soil shares its lifeblood with its rightful owner, awaiting its kin—waiting and waiting until one day, they are reunited.” (Mushegh Galshoyan, “The Myron of the Gorge”)
In Mushegh Galshoyan’s masterful depiction, “Davo,” one of General Andranik’s most loyal allies, spends his final moments envisioning Sassoun, reliving his heroic battles and burning with vengeance.
“…The soil shares its lifeblood with its rightful owner, awaiting its kin—waiting and waiting until one day, they are reunited…”
“Davo,” with a heart ablaze with longing and vengeance, unfolds below:
DAVO
“On a bed spread across the earthen floor lay Davo. His face freshly shaven, dressed in brand-new white garments—purchased last year, set aside for this day. Today, he wore them and reclined in his spotless bed, his body resting calmly. His eyes were half-closed, arms stretched out across a floral quilt, the buttons of his shirt undone, the white hairs on his chest tangled like frost, bowing thoughtfully.
Through the window came a single strand of sunlight, as if sent to carry Davo to the heavens. The sunbeam coiled around him, teasing the white hairs on his chest and his broken white mustache, flickering red and blue before his half-closed eyes, gently tickling his eyelids.
Davo remained silent. Only his eyelids seemed to speak, engaging in a quiet dialogue with the light. The beam that played on his forehead and eyes, along with the red and green glimmers dancing on his lids, whispered of something—a memory, a moment, or a longed-for dream. Davo’s trembling lids and furrowed brow seemed to search…
The old men of his village surrounded him.
That morning, when Davo asked to be dressed in his white clothes and for his bed to be laid on the ground instead of the platform—and sent his son to call for Pchuk, his old comrade-in-arms—everyone understood: Davo was setting out on his final journey. And so, the village elders came, gathering around him. Hamze Pchuk, the blacksmith, arrived first; then Grigor from Mokh, kin of Gevorg Chaush; followed by Avé from Bjni, Manuk of Khbljoza, Miron from Khut, Tigran, and Mosen from Hitenk. They all came. Davo was departing. Davo, who once kissed the sword in place of the cross at Maruta Monastery, was leaving. Soon, his breath would merge with the winds of Maruta Mountain, and the aged eagle circling Kablorakar’s peak would pluck a feather from its chest. That feather would flutter in the fiery hues of dusk over Talvorik’s skies.
Hamze Pchuk, stepping inside, called out: —Davo! Wrecked house, are you truly leaving? Are you going? Hamze Pchuk repeated the question, kneeling beside his friend’s bed. —Will you leave me behind, Davo?
Davo reached out, clasping his friend’s hand. Pchuk was astonished: —Such strength still flows in your veins, Davo. Where are you going?”
“To the battlefield, Pchuk,” Davo thought to himself, and suddenly… he recalled… What he had been searching for with such intensity—he found. That forgotten story from long ago, which the light dancing in his eyes whispered of, the red and green glimmers swirling before his lids—it all came rushing back to him. The Battle of Tsitskar. He remembered and clasped his friend’s hand even more firmly.
“Do you recall, Pchuk, the Battle of Tsitskar? Does it stir in your memory?”—a smile eased the tension from his wrinkled face.
“There’s joy written on your brow, Davo,” noted Hamze Pchuk. “Are you heading home?” “To battle, Pchuk. Will you join me?” He felt as though he could speak aloud, yet he couldn’t understand why his mouth wouldn’t move.
“What does your heart desire, Davo?” asked Mosen from Hitenk at an unexpected moment.
Davo groaned in discontent. “My heart desires…” Then he strained to move his lips so Mosen might hear him, and he imagined he had actually voiced the words: “Leave me be, Mosen. Let me…” And again, he gripped his comrade’s hand. “To battle, Pchuk. Will you come? Whoever falls is a traitor… The Battle of Tsitskar—is it in your memory? Do you recall?”
2 The enemy was vast in numbers. They advanced relentlessly. Their assault was fiercest on the left flank. To that side, beyond the enemy’s left line, lay a village. The villagers had gathered at its edge—clearly visible, men and women, young and old, raising a clamor to embolden their kin in battle. The clashing of metal, the burst of fireworks, wild howls—on the rooftop of a house, someone sang, their voice piercing and unyielding… The chaotic roar of the marauding mob was insignificant, but the haunting, blood-soaked song dripping across the battlefield drove him mad. He could almost feel that song draining the strength from their left flank, as if it made the men there long to escape…
Where was Commander Andranik? Why wasn’t he bolstering the left flank with even a single platoon from the right or the center?
A low hill divided the fronts on the left, and whoever claimed the jagged rock perched at its summit would claim victory. It was obvious; no great commander was needed to grasp this truth… Fighting shoulder to shoulder with Pchuk, his mind remained fixed on that rock—Tsitskar.
If only he and Pchuk could scale that position, take their place behind that stone stronghold. If only they could turn into sparrows, slither as snakes, become… He tugged at Pchuk’s sleeve.
“There’s no other choice,” Pchuk agreed.
“And no falling!” he bellowed, locking eyes with Pchuk. “Whoever falls is a traitor!”
Later… From the rock’s cover, his and Pchuk’s rifles thundered without pause. “Whoever falls is a traitor!” they cried out in turn, without a moment to aim. There was no need to aim—the vengeance searing in their hearts exploded from the barrels of their rifles, crashing into the enemy’s cowardly ranks, silencing the song that had cursed the battlefield.
As the evening fell, the enemy retreated, and they entered the village. The villagers had neither fled nor hidden, knowing that the army approaching their homes was Andranik Pasha’s—an army that would harm no soul. They greeted them at the village edge with bread and salt, the very spot where, all morning, they had stood cheering their kin with shouts of encouragement. Among the greeters were elders, women, children, and a young man—tall, with piercing eyes and a proud demeanor. Encircled by the crowd, standing a head taller, he smiled tenderly at Commander Andranik.
“Why didn’t you take up a weapon?” the commander inquired. “Why didn’t you join the fight?” “I am not a man of weapons, Pasha,” the young man replied, his smile oozing with sweetness. “I only know how to sing.”
This? Was it truly this? Could it be? A furious cry caught in his throat, red and green flashes danced wildly in his vision, and with a mad resolve, he drew his sword. Then came Andranik’s commanding voice: “Davo!”
“Pasha, do not hold my arm!” he bellowed, wild with rage, his gaze barely fixing on the commander’s face. Andranik’s visage appeared to him, surrounded by flickering red and green. “Grant me the right, Pasha!” “Davo, the boy is beautiful and a singer. He must live.” “And were the men and women of my tribe not beautiful, Pasha? Where are they? Did my tribe not sing, Pasha? Where is their song? Whether or not you grant me the right—I will kill him!”
3 “I will kill him, Pasha!” Davo’s voice broke through the air, defiant. The others looked on in unease, and Bje Avo called out: “Rise, rise, Davo! Talvorik fights! Why do you lie here, homeless one?” Davo’s brows were tightly knit with discontent, his breaths heavy and labored…
4 “I will kill him,” he raged, and before he realized it, his blade had fallen, severing the young man’s head. And then, as if it had been waiting, the commander’s voice thundered: “Death to Davo!”
“Pasha!” Pchuk stepped forward, standing before Andranik. “It is Davo!” “Death to Davo!”
Other soldiers from Sasun tried to intervene—Manuk, Isro, Cholon, Akho—but the commander stood resolute.
“You are a brave soldier, Davo,” Andranik said. “I will remember you. But you have left me no choice,” he continued, his voice heavy with grief, his eyes filled with tears. “Accept your fate, Davo.” “I will not, Pasha! Your judgment is wrong!” “Disarm him!” the commander roared. “Bind him and throw him into the river!” He selected four soldiers for the task.
Evening had fallen. Silent and head bowed, Davo walked ahead of the soldiers toward the river—Aratsani. The spring dusk was soft and tender, the ground warm beneath his steps… The sun’s dying rays fell across his face and eyelids, drawing him westward. If only he could keep walking like this, head low, unbroken, until he reached Mush, climbed the heights of Kepen, and ascended the summit of Tsirnakatar. Then he would open his mouth to cry out: “Ehehee, Talvorik, I have arrived!”
5 — Eheheheee, Talvorik, I have arrived! Davo’s lips moved once more, giving life to his memories.
From a distance, Davo’s voice echoed faintly, fragmented like the remnants of a song. His comrades exchanged glances—Davo was leaving… He was leaving, and with his final breath, he spoke.
— Eheheheee, Talvorik, Davo has arrived! Grigor of Mkhtents cried out, his voice rich and melodic, and began to sing:
“The gurgling waters streamed down From Mush’s lofty mountains…”
The melody stirred something in Davo’s heart. His wrinkles softened, yielding to a smile… Perhaps Davo had not left after all—he was still here!
— Davo! called Hamze Pchuk. If you’re headed to the homeland, let us go together. Why go alone, displaced one?
— I am on my way to the river, to be cast into it, Pchuk. It is the Pasha’s command. Do you remember? Davo’s creased brow and half-closed eyes trembled faintly, brushing against the golden rays of the sun…
6 He walked towards the west, the evening sun brushing his forehead and his eyes. If only he could keep walking, silently, steadily, until he reached Mush, climbed to Kep, and…
But at the banks of the Aratsani, they came to a halt. The punitive soldiers averted their eyes from him—and from each other. One nervously pulled out a cigarette case, and they sat by the riverbank.
The river flowed westward in a fierce torrent. Even without being tied up, there was no escaping those ferocious waves. They would sweep him away to join those said to have gathered downstream, clogging the river’s path, forcing it to overflow into the deserts of Arabia…
Sitting under the shadow of execution, he gazed at the muddy, agitated waves. No, it wasn’t fear of death. Davo had long since left fear behind. His fear had died the day on Andok’s summit, during the war council, when Petara Akho had said: “If defeat is inevitable, better to light a great fire on Andok’s peak, throw ourselves into it, and burn together, becoming smoke over Andok.” Davo had agreed with Akho… That day, Talvoriktsi Davo had buried his fear.
But here, at the Aratsani’s edge, terror gripped him. The waves seemed alive, as if at any moment a hand might rise from the river’s depths to accuse him, Talvoriktsi Davo; an eye, wild with fear, might stare him down; a little girl with golden hair might be cast into his trembling arms…
He leapt to his feet, as if struck.
“Why are you sitting around?” he yelled. The soldiers scrambled up in confusion. “The army is marching! What are you waiting for?” The soldiers hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances. One of them undid his belt.
“Davo, forgive us, but… it’s the Pasha’s command,” one said softly.
“The Pasha’s command is wrong,” Davo growled. “If you want to carry it out, you’ll have to take one or two of you with me—I won’t go alone!” He lunged at the soldiers, grabbing two and dragging them toward the roaring river.
In the end, they all collapsed in a tangled heap on the bank, the river’s furious breath brushing their faces.
“Davo,” one soldier said shakily, “let’s make a deal. We’ll tell the commander the order was carried out. But you must not let him see you again.”
The soldiers stood and left. Davo stayed behind, lying face down on the earth, its spring scent brushing against his face, his eyes closed.
The sun had set. Dusk wrapped the fields and mountains in a soft sorrow. The Aratsani darkened as he lay there, motionless, feet pointed toward the river. He could feel its growing darkness, its turbulent waves churning, sending shivers through him. The river’s menacing breath crept up his spine, to his neck, clawing at his legs, dragging him closer…
He sprang up and looked after the soldiers. They were retreating quickly; soon, they would rejoin the army, marching westward… westward…
“Whoever retreats is a traitor!” he roared after them. He shouted again…
7 — Whoever retreats is a traitor! Davo opened his mouth, and his voice echoed through the cave. Hamze Pchuk, kneeling by his friend’s bedside, paused in confusion. He glanced around, then looked at Davo. Wrinkles creased Davo’s forehead, lines overlapping each other.
8 “Whoever retreats is a traitor!” he shouted from the riverbank, hurling the words like a curse at the soldiers, unable to think of anything else to say. For two days and nights, he wandered along the army’s trail. Rejected by the shepherd—cast out like a stray dog, he dragged himself behind the herd, guarding the army’s rear like a loyal hound.
The army was advancing slowly but steadily, moving west and then southwest. From dawn to dusk, he nervously watched the troops’ formations, trying to decipher the commander’s strategies and predict the battle’s outcome. He felt that if he let his mind wander, the army— for whom he had become a watchful guard—might suddenly falter or retreat.
On the third morning, the lines of the battlefield seemed wrong to him. The enemy had retreated overnight, securing a crescent-shaped hill, a highly advantageous position. In such scenarios, Andranik would always investigate whether the enemy’s rear was exposed or fortified.
And so, Davo set off to fulfill Commander Andranik’s orders. He crept into the enemy’s rear and returned by nightfall. He brought back valuable spoils—a sword, a dagger, and a bridle-less horse. No longer a stray dog, he was now a soldier who had returned victoriously from a daring reconnaissance mission.
By evening, the positions of the fronts appeared unchanged from the morning, but from the pattern of gunfire, he sensed his comrades’ weakness. Their shots were sporadic—a sign that the commander had ordered them to conserve ammunition. “If that’s the case, it’s time for a charge, Pasha!” And he raced toward the army.
With his sword unsheathed, he charged forward, galloping through the ranks. He passed by Commander Andranik’s post and shouted, “The enemy’s rear is empty, Pasha! Empty!” “It’s Davo!” the commander’s jubilant voice rang out. “Davo!” he called again, his tone like a command. It was as though he had just signaled the charge. As Davo galloped, he glanced over his shoulder… Oh, Mother of Maratuk! Swords gleamed in the sunlight—they were advancing. “Whoever retreats is a traitor!” he bellowed over his shoulder, then leaned down toward his horse’s ear.
Bullets zipped over his head and past his ears, but he was certain he wouldn’t fall. Davo would not betray; Talvorik’s Davo still had vengeance to exact. Sword held high over his forehead, he charged toward the enemy, toward the west, toward the distant mountains shattered in the sunset.
9 Davo clasped his comrade’s hand tightly, and Pchuk marveled again. “Davo! Such strength still flows through your veins, boy—where are you headed?” “To battle, Pchuk. Don’t you remember?” “What does your heart crave, Davo?” Hitenktsi Mose asked again, in his familiar way. “What does your heart crave, Davo?” mocked Khbljoza Manuk, half-annoyed. “Davo’s heart craves pears and apples. Davo’s heart craves honey and butter. Davo’s heart craves sherbet. Davo’s heart craves Baghdad dates. Davo’s heart craves Indian oranges. Mose, Davo’s heart craves a watermelon bigger than your head!” “Aaaah, watermelon!” sang Hitenktsi Mose. “Cursed Yerevan, cursed market, watermelon…”
Davo groaned. He tilted his head as though to let go of Pchuk’s hand, but instead, he clung even tighter. Then, setting his face straight once more, he turned his gaze to the sunlight. “Cursed watermelon,” Hitenktsi Mose sighed, his voice quivering with emotion. “May my eyes go blind, Davo, if they ever see you like this again.”
10 Under the blazing summer sun, the market sprawled in dust—a tattered garbage heap swarming with orphans. The orphans, scruffy and feral like stray dogs, wandered with wary glances, yet snarled and fought each other mercilessly. They scrabbled over watermelon rinds, snatched at scraps of grapes, and dived for a single tossed seed, rolling in the dust as they clawed and bit one another for it.
Their dust-caked, bloodied faces turned toward the market. Among these ragged, faceless children, Davo searched for kin, a friend, or a familiar face… It was hopeless, but he searched anyway. Somehow, the orphans, those timid little scavengers, sensed they had nothing to fear from this hairy, disheveled man— despite his wild, terrifying face being the fiercest they’d ever seen. They swarmed him like flies, buzzing incessantly around him, not knowing why.
Davo stormed into the market. Behind him trailed the scruffy mob of orphans. The market shuddered with fear and froze. All eyes were on Davo. Who was he? Where had he come from, in trousers made of goat hair, a long woolen belt wrapped tight around his waist, his bare back draped with goatskin, his chest bristling with hair, his face buried in it, his bloodshot eyes full of fire? Who was he, this savage man from another world?
But Davo didn’t look at anyone. He saw nothing. He strode through the market, trampling over everything in his path, surrounded by the ragged orphans. “Grab it… grab it… grab it,” he muttered—or was he growling? No one could tell. Even the orphans didn’t understand his words, but they instinctively knew it was a call to raid. They scattered in waves, grabbing whatever they could find—stuffing items into their pockets, cradling armfuls of goods, and darting away, huddling behind the man who cursed the market owners to oblivion.
“Grab it… grab it… grab it,” Davo growled again as he plowed through the market. But then he heard a whimper from behind. He turned to see a girl, no older than nine or ten, clutching a watermelon tightly to her chest. She whimpered like a frightened pup, writhing on the ground, refusing to let go of her prize. When Davo turned, the watermelon’s owner bolted, screaming for help.
Davo didn’t chase after him. Instead, he approached the girl, knelt beneath a sack of watermelons, and before the stunned eyes of the market crowd, effortlessly hoisted it onto his back. Just moments before, seven or eight men had struggled to unload the same sack from a cart, and now, this wild man carried it alone.
Under the burden of the sack, Davo disappeared. His goatskin garb, his unruly hair, his fierce face, his fiery eyes—everything vanished. All that remained was the image of a strong porter, a sack of watermelons moving as if by itself, leaving the market.
But the crowd surged forward and brought him down. Freed from their terror, the mob trampled Davo to the ground, pinning him beneath the weight of his load. They stamped on him furiously in the dusty street. The enraged market owners vented their fear by crushing him underfoot, determined to kill him and drive away the stray dogs haunting their market.
The orphans peeked out from their hiding places, whining softly. Their mouths were stuffed with stolen goods, their throats choking with sweetness. Davo could only hear their voices as his temples throbbed with the echoes:
“Grab it… grab it… grab it.”
The market owners jostled one another as they trampled him underfoot. Davo lay silent and still.
Eventually, someone spoke up: “Enough.” And the mob, their terror and panic now dissipated, returned to the market, relieved and unburdened, back to their business.
Only Davo remained in the street, face down in the dust. Passersby paid him no mind—or rather, didn’t even notice him. In the dusty chaos of that provincial town, he blended into the ordinary backdrop of the day.
But the orphans noticed. They knew who lay there in the street— the one who had just embodied their freedom, their audacity, the sweetness that now filled their pockets and throats. There he lay, in the dust.
From various corners, they began to wail. But somehow, they realized their cries were dangerous. Their mourning, their noise, could draw unwanted attention. So they fell silent, all at once, and understood instinctively that approaching the market that day would mean trouble. And so they scattered throughout the city.
Davo lay still, unwilling to move, refusing to rise. The earth drank in the groans of his weary bones, while the blazing sun poured healing rays over his mangled back, a strange, soothing balm. Why open his eyes? Who was there to see? What was there to see? And where would he go if he rose?
Better to die here, in this warm, dust-laden cocoon that seeped into his bones, filling them with its bittersweet ache.
If this was to be the end—if every battle was destined to end in defeat— then he should have planted his last bullet in his chest and fallen on Andok, or on Black Mountain, or at the foothills of Tsovasar, or on the slopes of Kablorakar, or into the sweet, clear waters of the Talvorik River.
That’s how it should have been. Yes, he should have faced the enemy’s bullet head-on or spent his last on himself and fallen there, where it mattered. But that chance had slipped away. And it was his fault—Talvoriktsi Davo’s fault— for letting the perfect moment and place for his death pass by. Now, he deserved this—a pitiful end in the dusty streets.
Still, Davo refused to move. He didn’t want to. And then, from a distance, as though in a dream, he heard his name: “Davo!”
11 “Better for my eyes to go blind, Davo, than to have seen you like that day,” Mosen of Hitank whispered, his voice heavy with sorrow.
The old men gathered around Davo knew the tale well, but Mosen still tried to recount it. Yet Hamze Pchuk bristled in frustration. “Stop your useless rambling! Is that the Davo you choose to remember? Don’t taint his final breath!” Pchuk snapped, turning toward Mkhtanktsi Grigor. “Sing a song for Davo!”
Davo’s furrowed brow softened once more with a faint smile. Then Pchuk felt Davo’s fingers tighten briefly and leaned closer to catch his words.
“Pchuk…”
The voice echoed as if from a deep cavern. Pchuk imagined hearing Davo’s voice reverberating from the caves of Kablorakar. “Don’t… cross my hands,” Davo murmured. “Leave them open… let them stay open.”
Davo was already leaving… Pchuk felt the faintest pressure in Davo’s grip, yet his eyelids still seemed to embrace the light. A beam of sunlight stretched from the window, pulling Davo gently toward the sky.
And Davo was going. Through the ears of his galloping horse, with his blade bared to his brow, Davo charged forward. He flew toward the ridge, toward the enemy’s positions… The evening sun glimmered on his unsheathed sword, kissed his forehead, and filled his vision with fiery flashes of red and green. Davo rode westward, toward the sun splintered across the distant peaks… Mushegh Galshoyan (Մուշեղ Գալշոյան)
“Cheto – Peto”, “The Gossip of Kajet Women”, “The Punishment of Kajet”
Culture, particularly folklore, serves as the finest reflection of a nation’s worldview and core values. As Hovhannes Tumanyan insightfully remarked, folklore provides the foundation for nearly all arts, especially the literary ones. Through the relentless efforts of folklorists, we’ve preserved extraordinary examples of Armenia’s rich and diverse folklore, spanning multiple genres. These epics and lyrical works are frequently complemented by humorous and witty anecdotes, bringing the vibrant spirit and echoes of distant eras into the cultural treasury of the Armenian people.
The Armenians of Shatakh in the Van province were heroic participants in the self-defense battles of 1915, bravely fighting for 42 days with unyielding resolve, joined by women and children.
The “people of the land,” with their “songs and tales,” shared stories from ancient times. Among them was Rasho, one of the “crooked men of Kajet,” who sometimes recited slowly, other times with passion and a commanding voice. With remarkable speed and an air of ceremony, he would “emphasize the key points and deliver two dozen lines,” as vividly described by K. Melik-Ohanjanyan.
The village of Kajet, nestled in the Shatakh district and blessed with pure, abundant springs, had a legend about its water — it was said to “drive people mad.” Unsurprisingly, many humorous and satirical tales were spun about its quirky inhabitants. Here’s one such story from Anushavan Devkantsi’s works:
Cjeto-Peto
Res Ako was busy organizing his eldest son’s wedding. Everything was ready: food, drinks, and music. All that was left was to invite the relatives and friends — with all the respect and ceremony expected in Armenian traditions, even in Kajet, the “village of the crooked.”
Res called over his son and said: “Go to the village square and see which of our relatives and friends are there. Invite them all and tell them we’re going to eat, drink, and party until Kajet shakes with joy!”
The son got ready to leave, but Res stopped him and added: “Oh, and if you see Uncle Cjeto-Peto in the square, just give him a half-hearted invite. If he comes, fine; if he doesn’t, even better.”
The son reached the square and saw Cjeto-Peto sitting on the tallest stone, chatting with Kajet’s elders and relatives, young and old. Res’s son respectfully invited everyone present, naming them one by one on his father’s behalf. Finally, he approached Uncle Cjeto-Peto and said: “Uncle Peto, you’re invited to our house… my father’s calling you too.”
Cjeto-Peto gave a sly look to the crowd, turned to the young man, and asked: “Your father’s calling me, got it… but why are you covering half your mouth with your hand while inviting me?”
The groom-to-be replied with a grin: “My father told me to invite you with half a mouth, so I did!”
The Gossip Chain of Kajet
One day, Granny Shusho showed up late to church. She shuffled in quietly, covering her nose and mouth with her headscarf, and stood near Godmother Khandut. Godmother Khandut leaned over and whispered: “Granny Shusho, what kept you so long?”
“Godmother Khandut,” Granny Shusho whispered back, “the barn manger collapsed, so I was helping my husband fix it.”
Godmother Khandut turned to Godmother Iskuhi and whispered: “The manger collapsed. That’s why she was late.”
Godmother Iskuhi leaned toward Granny Deghdzuni and whispered: “They’re saying the manger collapsed.”
By the time church ended, the women of Kajet, huddled close together, shuffled out and dispersed to their homes. A couple of hours later, the whole village was abuzz with the news: “Did you hear? They’re saying the city of Mosul has been completely destroyed by an earthquake!”
The women of Kajet, along with Granny Shusho and Godmother Khandut, slapped their knees in despair and cried out: “Oh no, such a shame! What a terrible loss! How could the great city of Mosul have crumbled?”
Kajet’s Reckoning
In Kajet, the villagers had more to worry about than just tax collectors—they had crows. The Kajet people despised these noisy birds. Every time the crows circled above, screeching and cawing, some disaster would follow. One man’s ox would fall into a rutabaga pit, another would get his hand stuck in a jar, someone else would pull a muscle from coughing too hard, and a few unfortunate souls would trip over their feet in their new red shoes. Then there were those who mistook chili peppers for apples.
Calamities were as constant in Kajet as the ominous cawing of the crows. Many believed the crows were to blame for it all.
One day, the villagers had enough. They gathered and decided to catch at least one crow and make it pay.
With tools in hand—axes, hammers, rakes, sickles—they stormed after a flock of crows, yelling and creating chaos, determined to trap one.
Splpoch, the village boy, brought his slingshot. He loaded it with a stone, took aim, and fired. Thwack! One crow fell straight to the ground.
Shouts of triumph erupted. They grabbed the bird. “What now?” someone asked.
To the church they went, where the priest performed a solemn ritual, cursing the crow and all its kind.
“Let’s break its neck!” someone suggested. “No, break its legs!” another cried.
As they debated, the crow regained consciousness. It flapped its wings and let out a defiant Caw! But the Kajet folk weren’t about to let it go after all the effort they’d put in.
“Throw it in the barn!” someone shouted. “No, lock it in the granary!” another added. “Burn it along with the barn!” yelled a third.
Finally, Res Ako, the village elder, raised his hand for silence.
“According to tradition,” he declared, “the crow must be rolled down the cliff in a churn.”
“Yes, that’s the way!” the villagers cried.
They stuffed the crow into a giant churn, sealing it with a rutabaga. With great ceremony—crosses, incense, and the music of zurnas—they rolled the churn off the cliff.
Boom… bang… crash! The churn smashed against the rocks as it fell, and the mountains echoed with the villagers’ cheers.
Then suddenly, a sound broke through: Caw… caw!
At the bottom of the cliff, the churn lay shattered, the rutabaga lid in pieces. The crow, very much alive, flapped its wings and flew off, cawing triumphantly.
The Kajet folk stood in stunned silence.
But they weren’t ones to give up easily.
“Curse you!” the priest yelled after the bird. “You didn’t die, but at least we scared you, didn’t we?”
