…«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?”
“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.
