“We Armenians are an incredibly joyful and life-loving people, and I deeply believe in this. No act of barbarity or violence can ever break the powerful Armenian spirit, which always strives toward Light.” (H. Tumanyan)
One of the treasures of Armenian folklore is its rich oral tradition, full of humorous characters and anecdotes, a unique reflection of the nation’s culture and spirit.
For centuries, across Armenia’s regions, traditional celebrations have been enriched with witty jokes, clever exchanges, and comedic songs, showcasing the Armenians’ cheerful nature and optimistic worldview.
“One of the most famous humorists is Pel (the Mad, the Eccentric) Poghin from Artsakh. His folkloric counterparts include Poloz-Mukuch from Shirak, Hobos from Lori, and Uncle Ginos from Kapan. These figures embody the collective character of the people from their regions. Typically, individuals whose actions fall outside societal norms or expectations are nicknamed ‘mad’ or ‘eccentric.’”
Funny stories and witty tales about fellow villagers or nearby communities are common across Armenia, often sharing similar themes.
“For instance, in one tale, Hobos sees five or six goats entering Tsutsruk’s narrow field. The smallest goat, a white one, angers him most. He grabs it, gives it a good beating, and scolds: ‘Hey, you fool! Let’s say the young goats don’t know better, but you, with your white fur as bright as old Varo’s beard—don’t you get it? This field isn’t yours! Did your father work it, or did you?’
This comedic scenario is a recurring theme in Armenian folklore, appearing in other regions as well.
For example, in Syunik: ‘Some goats wandered into Parso’s vegetable garden. Grabbing a stick, Parso began beating the white goat. – Parso, why that one? – The young ones don’t know better, but this one, with its white beard, should understand it’s wrong to trespass into someone else’s garden!’” (From Suren Hobosyan’s article “The Lori Humorist Hobos”).
The witty tales of Pel Poghu, the storyteller and advisor to Melik-Shahnazar, the ruler of Varanda in Artsakh, were popular not only in his region but also in Syunik, Ijevan, and the Ararat Valley.
“When Pel Poghu, known for his humor, was sent to Persia for discussions on important political matters, his unconventional appearance and attire raised doubts among the neighbors. They asked skeptically, ‘Was there truly no respectable person in Karabakh to send?’ With composure, Pel Poghu replied, ‘Of course, we have respectable people in Karabakh. But in Karabakh, we send respectable people to meet respectable people.’” (From T. Hayrapetyan’s article, “The Socio-Political Satire of Karabakh’s Storyteller Pel Poghu,” citing personal notes from Artsakh, notebook No. 1, 1999).
“Pel Poghu, make a list of all the fools in our melikdom and bring it to me,” Melik Shahnazar ordered. “Right away,” replied Poghu. Soon after, he brought the list with Melik Shahnazar’s name at the top.
“Pel Poghu, are you out of your mind? What is this? Are you calling me a fool?” “If you weren’t, would you give the Shah of Persia a whole donkey-load of gold?” “But he’ll return it!” “If he returns it, I’ll erase your name and write his instead.”
“In the good old days, when Poghu owned a donkey, a man came and said: ‘Poghu, lend me your donkey today to fetch some wood from the forest.’ ‘I would, but the donkey isn’t home,’ replied Poghu. At that moment, the donkey brayed from the stable. The man said, ‘Didn’t you say it wasn’t home?’ ‘It’s not home!’ Poghu yelled. ‘How rude of you! You trust a donkey’s word over mine?’
‘Pel Poghu holds a special place in my heart and soul. His parables and humor have stayed with me since childhood, and I still cherish them today. I’ve visited his birthplace in Karabakh many times and kissed the soil that has given us, along with so much else, the Armenian Aesop: Pel Poghu.’” (Sero Khanzadyan)
For centuries, Armenians have used humor not only to entertain but also to teach valuable lessons. Folklorists have collected countless witty tales from regions like Vaspurakan, Shatakh, and Kajet. These stories often reflect the unique perspectives and mindsets of the local people.
“In Kajet, they say the spring water was ‘crooked,’ and whoever drank from it became ‘crooked’ too.
One day, a Kajetsi loaded his donkey with goods to sell in the city. When they reached a muddy section of the road, the donkey refused to step in and took a dry path instead. The Kajetsi, impressed, said: ‘My donkey is smarter than me. Why should I bother going to the city and tiring myself out? Let it go, sell the goods, and return with what’s needed!’ So, he let the donkey go and returned home. When the donkey didn’t come back, he started asking around. A man mocked him, saying: ‘Your donkey must have gone to Gavash to see the Pasha!’ Believing this, the Kajetsi went to the Pasha’s palace. The guards stopped him. ‘What do you want?’ they asked. ‘I want to see the Pasha about my donkey!’ The guards wouldn’t let him in, but the Pasha came out to see what the fuss was about. The Kajetsi ran up, grabbed the Pasha’s ear, and said: ‘Hey! Where’s my donkey? Did you sell the goods or bring them back, Pasha?’”
“With the cry ‘Yah, Maratuk!’ Mushegh Galshoyan gave life to each of his creations. Like the people of Sassoun, he found his muse in the sacred mountain, drawing from it the strength and resolve to complete his works with poetic mastery. Through his words, Mushegh Galshoyan preserved the memories and tales of his homeland—the echoes of a bygone era, the untouched beauty of its landscapes, and the noble Armenians who upheld their ideals with dignity. The lives of his characters are inseparably bound to their homeland and its nature. Even in distant lands, their hearts remain in ‘the meadows beneath Tsovasar,’ on the slopes of Maratuk, or ‘within the snow-covered peaks gazing down upon their village,’ alive with the vibrant memories of ‘ancient and modern days, moss-draped days,’ their native speech, and the unquenchable yearning for their homeland. They entrust this to the next generation: ‘Let it be, fish! Retrace my steps along the path I walked… That path, like a thread twisted through mountains and gorges—the lost path of my battles and massacres—you will untangle and return, fish!’
Among the many expressions of endless yearning, the love call of Zoro the mountaineer stands out—a love story tragically interrupted by the Armenian Genocide, only to reignite decades later. In the ‘flowering stones of silk-shrouded Maruta Mountain,’ he unexpectedly finds ‘his little Alek, crowned with flowers, skipping from stone to stone,’ 55 years later, while seeking wine for his youngest son’s wedding.”
THE CALL
“Aleee… Ale, my dear, Aleee…” The old man leaned on his staff and called out in a melodic tone. The lambs were scattered across the mountain slopes, but Zoro… old Zoro wasn’t a shepherd. The village didn’t have designated shepherds—each day, someone different took charge of the flock, and today was Zoro’s turn. Tall and sturdy, with thick hair, Zoro leaned on his staff, his voice rising and falling as he called: “Aleee… Ale, my dear, Aleee…” From dawn onward, he stood there, leaning on his staff, endlessly calling out.
Oh, when was it? Another spring, on a morning soft and blue—a world steeped in blue. Maruta Mountain wore its blue veil; the gorges and valleys were brimming with blue skies. The villages perched on cliffs and ravines exhaled a breath of blue, and the restless winds of Talvorik poured blue mists into the gorge, bubbling and swirling… On the slopes of Maruta Mountain, lambs and kids roamed freely, discovering the world and the springtime. The young ones sniffed the rocks with their muzzles, licked the moss-covered patterns timidly, and darted away from dry thorns and reeds, scattering over the stones at the flutter of sparrows… While they explored the world and spring, Zoro—then a boy of ten or eleven—stood on a grayish-blue rock, swinging his sling furiously, whizzing it through the air, and flinging stones into the gorge.
What was fascinating was this: the stone, whistling as it flew with force, would reach the gorge, and just above it, its path would suddenly break. Like a bird struck mid-flight, the stone would flutter and fall into the depths of the ravine. A group of girls picking greens moved up the hill like a colorful wave. Among them was little Alek, about seven or eight years old, with shiny black eyes, two thin braids, barefoot, wearing a pretty apron, full of energy, like a little flame. Like one of their playful goats, like Zoro’s lively lambs with white-tipped ears, she jumped from stone to stone… Alek… She had made a crown of flowers and placed it on her head… Alek… a bouquet of colorful blossoms swaying with the breeze… Little Alek… And Zoro suddenly realized—she was his Alek, and no one else’s. She was his Alek, and she was real. This blue world was his—the fields at sunrise, the silk-covered Maruta Mountain, the fragment of white cloud resting like light on the Monastery of the Virgin, the noisy Talvorik River, the scattered smoke above the village, the lively lambs and goats, the sun, the sky, the flowering rocks, the boulder where he stood spinning his sling with force—whizz, whizz, whizz! That wild sling was his, Alek… the little Alek with a crown of flowers, hopping from stone to stone, was his and his alone.
2 “Aleee… Ale, my dear, Aleee…” The old man, leaning on his staff, called out with a melodic voice. That spring morning felt so beautiful and blue to him because he knew darkness would follow… The shepherd boy, grazing his lambs in the green fields, had noticed little Alek that morning, had found her, because he was meant to lose her…
And he saw her again fifty-five years later… When Zoro was planning his youngest son’s wedding, he decided to personally bring the wine, and it had to be from the Ararat Plain. For his other sons’ weddings, he had hosted small, modest celebrations. But now, things were different—he could afford a proper feast, with an abundant table, fine wine, and the best Ararat Plain’s vineyards had to offer. No matter how much his older sons tried to convince him to get factory wine, Zoro refused. It had to come from the Ararat Plain, and he had to choose it himself.
That morning, he got into his son’s car and they drove to the plain. Village after village, Zoro tasted wine but found nothing he liked. By evening, frustrated, his son was speeding down the road when Zoro suddenly grabbed the wheel, insisting they take a small side road. The car swerved and ended up in some bushes. The damage was minor, but his son was livid. “Relax,” Zoro told him. “This happened for a reason.” “This village feels right,” he added.
At the village center, they met locals. Everyone had wine and invited them to their cellars, but Zoro approached a quiet man standing apart. “Why wouldn’t I have wine?” the man said. “Anyone with a vineyard has wine.” “I’ll take your wine for my son’s wedding,” Zoro declared. “Let’s go to your house.”
The house was warm and welcoming, with vines and peppers hanging from the trees. An elderly woman was threading the peppers when Zoro commented on the man’s fine home. “It’s your wife?” he asked. “Yes. She’s from your homeland.”
At this, Zoro turned to the old woman, asking about her village. “Sarekin,” she said. At that name, Zoro froze. “Sarekin?” he repeated, stepping closer, his voice trembling.
The woman’s eyes were tired yet lively. Zoro dropped his gaze, whispered her name, “Alek,” so softly she didn’t hear. Then, straightening his posture as if reclaiming his strength, he looked beyond her toward the distant mountains. With all his breath, he called out, “Alek! Alek!”
The old woman, frazzled and unsure, studied Zoro as he stood there, his half-closed, hazy eyes lost in the act of softly repeating her name. His words carried a distant warmth, and she felt a sudden urge to cry.
Zoro turned his unfocused gaze to her and whispered again, “It’s me, Zoro… Alek.”
He took her hands in his and pressed them gently to his forehead before bringing them to his lips.
Startled, the old woman remembered the customs of their homeland—by tradition, a woman should kiss a man’s hand. She quickly bent down and kissed Zoro’s. Tears—forgotten for so long—began streaming down, and their refuge became Zoro’s hands.
What happened next was almost playful: they started reaching for each other’s hands, trying to kiss them. The red pepper garland hanging from the old woman’s arm brushed against their faces, tickling their eyes. Alek sneezed, interrupting the flow of her soft tears. Though she found solace in weeping, she rubbed her eyes, and her warm, clear tears turned blurry and stung beneath her lids.
Standing face-to-face, the two aging figures rubbed their irritated eyes with their fists, looking at each other with unfocused gazes. “Dad, we’re running late,” the son said gently.
Zoro snapped back to the moment. He glanced at his son, then at the host, before turning to Alek and nodding slightly. “Alek…” he muttered. He wanted to say more but instead turned to the host. “So, she is your wife. May you live happily together,” he said quickly before adding, “Where’s the wine?”
In the cellar, the host filled a copper ladle with wine and handed it to Zoro to taste. Zoro drank it in one long gulp, emptying it with satisfaction. “Ahhh!” he sighed, wiping his mustache with his hand. “That hit the spot… I’ve never tasted wine this sweet before, Alek. It’s delicious.”
Lowering his head, Zoro’s gaze shifted subtly to the old woman standing quietly in the corner of the cellar. Turning to his son, he said: “Now do you see, son, why we’ve been driving from village to village, all day, leaving each one empty-handed? Now do you understand? This is the wine I was looking for—this one, and no other. Fill it up!”
“How much, for how many jars?” the host asked. “I’ll take the whole jar,” Zoro said firmly, his voice unyielding. “Fill it up—no need to bargain. This wine is beyond price,” he said, protesting. “Its worth is in the taste itself, Alek. Fill it!”
The host tried to take back the ladle, but Zoro refused. “Fill it with something else—this one is mine.”
The host repeatedly explained that drinking standing up wasn’t proper. There was a table, a house, and they could sit down later to drink together and get properly acquainted, especially since they were old neighbors and fellow villagers. But Zoro ignored him. His son tried to nudge him to comply, and Alek chimed in as well, but Zoro insisted on drinking right there, straight from the copper ladle, directly from the jar.
Left with no choice, the old woman brought bread and other snacks, setting them up nearby, but Zoro didn’t touch the food. He leaned against the wall near the wine jar, pouring and drinking, pouring again and finishing every drop. He wiped his mustache, clenched his fist, and muttered softly, “Alek…”
The old woman, now sitting at her makeshift table, seemed lost in thought. Earlier, she had been lively and cheerful when Zoro arrived, but now she appeared small and hunched—truly an old woman, caught in a trance. Her eyes stung, and she felt the lingering urge to cry, the sweetness of her interrupted tears welling up again.
“We’ve seen your husband, Alek. What else do you have?” Zoro asked.
“Thanks to God, I have sons, Brother Zoro,” she replied, trying to hold back her tears. “I have daughters-in-law, married daughters, grandchildren. And you, Brother Zoro?”
“Thanks to God, I have sons too, Alek. Daughters-in-law, married daughters, grandchildren,” Zoro said. Then, filling the ladle again, he added, “And this wine—this sweet wine, for the happiness of my youngest son, for his wedding, Alek. Ah, Alek, my soul!”
And he started singing.
The host, leaning over the jar, glanced at Zoro and smiled, clearly pleased with how strong his wine was.
“What amazing wine this is, Alek,” Zoro said, pausing mid-song. “All this time, such sweet wine was here, and I had no idea! Ah, Alek!”
Then he continued his song.
The host and Zoro’s son finished measuring and paying for the wine. Zoro was still singing. The host lit a cigarette and sat next to his wife. Zoro’s son loaded the barrels and jars into the vehicle, then returned to the cellar to see Zoro still singing, completely absorbed in his own world.
By then, the copper ladle was empty. Somehow, during his last song, Zoro had spilled the wine and unknowingly drenched himself from head to toe.
“Ah, Alek…” Just as he had begun, so he finished his song, opening his eyes but seeing no one—not the dazed Alek, nor the chuckling host, nor even his son standing nearby, who took the copper ladle from his hands and slipped an arm around him.
“Let’s go, father.”
Zoro shifted his arm and pressed firmly against the wall. “By the oath of Maratuk, my feet won’t leave this place! Alek…”
The host suggested they head to the house so Zoro could lie down and rest. “Rest?” Zoro scoffed. “Do you think sleep will come to these eyes of mine now?” He rubbed his eyes with clenched fists. “Alek,” he called out, “where have you gone?”
Once more, his son tried to pull him away, but Zoro shoved him back, swore at him, and even insulted the host. Like a stubborn child clinging to the wall, he refused to move and kept calling out, “Alek…”
The host finally spoke up, pointedly: “Are you driving me out of my own house?”
Zoro didn’t respond, unwilling to release his grip on the wall. “Bread and wine, Lord of All Life, I’ll smash your jars and barrels to pieces if you send me away! Alek…”
In the end, the son and the host had no choice but to drag him away. Zoro, still calling for Alek, searched for her with his eyes as they pulled him out of the cellar, unseeing, unhearing, his cries growing fainter as they moved.
The old woman, trembling and overwhelmed, collapsed to her knees and wept openly. Outside, Zoro’s voice echoed: “Alek…”
No one had ever called her name like that—so warmly, so earnestly, so full of longing, like a prayer, like a song, like the distant echo of the mountains.
“Alek…” The call faded further and further into the distance.
Zoro called out in the dark street, and as they left the village, it was the same, continuing until he fell asleep. 3 Even in his sleep, his lips trembled, “Alek… Alek, my soul, Alek…” The old man, leaning on his cane, was calling out, singing the name. A boy and a girl were climbing the hill. They were Zoro’s grandchildren, his son’s children, the same ones for whom the wedding wine had come from Alek’s house.
After the wedding, Zoro went to the fields a few more times to see Alek, but then winter came, and then spring. With all the work and daily life, he sometimes thought about going back to the field, but something always stopped him. And so the years passed. Six years.
But today, Zoro felt completely different. He had taken care of the lambs, his place on the mountain behind the village, his life. In front of him were the blue valleys and gorges, the Ararat plain with a thick veil of mist, and the silver line of the Araks River. Below, the tents were stirring in the wind, and in the distance, the rugged Armenian mountains stood tall. But for Zoro, there was another spring morning, one filled with the promise of new life. A world where lambs and goats grazed together, where a young shepherd tended them, and where girls gathered vegetables. There was also a small girl with a flower crown, hopping around like a bird…
“Alek,” Zoro called, looking toward the horizon. “Alek, my soul, Alek…”
It was then that he noticed his grandchildren, who were next to him, the little girl rubbing against his legs like a kitten. “But where are the lambs, papa?” “The lambs?” Zoro took a moment to respond. “The lambs?” His eyes searched the surroundings, lost in thought. “What could happen to the lambs, my dear?”
His knees ached, and it felt as if the ground was pulling him down. With a groan, he sat down, but his gaze lingered on the horizon, while his thoughts replayed the same refrain. “Let’s eat!” the little girl exclaimed, eagerly unwrapping the bundle. “We’ll eat everything, Papa!” “A glass of wine would do me good,” Zoro thought and, without hesitation, decided: “I’ll get up and visit Ale.” “Where are the lambs, Papa?” “They’re not here?” Zoro pushed himself up with the help of his staff. “I’ll go to Ale and see.” “The lambs are… over there,” he said vaguely, pointing with his stick. “Go gather them with your sister, eat some bread. I’ll head to the village and come back.” On his way home, Zoro couldn’t stop reproaching himself for not visiting Ale all this time. He wondered—why hadn’t he gone? Was it a lack of time? Weakness in his body? Lack of means? No road or vehicle? Why hadn’t he gone, why had he delayed the visit when it first came to mind? And somehow, his wife became the scapegoat. By the time he stepped into the house, he was already angry with her.
“The bread in your hand is cursed.”
The moment he stepped through the door, the fight erupted.
“It’s cursed,” Zoro repeated. “With your right hand, you fed me bread, and with your left, you snatched away my soul,” he said. “You’ve taken my soul and forced it into my mouth. I ought to break this stick over your head!”
Gripping the stick tightly, he struck his own head instead. He hit himself and then had a sudden realization:
“God has destroyed the sanity in my mind. What’s the point of visiting Ale now? What’s the point? I’ll go, take her, and bring her back.”
The old woman stood still, shocked and bewildered.
“You’re the reason I’m suffering!” Zoro shouted.
“They were right when they said an Armenian’s last bit of wisdom is in his head… That day, the day of the wine, I should have brought Ale home!”
“The reason for my torment is your children—your daughters and your sons.”
“That very day, I should have put Ale in the car and brought her here.” He thought about how his son would have stood in his way and refused to let it happen.
“My tormentor is your middle son, your youngest son. And I live under their rule… This house feels like a prison; I can’t breathe here. I’m leaving.”
Zoro made up his mind then and there:
“Tonight, I’ll prepare that old shed. Tomorrow morning, I’ll bring Ale home.”
“Let heaven and earth collide, but I’ll leave, and I’ll leave!” Zoro insisted.
“If it can’t be done kindly, I’ll take her by force.”
“Enough! Whether it’s peaceful or not, I’ll leave.”
And under the astonished, confused gaze of the old woman, Zoro stormed out.
Behind the new house stood a small shed—the old house, its door tied shut with wire. Inside were forgotten items: a worn-out cradle, a burnt stove, a plow, a scythe, a sickle…
Zoro picked a stove that still worked, two chairs, and carried the rest outside, arranging it behind the shed. He cleaned the walls and ceiling, reinforced the door, and prepared the old house.
By evening, when his sons gathered, they found their father had already set up his bed, brought dishes, a sack of flour… He had created a separate home and was sitting at the door, calmly smoking.
The sons were frantic—who had offended their father? They questioned each other, interrogated their mother, and even asked Zoro himself—what had happened? But Zoro dismissed them with a few words:
“The world has wronged Zoro… Everyone in this world has insulted Zoro. And Zoro is angry with the world and… only Ale… In this entire world, only Ale matters,” and he would leave.
No matter what they said or did, Zoro didn’t return to the house. He refused to live under the roof of either of his married sons.
His decision was final, unshakable. 4 The next afternoon, Zoro arrived at the village in the fields. He wandered in front of Ale’s house several times, hoping to catch her outside. He paced back and forth, stood under the mulberry tree by her window, knocked a few times, and hid behind the trunk, waiting for her to appear at the window. If she did, he’d wave and call her over. But no matter how many times he knocked and waited, Ale didn’t come. The street was quiet except for a few children playing—it was spring, and everyone was busy with work.
Finally, Zoro had to enter the yard. The moment he stepped inside, he saw Ale. She was near the same apricot tree where he’d seen her the day they carried the wine (she’d been picking red chili peppers then). Now, vegetables surrounded the tree, and Ale was working the soil. She looked so small. Sitting on a low mound, she leaned to the side, lightly tilling the ground, her movements casual, almost absentminded. To Zoro, it seemed like she was humming an old song, one from their homeland, maybe the same one she’d sung on the wine-carrying day. He couldn’t hear anything, but he imagined it.
Hearing his voice, the old woman turned quickly, a motion that seemed uncharacteristic for someone her age.
“My Ale, my dear!”
Zoro leaned his staff against the apricot tree and held her hands.
“It’s good to see you… So small you’ve become… like little Ale.”
He gestured toward the mountains.
“Like little Ale. Do you remember? It feels like yesterday. You had a wreath of flowers on your head, jumping like a little goat from stone to stone. Do you remember? That was the day my heart began to race…”
Just like before, Zoro’s gaze drifted toward the distant mountains, while Ale stood before him, small and frail, her eyes half-closed, with a look of someone who had lived through much.
“Let’s go inside, brother Zoro.”
“No, not the house, my dear,” Zoro said with energy. “There’s a young apple tree in the orchard. Let’s go there.”
He asked for wine in a copper bowl, took his staff, and sat under the apple tree. Resting his hat on his knee, he looked toward the mountains.
“My cause is just, and Maratuk is my witness.”
“My cause is just, Ale,” Zoro said, accepting the wine. “And Maratuk is my helper.” He drank, straightened up, and said:
“Now, ask why Zoro has come.”
“We’re old friends, brother Zoro,” Ale said. “We’re from the same homeland. Visiting is natural.”
“Is that all, Ale?” Zoro replied. “I told you something earlier… That day, just like today, my heart was moved because of you, Ale.”
The old woman looked at him silently, unsure.
“Should I bring bread, brother Zoro?”
“No bread. Just wine.”
“Oh Maratuk,” Zoro thought. “The fire your holy hand kindled—may your hand now calm it.”
“That day…” Zoro continued, “that spring day, when Maruta’s high monastery filled my heart with your love, Ale, you were just this tall.” He gestured to a short height. “Did you know? That was when I realized that Ale—the barefoot, dew-covered Ale, the Ale with the flower crown—was my Ale. Mine and no one else’s. Did you know? That day, Maratuk gave us love, but then the lawless came and tore it away… Wolves attacked the innocent, leaving only destruction and darkness. The sun was darkened, Ale, and you and I lost each other… Is my word true, my dear?”
Are you speaking about the massacre, Brother Zoro?
Yes, the massacre… and love, Ale.
The old man took another sip of wine, lit a cigarette, and waited. Ale stayed silent, her shoulders hunched, her fingers busy with the greens around her.
You’re still my Ale, he murmured. That day isn’t gone, Ale. That spring day, so vivid, is still here before my eyes. The lambs will frolic at the foot of Maruta, and you…
Zoro recounted the memory again, the colorful spring morning that had lingered in his mind like velvet.
Maratuk blessed my love that day, and from then until now, it’s been my sacred burden, Ale. Stand up, gird yourself, and let’s go, my dear.
Go where? Ale asked, confused.
You ask where? Ale, who do you think I’ve been talking about all this time? Stand up, and let’s return to our village. I’ve been apart from my people for so long. However many days we have left, let’s spend them together. Let Maratuk decide our fate.
Are you crazy? Ale muttered under her breath, hiding a smile and trying to take the wine away.
It’s not the wine, Ale! The wine is innocent—it’s this! Zoro tapped his chest. This is for you. Who was that story for if not you? Why did that morning happen if not for us to reunite? Was it all for nothing? If we weren’t meant to come together, why was I made to find you that day, only to lose you by evening? Was it a dream? No, Ale, that morning was real. It still is.
Get up, gird yourself, and let’s go, he said again.
Brother Zoro, I swear, you’ve gone mad, Ale said, exasperated.
Mad or not, I’ll elope with you, Zoro said, striking the ground.
Ale laughed softly.
How will you manage that, Brother Zoro?
You’re so tiny; I’ll toss you into a sack. Getting out of this village won’t be a problem. The world will keep turning, but Ale will still be mine. I’ll make it happen.
A voice called from the yard, pulling Ale back to reality.
That’s my husband, she said, standing up quickly.
He’s a good man, Ale, but I’ll elope with you. Night will fall, and I’ll come back for you, Zoro said, tugging at her skirt. Just keep quiet and don’t make a sound. Cheers!
Zoro drank two quick glasses of wine and turned his focus to the young man.
The young man’s eyes sparkled with joy, as if a song were dancing in them. Yes, Zoro thought, those with such lively eyes often have voices that can carry a tune.
Do you know how to sing a song?
I do, the young man replied happily.
Then sing a song for your uncle’s glass.
As the young man sang, Zoro drank again, but he noticed his vision starting to blur. So soon? He had barely had a few small glasses. That was a sign to stop. Zoro wasn’t here to drink. Let the host and his sons drink. Zoro had something else in mind. Where is Ale?
The old woman moved in and out of the room in small, careful steps, a faint, secret smile playing on her lips.
Good for you, lad!
Zoro raised his glass again, hesitated—should he drink or not?—but drank it anyway.
Now listen to me. I’ll sing a song for you.
He closed his eyes, swayed slightly with his shoulders and torso, and then, with a deep, raspy cry, began to sing: Heeei-aahhh!
Raising his hand high, he poured himself into the song. His aged, trembling voice carried a tune of nature—of mountains with colorful flowers, paths winding upward, and carts climbing toward the heavens. His gestures were sweeping and dramatic, even knocking over a bottle. The young bride scooted away to give him space.
The song was about shepherds in green fields and girls with bright aprons full of vegetables.
It was a song of nature and love.
When Zoro finished, he continued to sway, as if still caught in the rhythm. He leaned forward and called softly: Aleee!
Was it part of the song? Or was he calling her name? The host wasn’t sure.
Ale had stopped what she was doing and sat quietly at the table’s edge. Her earlier liveliness was gone, and her faint smile had faded. Now, she looked at her old friend with a mixture of sadness and tenderness.
Aleee! Zoro looked out the window at the sun setting behind the mountains.
There should be no sunsets, he murmured. No evenings or nights, no summers or winters—just a spring that lasts forever. And we should never grow old, Ale. Let children stay children. Let me sit on that rock, and you rest among the flowers, crowned with blossoms… Always crowned with flowers, Ale.
Mother, he’s here for you, the youngest son said.
Everyone sat in silence, listening to Zoro’s words. The youngest son, deeply moved, said again:
Uncle Zoro came for you, Mom… Sit by him.
The old woman hesitated but allowed her son to help her sit next to Zoro.
Oh, Maratuk!
Zoro stood, embracing Ale. She pressed her face against his chest, and he leaned his head to touch her hair. Looking out the window, he softly sang:
Since the dawn of humanity’s conscious existence, the journey to uncover, comprehend, and develop knowledge about the secrets and patterns of the universe and nature has been a fundamental pursuit. This is natural, as it was crucial for human beings to confront and adapt to the diverse conditions imposed by their environment for the sake of their survival.
The first sages, through their observations—continuous monitoring, experiments, and persistent studies—developed their minds, striving to identify the basic elements of existence in the ever-changing world, upon which the entire universe is built. They sought to interpret the meaning of life and the diverse manifestations of reality and phenomena.
The knowledge accumulated from their tireless efforts—the fruits of the first steps in scientific inquiry—was guarded by the scholars of the time, the Magi and Priests, as sacred wisdom. This knowledge was passed down from generation to generation as a precious gift, accessible only to chosen experts. The seeds of knowledge they sowed later blossomed, laying the foundation for the advancement and development of science.
Archaeology sheds light on the past, revealing the way of life and scientific achievements of ancient times. In addition to the ruins of once magnificent architectural monuments and structures showcasing engineering marvels, discoveries such as samples of metallurgy, medical instruments, and pharmaceutical equipment bear witness to the millennia-old traditions in various branches of science.
According to the reminder by the Priests of the Haykian Brotherhood, Kurm Harut Arakelyan and Kurm Mihr Haykazuni, today—on the day of Marg of the month of Tre (September 20) according to the Haykian calendar—is the Day of Remembrance for the Magi, a celebration honoring and glorifying our wise Ancestors and the scientists who followed in their footsteps.
“Throughout the centuries, the descendants of the Haykazuni lineage remained faithful to the advice of their Patriarchs, centralizing the schools of the Magi and establishing the now well-known ‘ARAMAGI’ School of the Magi. In doing so, they contributed to the preservation and continuation of their Ancestors’ wisdom. We congratulate the hundreds of current students of the ‘ARAMAGI’ School of the Magi, who keep alive the knowledge of their Forefathers,” writes Kurm Harut Arakelyan in his latest post, which presents and explains the Armenian National Faith.
Science forms the foundation of Armenian identity and self-awareness, strengthening the nation and contributing to the flourishing and prosperity of the Homeland. Wisdom is the source of all good things.
We extend our congratulations to all who sow the seeds of Wisdom and Science, glorifying the Ancestors of Armenia…
Անթառամ Դափնին (The Everlasting Laurel) is a literary work or article written by Arshak Chobanian, a prominent Armenian intellectual, writer, and activist. In this piece, Chobanian reflects on themes of national struggle, sacrifice, and perseverance, particularly in the context of the Armenian people. The “everlasting laurel” symbolizes eternal glory and honor, often associated with the sacrifices made by Armenian heroes for the nation’s freedom and survival.
Chobanian’s work carries a message of hope and resilience, suggesting that despite hardships, the sacrifices of the past will not be in vain and will eventually yield positive outcomes for future generations. His writing typically emphasizes national pride, cultural preservation, and the moral duty to honor those who fought for the survival of the Armenian identity.
“Regarding the issue of the volunteers, I reaffirm my letter of October 6, after which I received official confirmation that our national aspirations will be satisfied following the victory of the Allies,” wrote Boghos Nubar to his son Arakel Nubar on October 27, 1916.
During the First World War, the objectives of forming the Armenian Legion with Armenian volunteers were to participate in the liberation of Cilicia and to restore Armenian independence in that historic territory, serving as the nucleus of a future Armenian army.
In the early days in Cairo, around 600 people from Musa Dagh and 300 Armenians residing in Egypt had already enlisted.
By late 1916, these volunteers were sent to the village of Monarga in Cyprus, where they joined hundreds of other Armenian volunteers for military training.
In early 1917, over 5,000 young Armenians living in the United States registered as volunteers within just a few days. A few months later, the number had risen to around 10,000. Due to the shortage of transportation, only 1,200 of them managed to cross the Atlantic Ocean from June to November, reaching France primarily aboard cargo ships under horrendous conditions, with about 70 to 90 people per ship. After surviving an attack by a German submarine while en route from Marseille to Port Said, the Armenian volunteers were successfully evacuated onto another ship using lifeboats. After a dangerous 16-day journey in narrow and filthy ship cabins, they reached Egypt and then proceeded to Cyprus.
In his autobiography, Legionnaire Hovhannes Karapetyan recalls: “On September 18, we descended into our fortified trenches and waited for the night. The attack began at 3:30 in the morning…”
“The terrifying clash of gunfire echoed as if the sky and earth had collided in the darkness of the night. But for us (the Armenian Legionnaires), it felt like a wedding celebration. Filled with a deep sense of vengeance against the Turks, each of us had become like a wild lion hunting its prey. Fully armed, bayonets affixed to our rifles, we felt as if there was no fear. Our primary goal was to settle the score with the enemy for the Armenian Genocide and to exact justice on as many Turks as possible.
As the enemy’s machine-gun fire rained down on us like a spring hailstorm, we advanced undeterred and fearless. Amid extreme difficulties, often hanging between life and death, we finally reached the mountaintop. With a decisive ‘blitzkrieg,’ we captured the enemy fortifications, leaving countless dead and taking 28,000 prisoners. In the main battle, which lasted 30 hours, we had 24 dead and 75 wounded.”
“The next morning, we climbed the mountain again and inspected the enemy trenches. They were filled with corpses. Those who were not yet dead were the most unfortunate. The memory of yesterday’s Genocide (the loss of our parents, children, sisters, and brothers) was so fresh in our minds, and the thirst for revenge ran so deep in the hearts of the Armenian Legionnaires, that the wounded Turks received no mercy. We finished them off in their trenches. Thus, the fierce Turkish resistance was utterly crushed, and the enemy retreated in chaos into the depths of the country…”
“I am proud to have had an Armenian unit under my command. They fought brilliantly and played a major role in the victory,” General Allenby congratulated Boghos Nubar on October 12. (Quotes and photographs from Susan Paul Pattie’s The Armenian Legionnaires).
“During the World War, the heroic spirit of sacrifice shown by the Armenian brave men is one of the most glorious episodes in the ancient history of our people,” writes Arshak Chobanian in his article “The Imperishable Laurel.”
“A small people, subjected to heavy yokes for hundreds of years, fragmented and persecuted by massacres, divided into many distant and separate parts, was able to reawaken within itself the bold courage of its Forefathers. Through the heroic deeds of its thousands of volunteers, it earned its share of honor in the great struggle fought in the name of Freedom and Justice. Thanks to the magnificent role played by these brave men, our small nation once again demonstrated that it possessed the soul of a great nation. Through its significant military effort, which it stubbornly sustained until the end of the war, it was able to render notable services to nations infinitely larger in number and strength—the major powers waging the war. These services were acknowledged and praised by the highest representatives of those mighty states.
The lionhearted bravery of the Armenian volunteers at Arara is one of the most beautiful pages of this Armenian epic. In the decisive victory that the Allies won against the Turkish army around that now-historic hill in Palestine—where they crushed the dark force of the massacre-loving race—our brave men played a brilliant part, magnificently fulfilling their bold and difficult role.
The surviving comrades have every right to forever celebrate with pride and reverence the radiant memory of those heroic young men who fell with valor, a memory before which the entire Armenian people bow in solemn respect.”
The bravery demonstrated by our soldiers at Arara and all other fronts is an imperishable laurel that crowns the name of our nation with indelible glory. Thanks to the sacred valor of our courageous men, our people also took part in the just cause of liberating Syria, Palestine, Mesopotamia, Arabia, as well as Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Alsace-Lorraine. This should forever be a source of noble pride and eternal encouragement for us.
It is true that after the end of the Great War, at the moment of realizing the demands of Justice, our people—due to various unfortunate and opposing circumstances—were abandoned and wronged by their victorious great allies. This casts a dark shadow over the laurel of glory.
But history is not closed. The day will come when that black veil will melt away and disappear. It would be blasphemous to think that the sacrifice of our heroes has been entirely in vain for our people, and to assume that it will not one day bear its full fruit. (Excerpt from Arshak Chobanian’s article “The Everlasting Laurel”)
“Everything returns to its original source in order to begin anew…”
With the wisdom brought by years, every individual, enriched and matured, is mysteriously drawn toward their roots, toward the origins of their nation… toward the world where their essence and individuality were shaped, both on conscious and subconscious levels. The drive for self-discovery is the path leading to the Light.
Many contributors to Armenian culture, across different eras, have emphasized the issue of national self-awareness. “Everything returns to its original source to begin anew,” writes Sero Khanzadyan, highlighting that “Every person must have their own song…”
“Neither the curse, excommunication from the church, the seven-year repentance, nor the other prescribed punishments have been able to uproot the pagan beliefs and notions, which have come down from millennia of antiquity, from the consciousness of the people. These have endured until the last decades and have been recorded in several regions of Armenia by Armenian ethnographers of the 19th and 20th centuries” (L. Khachikyan, Works, vol. A, Yerevan, 2012, p. 19).
“From the distance of ashen times, I now see our ancestral home, nestled deep within the ruins of Dzagedzor’s ancient fortress, aged as Babylon itself. I have also begun to glimpse the misty end of my life’s journey. What has passed has turned into legends. Their memories call to me day and night. I hurry to finish this work so that my descendants, those who come after me, may know the spirit of their heroic Ancestors. One must never lose their roots. Light does not emerge from nothingness.”
And just as “The steed flies like a black lightning, racing back to its origin, to find itself…” (S. Khanzadyan), so too does the nation, as if awakening from a long-forced slumber, seek its origins anew, to regain strength through the Haikian teachings, the true national value system inherited from the Forefathers.
“The salvation of our nation lies solely in combativeness,” insists S. Khanzadyan. “He who knows how to resist evil, will live,” we read in his autobiographical novel With and Without My Father (p. 310), where the author weaves the “myth of his life” with “the threads of events,” beginning in the village where “the stone is more useful than the host of Christ.”
Here, in the quarry of Glekhtan, the fire lit by Ancestor the Priest burns night and day. The great grandmother draws a cross over the fire in the evening, tosses a pinch of incense into it, extinguishing it, only to rekindle it at dawn.
“Let it be known to you that this fortress-town where you live was the home of Patriarch Dzag” (p. 8). “My father was gradually becoming a legend to me. In the evenings, he would sometimes gather the young and old boys of our remaining clan near the Atyan stone and sing… My father had a sweet voice that would also soften the rocky nature of our stone-filled domain” (p. 32). “Jarrah Sargis, the clan elder, was such a powerful and bold man that, as they say, he could knock a bird out of the sky” (p. 22). “Our clan, as my mother used to say, originated from Dzag, the grandson of Patriarch Sisak. Hence the name of our settlement: Dzagedzor.”
“The fire in our hearth, in our ancestral home, has been burning for two thousand years” (p. 231).
The eminent ethnographer Yervand Lalayan, in his article “Sacred Rites Among Armenians,” explored the origins and evolution of the “ritual of offering,” perpetuated among Armenians and other peoples around the world since time immemorial. Below, we present brief excerpts (the beginning was covered in previous articles)…
“Among the Greeks, there was a tradition where the services offered to the gods were the same as those needed by living beings; temples were considered the homes of the gods, sacrifices as their food, and altars as tables.”
In this context, it is possible to demonstrate that the food offerings made to the gods and those placed on the graves of the deceased share a common origin, as both derive from offerings made to the living…
“Among Armenians, when grapes are harvested for the first time (usually during the Feast of the Dormition), they are sent as gifts to relatives, the head of the household, dignitaries, the priest, and then brought to the church to be blessed, and the next day, to the cemetery for the commemoration of the dead. In the Shirak region and in other Armenian villages, during the first threshing, bread is made with flour from this wheat, called “chalaki” or “taplay,” which is offered to relatives, the head of the household, the priest, and distributed early in the morning to passersby as a portion intended for the deceased. When the first pears and early apples are harvested, they are sent as gifts to relatives, especially the son-in-law, the head of the household, the priest, and taken to the cemetery for the commemoration of the dead during Vardavar, placed in a bag or on a tray on the tombstone. All passersby take them, eat them, and pray for the deceased. When honey is harvested, a portion is reserved for relatives, the head of the household, the priest; candles are made from the wax and then brought to the cemetery and the church to be lit. A newborn lamb or calf is offered to relatives, the head of the household, or other dignitaries, consecrated to the church, or slaughtered to prepare the “bread of the soul.” The new wine is sent as a gift to relatives, the head of the household, or dignitaries, to the church for the communion chalice, and to the cemetery for the commemoration of the dead, where a little is poured on the tombstone before drinking a cup of mercy.”
The above-mentioned facts, observed in all countries, demonstrate that sacrifices are, by principle, offerings in the true sense of the word. Animals are offered to kings, slaughtered on graves, and sacrificed in temples. Prepared foods are offered to military leaders, placed on graves and on temple altars. The first fruits are offered to living military leaders, as well as to the dead and to the gods: in some places, it is beer, in others, wine, and elsewhere, chicha, sent to the visible ruler, presented to the invisible spirit, and sacrificed to the gods. Incense, once burned before kings and in certain places before dignitaries, is burned elsewhere before the gods.
Let’s also add that dishes, as well as all sorts of precious objects intended to gain favor, are accumulated both in the treasuries of kings and in the temples of the gods. We now arrive at the following conclusion: In the same way that offerings made to earthly rulers gradually evolve to take the form of state revenues, offerings made to the gods develop to take the form of ecclesiastical revenues.
“The Middle Ages introduced a new level in the development of offerings. In addition to what was necessary for the communion of priests and laypeople, without including what was intended for the Eucharist, it became customary to offer various gifts, which, over time, were no longer even brought to the church but sent directly to the diocese. Later, due to the frequent repetition and expansion of these gifts, which were supposed to be intended for God but were in reality bequeathed to the church, regular income for the church began to appear.”
Among the Armenians as well, the income of the church and its clergy has developed in a similar manner. Initially, pilgrims would willingly invite the church’s clergy to share their sacrificial meal, but gradually, they found themselves obliged to reserve a specific portion for the church and its clergy. Thus, nowadays, anyone offering a sacrifice is required to give the animal’s skin to the church, the right leg to the priest, and the head and stomach to the sacristan.
Spontaneous gifts of wheat, flour, oil, cheese, butter, olive oil, grapes, and wine offered to relatives, the church, and its officials gradually gave rise to ecclesiastical taxes, which we will discuss later.
In exploring the roots and subsequent developments of ritual offering traditions, the renowned Armenian ethnographer Yervand Lalayan cites the testimony of Movses Khorenatsi about King Yervand in his article “Ritual Rites among the Armenians”: “And Yervand offered abundant gifts and distributed money to each of them… And he did not become as beloved by those to whom he gave much as he became an enemy to those to whom he did not give with the same generosity” (Movses Khorenatsi, Book II, Chapter XXXV).
Let’s add a few more excerpts from the previously mentioned article.
“Up until now, we have discussed the offerings that individuals of lower rank present in order to gain favor from their superiors. However, we have not mentioned the gifts that those of higher rank give to their subordinates. The difference in meaning between these two types of offerings is particularly evident in countries where the custom of giving is complex, such as in China.”
“During the visits that leaders make to their subordinates, or after these visits, there is an exchange of gifts. However, those given by the leader are called ‘rewards’, while those from the subordinates are called ‘offerings’. This is also how the Chinese refer to the gifts exchanged between their emperor and other states.”
It is necessary to say a few words about these offerings, even though they do not have a ritual nature. Over time, political authority strengthens and controls the entire society, but there comes a moment when it must relinquish part of this monopoly to its servants and subjects. The servants and subjects, initially obliged to make offerings, are now partially subdued by the rewards they receive.
“It is evident that as the offerings from subordinates gradually take on the role of taxes, levies, and customs duties, the rewards given by leaders turn into wages.”
“In Armenia, kings and nobles used to reward the services of their officers by granting them villages, towns, and even provinces, called ‘pargevanqs,’ to distinguish them from lands known as ‘patrimony,’ which were hereditary properties. The ‘pargevanqs’ only conferred the right to collect taxes for life.”
For military service, neither the soldiers nor the commanders received a salary but were rewarded solely by the spoils. In Mkhitar Gosh’s “Legal Code,” it is stipulated “according to custom” that half of the spoils must be given to the soldiers and that “if a soldier captures the equipment, horse, and weapons of the enemy during a war, all of this belongs to him, but the armor belongs to the lord, the copper and iron and similar items to the soldiers. Gold, jewels, and precious fabrics in all circumstances belong to the king, and valuable silver items and fabrics to the lords, while lesser value silver and fabric items belong to the soldiers” (Mkhitar Gosh, “Legal Code,” Part II, A).
During the time of the Armenian meliks as well, neither the soldiers nor their captains (yuzbashi) received any salary, and the melik was obliged to distribute part of the spoils to them and, during festivities, various “khilats,” mainly clothing, horses, and weapons.
The table of kings, nobles, and meliks has always been open to visitors and servants. Phaustos Buzand says: “Among these peoples and the humble, those who were called agents were honored by being seated before the king, allowing the great chiefs and stewards, who were only nine hundred agents, to enter at the time of the temple feast to sit at the table, leaving those who waited standing in the service of the agents.”
Employees of certain modern public institutions, such as clerks, public weighers, bath cleaners, and sacristans, do not receive a salary but are rewarded with gratuities. For example, clerks receive a few kopecks for the New Year and a few eggs for Easter. Similarly, barn cleaners receive half to a pound of wheat, with the latter reward having become mandatory.
In both Kars and among the residents of Alexandropol, Akhalkalaki, and Akhatsikhé, it is customary for women working in public baths, the cleaners, to visit the homes of the bathhouse clients during the New Year. They are received and given a plate of dried fruit and 10 to 50 kopecks. When the new bride goes to the public baths for the first time, after being washed, the cleaners solemnly knock their basins together while leading her out of the baths, and one of them presents her with a basin of water. The new bride must drink a little of this water and place money in the basin as a gift for the cleaners.
Public weighers take a small portion of the fruits and foods they weigh.
It is also worth mentioning the gifts exchanged between individuals who are not in a relationship of superiority and subordination.
“Among Armenians, exchanging gifts between equals is very common. For almost every major holiday, gifts are exchanged, especially between families newly united by marriage, and some of these gifts are considered so obligatory that they are sometimes strictly required. It is also common in our culture for parents to give something to their children for the New Year, children to give something to their parents, and for relatives to exchange gifts. At Easter, it is very common to exchange red eggs. Young fiancés often give a decorated egg to their fiancée. During the Transfiguration festival (Vardavar), it is common in many places to exchange bouquets of roses as well as decorated apples with fiancées. (Here is how the apples are decorated: before they ripen, without picking them from the tree, leaves cut into various shapes or with initials are attached. The covered parts remain white, while the rest turns red.)”
Gifts exchanged between newly allied families through marriage, known as “p’ay” or “khoncha,” are particularly noteworthy and are considered absolutely mandatory. Thus, even if the wedding is held early, some of the main “p’ay” are still required. The “p’ay” or “khoncha” are sent from the groom’s home to the bride’s home during the Barekendan festivities, the first day of Lent, Mid-Lent, Palm Sunday, Easter, Vardavar, and Navasard. The “p’ay” consist of food, drinks, and various ornaments. In return, the bride’s family also sends various foods and drinks to the groom’s home, which is called “darts’vatsk.” Socks are almost always included among the gifts sent from the bride’s home, as they are a fitting gift for this occasion and many others.
V. Khojabekyan « Les cadeaux de mariage du fiancé » (Collection de la Galerie Nationale d’Arménie)
In family life, certain gifts have also become obligatory forms of tribute. For instance, during childbirth, relatives are expected to send a “tsnndgavath,” which primarily consists of various dishes and pastries. The groom’s family gives the bride a monetary gift called “yeresttesnouk,” and the bride’s family gives the groom a similar gift. During the wedding, a monetary gift is also given to the bearer of the crown. Food is sent to the home of the deceased, a lamb and a black cloth are offered for the Holy Cross. Cakes are sent to someone going into exile, and upon their return, they also bring a gift.
Thus, the offerings that the early humans voluntarily presented to those from whom they wished to gain favor have, over time and with the development of society, become the source of many customs. The reason for presenting gifts to political leaders is explained by the fear they inspire and, in part, by the desire to obtain their help. These offerings, which initially attracted favor through their intrinsic value, later became symbols of loyalty and devotion.
Offerings of the second category evolve into donation rituals, while those of the first category first become taxes, then tributes. At the same time, the custom of placing food on graves to appease spirits develops, repeating on the graves of notable individuals and eventually becoming sacrifices on temple altars. Meat, drink, or clothing initially seen as beneficial to spirits or gods come to symbolize submission. Offerings transform into acts of respect regardless of their intrinsic value, allowing priests to subsist as intermediaries of divine worship, with sacrifices originally serving as church income. Thus, we have another example of how religious rites precede political and ecclesiastical structures, as the actions derived from rites lay the groundwork for other institutions.
Certain episodes from the ancient history of Armenia and its relations with other empires are often known only partially, through fragmentary mentions in foreign sources, but sometimes also through detailed information.
Throughout the tumultuous centuries, profound changes in Armenia’s political situation have left their mark and inevitable consequences on the country’s history.
In the descriptions of the Roman historian Tacitus (circa 58-120 AD), the events of a period filled with conflicts 2000 years ago take shape, recently recalled in certain European countries through exhibitions dedicated to Mithraism and the mysteries of Mithraic rites, mentioning the visit of the Armenian king Tiridates I to Rome and his meeting with Nero (who reigned from 54 to 68).
Due to its geographical position, Armenia was at the center of military actions by rival powers at different times, where decisive events took place.
Here we present an interesting article from the January 1913 edition (pages 10-12) of the magazine “BAZMAVE” published in Venice, describing Tiridates’ journey to Rome, accompanied by magi and the sons of Manavaz, his solemn arrival, and the ceremonies organized.
“Fragments of Armenia”
Under this title, we periodically publish writings on the history of the Armenian nation, drawn from both ancient and modern works by foreign authors. These writings may be useful not only for historical philology but perhaps even more so for shedding light on Armenian relations with other nations and providing our young art enthusiasts with a source of inspiration for their poetic, pictorial, theatrical, musical, and other creative productions.
The following excerpt is a page from Tacitus’ “Annals.” Tacitus left his last book, the sixteenth, almost unfinished and then moved on to his “Histories.” This gap has been filled by various historians drawing from other ancient sources. This page is presented to us by Brotier, who beautifully describes the coronation of Tiridates by Nero as King of Armenia. (H. Auger)
The solemn arrival of Tiridates was a spectacle for the people, masking the embarrassment of the nobles and the Senate, but also a heavy burden for the Empire. Rome had never seen so many crowns: after a long journey, filled with superstitions and resembling a triumph, Tiridates and his wife arrived with the sons of Vologases (Vagharsh), Pakoros (Bakur), and Manavaz. Believing that actions spoke louder than words, Tiridates knelt before Nero without handing him his sword; such a gesture seemed too servile and unworthy of Arsacid nobility. Until now, nothing had violated decorum, but soon everything became mere exhibition. Nero, who knew better how to marvel than to emulate the dignity of a barbarian, took his guests to Naples, to Puteoli, and displayed his imperial grandeur in a gladiatorial competition. The freedman Patrobius organized these games. One can get an idea of the expenses knowing that, for an entire day, only Ethiopian fighters, of both sexes, entered the amphitheater. To honor the spectacle and show his skill, Tiridates, without leaving his place, shot an arrow that, according to legend, wounded two bulls. The spectacle in Rome was even more grandiose when Tiridates appeared there to claim the throne of Armenia. They waited for a day of good weather. The day before, the entire city was illuminated, a crowd filled the streets, and spectators crowded the balconies of houses. The people, dressed in white and crowned with laurels, filled the square. The soldiers, making their weapons and eagles gleam, formed a guard of honor. Early in the morning, Nero, dressed in his triumphal robes, went to the square with the senators and the Praetorian Guard. There, he ascended a throne near the rostrum, sat on an ivory chair, surrounded by eagles and military banners. Then Tiridates and the sons of the kings, accompanied by numerous dignitaries, arrived surrounded by troops of soldiers and paid homage to the emperor. The clamor of the people, witnessing this unprecedented scene and recalling their ancient victories, initially caused fear in Tiridates, who remained silent and did not regain his courage even when silence was imposed on all. Perhaps he also wished to flatter the people with this false modesty to avert any danger and secure a kingdom, for he declared loudly that, although he was of Arsacid blood and brother to the kings Vologases and Pacorus, he was nevertheless a servant of Nero, whom he honored as a god, and that all his rights came from Nero’s protection, for this prince was to him both Destiny and Fortune. Nero’s response was all the more haughty because this speech was humble: “You did well,” he said, “to come here to enjoy my presence. The rights your father could not transmit to you and that your brothers could not preserve for you, accept them only from me. I give you Armenia. Know well, and let you all remember, that I alone can give and take away kingdoms.” Tiridates immediately approached the steps of the throne, knelt before Nero, who raised him and embraced him, and placed the crown he sought upon his head amid the loud cheers of the people, for which a former praetor translated the humble supplication of the king. From there, they went to the Theater of Pompey. Never had gold seemed more commonplace and more devalued. The stage and all the surroundings shone with gold. Everything was covered with a vast purple curtain, at the center of which golden embroidery depicted Nero driving a chariot, surrounded by golden stars. Before sitting down, Tiridates once again paid deep homage to Nero, then took his place on his right to observe this scene where gold took on a thousand different forms. This dazzling opulence was followed by an even more sumptuous banquet. Then they returned to the theater, where Nero did not hesitate to sing like an actor, play the lyre, and drive a chariot, dressed like a charioteer among the aurigas. In these shameful scenes, made even heavier by the poor applause of the people, Tiridates, remembering Corbulo’s military virtues, could not contain his anger and told the prince that he was very fortunate to have such a noble prisoner as Corbulo. Nero, caught up in the intoxication of his own joy, ignored this audacity from a Barbarian. There seemed to be a competition of insolence between the prince and the people. As if these ridiculous ceremonies had concluded the war in Armenia, Nero, hailed as emperor, headed to the Capitol with his laurel crown, closed the Gate of Janus, and became even more ridiculous through this imaginary victory than by performing on stage. Having secured his crown, Tiridates knew how to benefit from the sympathy of the people and the prince. Long intoxicated by his happiness in Rome, he sought only marvels: He found them in Tiridates’ court, who, like all Orientals, boasted of his deep knowledge of the mysteries of astrology. What made his science credible was the multitude of magi who accompanied the king. Immediately, the Romans wished to consult their fate in the sky and the underworld. The most amusing was Nero himself, for this kind of secret particularly seduces malevolent tyrants, who are both anxious about the future and prodigal in the present, as if they could dispose of the future they fear. Nero was already enthusiastic about taking lessons. Tiridates, proud to have such a student, began to instruct him. The master of the empire’s destiny, in disregard of Rome, gave himself up to Chaldean illusions, learned their magical rites, and progressed in the art of poison, the main branch of magic. This shameful apprenticeship revealed the falsehood and vanity of an art that could not be taught by a master who had just received a new crown, and that a pupil commanding the universe could not learn. Nero, despite his disappointment, was no less generous. Sovereigns are all the more lavish when they feel deceived. Tiridates, who already enjoyed a daily stipend of eighty thousand gold pieces, also received a gift of one million silver drachmas. Nero also allowed him to rebuild Artaxata, which had been razed, as we have recounted. He also granted him numerous artisans, to which Tiridates added many others that he personally hired. Thus, restoring this king to his throne cost more than dethroning other kings in the past. Having been enriched by these gifts, Tiridates, little concerned with the superstitions of his country, sailed from Brindisi to Dyrrachium. He then crossed the cities of our Asia, admiring everywhere the empire’s sources of revenue and Nero’s senseless undertakings. Before Tiridates entered Armenia, Corbulo, going to meet him, let the artisans who had been sent to him pass, but sent back to Rome those he had hired himself. Out of concern for Roman honor, this jealousy increased Corbulo’s renown and diminished that of the prince. Despite this, Tiridates, out of gratitude, renamed the city of Artaxata “Neronea” after restoring it.
Stay tuned for the next article, which will feature a story about a donation related to the journey mentioned…
In 1916, following a conference held on October 27 at the French Embassy in London, an agreement was signed between representatives of the Entente Powers—Mark Sykes (representing England), Georges Picot (representing the French government), and Boghos Nubar, President of the Armenian National Delegation. Based on this agreement, the “Armenian Legion” (1916-1920), an Armenian volunteer unit within the French army, was formed in 1916.
The Armenian legionnaires, numbering over 4,500 soldiers, were to participate in military operations against the Ottoman Empire under the command of French forces on the Syria-Palestine front, and later on the Cilician front. In return, France promised to grant the Armenians of Cilicia autonomy after the Allies’ victory, based on the “firm guarantees” given to Boghos Nubar.
The Armenian Legion first took part in combat operations on September 19, 1918, in Palestine at the heights of Arara, achieving a glorious victory.
“Men! You know, tomorrow morning is our wedding day, the day we have all been waiting for. Every soldier must be ready by 4 a.m. sharp. This is the hour of revenge and righteous retribution. It is for the liberation of the Homeland that we will fight this sacred battle. This is the only service we can offer to our unfortunate nation, to make it happy through the price of our blood.
I don’t know how many of us will fall on the battlefield when tomorrow’s curtain drops, but I am certain that the proud Armenian brow will not taste the bitterness of shame! Our past must inspire us, and let the future instill faith in us all.”
With this message, delivered late at night on September 18, 1918, Armenian officer John (Hagop) Shishmanian, serving in the French armed forces, addressed the Armenian volunteers of the “Eastern Legion” camped on the slopes of Mount Arara in Palestine, announcing the attack on the “Turkish and German positions.”
On April 24, 1927, during the unveiling of a memorial dedicated to the Armenian volunteers in Jerusalem, former “legionnaire” Hagop Arevian, the delegate of the American and Cairo “Legion Union,” recalled this event in his speech. This excerpt is taken from his address, published in Cairo in 1928 by the “Armenian Legion Union” in the book “The Volunteer: On the 10th Anniversary of the Victory at Arara.”
The memorial dedicated to the Armenian soldiers who perished in the Battle of Arara is located in Jerusalem (photo courtesy of the National Archives of Armenia).
“On the evening of September 18, 1918, the news spread among the legionnaires that the next morning they were to launch an attack on the enemy army. Everyone was joyfully preparing, as if they were attending a wedding. Their excitement was boundless. Finally, after two long years of continuous training, they would show the enemy their military prowess.
It was the morning of September 19 when the order for a lightning attack was given. Ignoring all dangers, even death, they charged at the enemy positions, and within an hour, the designated positions were captured. All that remained of the enemy were lifeless bodies. Unfortunately, not everyone was fortunate; about a hundred comrades fell heroically. Despite their severe wounds, they were never demoralized and shouted to those advancing ahead with voices filled with boundless vengeance: ‘Hagop, don’t forget me!’ or ‘Galust, avenge me!’
Here you see the memorial to 23 of them, whose remains now rest here. They closed their eyes forever with joy, but with vengeance in their hearts.”
Honor to their immortal memory!
The battle lasted approximately twenty hours, during which the enemy fiercely bombarded the lost positions and attempted to retake them with a counterattack. But the Armenian soldier remained steadfast at his positions, and with his rapid-fire rifles and machine guns, thwarted the Turkish “Yıldırım” (meaning “Lightning,” K.A.) army, which was the force opposing the advancing enemy columns. They lived up to their name only when it came to retreating.
As you can see, it was on the eve of the ceasefire that the legionnaires received their baptism by fire. However, they more than made up for it by fulfilling their military duties. They remained at their post for another two years, during which they faced many other challenges, and the number of their martyrs far exceeded twenty-three, surpassing 123. But the last of them were left without graves, resting in some desolate corner of unknown fields. They faced many unequal battles, sometimes at great sacrifice, but always emerged victorious.
This did not go unnoticed by their French commanders either. All the fallen had received their wounds either on their forehead or chest.
Every time there was a dangerous mission to be carried out, the “Hakobs” and “Galusts” would step forward from their ranks and whisper in their commanders’ ears that they had not forgotten the voices of the “Martiroses” and “Jingirians,” who had fallen on the hill of Arara, saying, “Avenge us.” And so, there came the days when the “Hakobs” and “Galusts” also heroically fell on the path of the great national cause.
When Galust lost his left arm, I kissed his forehead and tried to offer him a few words of encouragement, but I had made a mistake, for he did not need any encouragement. His response was, “It’s not my arm that hurts. You know I was supposed to fight for several people, and I haven’t satisfied my vengeance yet.”
As you can see, even the very last to fall had not yet taken their revenge. Therefore, it remains for the new generation, as a fraternal inheritance, to exact that vengeance, and should the opportunity arise, to once again deal ruthlessly with the enemy…
The photograph of Hakob Arevyan from the Armenian Museum of America, published in Susan Paul Pattie’s book The Armenian Legionnaires.
“WITHOUT WATER, NO SEED CAN GERMINATE ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH…”
Across the entire Armenian Highlands, numerous ancient pilgrimage sites are scattered, where, since time immemorial, Armenians have gathered to continue the traditions of their ancestors, celebrating national holidays and rituals with special festivities.
The most beloved celebration was the feast of Vardavar. During the summer heat, pilgrims from various places—groups, families, and clans—would make their way to their sacred site, whether it was an ancient temple, mountain peak, cave complex, river, spring, or a majestic standing tree. There, they would praise Water, the gift of Nature—nourishing, cooling Rain—and also honor love and its patrons: the affectionate, rose-bearing goddess Astghik, and the brave, valorous Vahagn (as noted by the priests of the Haykian Brotherhood, Kurm Mihr Haykazuni and Kurm Harut Arakelyan).
The sacred sites remaining in Western Armenia are no longer standing. After the Armenian Genocide, pilgrimages to these once-crowded holy places ceased. However, the Vardavar festivities and other celebrations have been immortalized in the pages of writers from different times, in the memories of participants, and continue today in slightly altered forms on the small piece of land that remains of present-day Armenia…
The Vardavar festival on the slopes of Khustup in 1919.
As a continuation of the festival of “New Harvest,” “New Fruit,” the Earth that ripens the crops and the Life-giving Water were also glorified. Water… The Water that enables fertility and growth, Life and existence itself—without which there is no growth, blossoming, development, or prosperity…
“…Remove the water, take away the moisture from every living thing, and it will immediately wither. And withering is the consequence of death and obliteration.”
“Without water, not a single seed can be fertilized on the face of the earth,” writes Atrpet, and continues:
“…The gusans (minstrels) glorified Astghik’s love and tenderness through their songs—her image and beauty, her vitality and energy, which filled people with spirit and emotion, allowing them to lead joyful lives. Thanks to this feeling, people transformed the earth into a paradise, embracing and loving one another with the flames of love, entering a rose garden of happiness to spend days filled with joy and delight.
Without the abundant love and emotions bestowed by Astghik, they found life sad and unbearable. Without the pleasures she granted, all the scenes of nature would turn bleak and dark. Just as Astghik gave life and bright eyes, they attributed rosy cheeks, ivory chins, amber breasts, cypress-like stature, arched eyebrows, shining foreheads, beating hearts, and trembling muscles to Astghik’s grace.
Another group of singers, with their gusans and dancers, in turn began to sing of Anahit’s genius, her wisdom, and the gifts she brought to humanity—the beautiful arts with which humankind turned the desert into a paradise, adorning the valleys and mountain slopes with countless blessings and colorful flowers, even decorating the rocky cliffs.”
Some praised the hammer and the anvil, others extolled the axe and the saw, while some marveled at the cart and the carriage. Others admired the plow and the plowshare, the horse’s bridle and horseshoe, the bow and arrow, the ladders and the pulley, the painting and the sculpture, the harp and the flute. In short, all the arts and tools that humanity had gained through the ingenious wisdom granted by Anahit.
Each time the minstrels sang a verse, the dancers would repeat it, moving back and forth with enthusiasm, linked arm-in-arm, brimming with fervor. The gentle breeze caressed and invigorated the youthful faces, flushed with excitement, their hair and chests, while the sun’s bright rays reflected in their fiery eyes, golden hair, and smooth skin…
“…Before the offering had concluded, forty maidens clad in apricot-colored garments, dedicated to the radiant Astghik, descended gracefully from the hilltop. Their amber-like hair cascaded over their shoulders, their heads crowned with roses, and their bare necks and wrists adorned with strings of beads. They approached the musicians with delicate steps and began their song and dance.
The minstrels, surrounded by the maidens, sang numerous hymns dedicated to Vardeh. As they danced with increasing fervor, exchanging graceful movements, the sun had already ascended to the highest point in the sky, and the air grew so intense that pearls of sweat adorned the foreheads of both the minstrels and the dancers.
At this moment, groups of maidens and young men took jugs and pitchers, splashing water on their beloveds to cool and refresh them. They endlessly sprinkled water over one another, shouting, laughing, and running away, but no one could escape getting drenched.”
«It’s the Festival of Roses!», they shouted, spraying the cool water relentlessly from head to toe. The singers, dancers, musicians, and the crowd continued their joy without changing positions until their clothes dried under the sun’s rays. The youth and teenagers endlessly carried water and poured it over the heads of the pilgrims, who, either exhausted or lost in thought, had withdrawn to the side.
— Today is the Festival of Roses, a day of laughter and dancing, — shouted the water-sprayers, leaping and jumping. — Today is our protector’s festival, it’s Vardavar, we must only sing, dance, and laugh, not doze off and slumber. — If only that water rained down from the heavens, — sighed the elderly in response, — we too would rejoice in spirit.
The teenagers drenched the pilgrims so much that, to escape the soaking, everyone joined the circle of dancers and began to sing and leap with them.
The dance lasted until the sun set. Though the last of the pilgrims sat on the green grass to dine, the songs, music, and dancing did not cease. After playing the evening lament, the pilgrims lit great fires near their tents, around which, until midnight, they sang, played music, and listened to the stories of the bards, who passed down the tales they had heard from their ancestors to their grandchildren…
Photo courtesy of the page of Priest Mihr Haykazuni, with thanks…
