100 Դրամ

Մենք Չենք Վճարելու 150 դրամ

Looking at history, it’s easy to think that significant, groundbreaking events in the past were sudden, unexpected, and without premise. That’s hardly the case, of course.

Both world wars were a result of hundreds of minor events until one of those minor events broke the proverbial camel’s back; discovering America was the culmination of thousands of years of navigational science, shipbuilding, astronomy, and balls (see #2); Armenia‘s leadership in the independence movements of the USSR had a foundation in the fearless and unwelcome nationalism of Charents, Sevak, Parajanov, and other great Armenian intellectuals, and their sons and daughters who demonstrated on the 50th anniversary of the Armenian Genocide in Yerevan.

At an undetermined point in the future, when the old guard of Armenia are replaced with individuals whose belief system revolves solely around the betterment of their nation, we will remember and thank the movement that successfully forced the mayor of Yerevan, Taron Margaryan, to reverse his decision to raise bus fares by 50%.

Fare rises in public transportation are met with anger almost everywhere. I’ve seen protests in both New York and Los Angeles when the municipal authorities charged with managing public transportation raised the fares. One big difference was that the authorities in NYC and Los Angeles, as far as I know, didn’t have a stake in the subway and bus system, like this clown. Another difference is that they’re usually unsuccessful. See, in a place like Los Angeles or New York, when authorities make the claim that the cost of operating a modern public transportation system requires them to raise the fares, they can make a case for it. In Armenia, when the head of municipality transportation owns a bus route himself, the “we’re improving the transportation system” sounds more like “we’re improving my transportation system…by helping me buy a faster, darker tint Mercedes-Benz for the new digits I secured.”

It’s worth noting that in conjunction with the demands of the protestors that the fare be kept at the 100AMD level, there was also a parallel movement that effectively threatened the business interests of the parties raising the fares (i.e. government officials and their cronies). The online service Freecar.am (facebook) blew up overnight and people began offering rides to complete strangers for free. Inspired by the freecar.am phenomenon, others would pull over in front of bus stops announcing their destination and open seats for any takers. If this became widespread and was sustained – as I think would be a good idea if the movement wants to really make sure government leaders think twice before making stupid decisions – the businesses which are these bus lines would be severely hurt, thus making politicians and administrators-cum-businessmen unhappy.

It’s not too far-fetched to believe that the mayor was making a business decision more than he was concerned about popular opinion when he changed his mind on the fares. But the innovation of the organizers of the movement in using this tactic, whether purposeful or inadvertent, was a huge change from showing up to squares and listening to a few predesignated folks pontificate for a few hours without any concrete plan of action. Babken Der Grigorian‘s piece about the characteristics of the movement underscores the novelty of these demonstrations and how they differed from past movements.

Side note: Babken was also the subject of an insult lodged against him by an old-school cop trying too hard to either be fashionable or to look like the Terminator. Valery Osipyan, the cop in question, told him “go back and demonstrate in your country,” alluding to Babken being a repatriate from abroad (for more on the old generations, see below). This seems to be a common retort among these leftovers from the Soviet Union.

"I'm going to pay 100AMD!!! We're the ones at fault for having let them make us dumb. Drivers, strike for another 2 days. We're going to pay 100AMD!!!"
“I’m going to pay 100AMD!!! We’re the ones at fault for having let them make us dumb. Drivers, strike for another 2 days. We’re going to pay 100AMD!!!”

Finally, those not-so-minor minor events that set the stage for world wars, expedition and discovery, and independence all had initiators, contributors, participants. In this movement, these people were the youth. The groups who traversed Yerevan on foot, shouting slogans and handing out fliers were nearly all young people. The movement was mobile, loud, and almost omnipresent.

I overheard several young people say, before the reversal of the fare rise, that they will not be discouraged and they will not be compelled or forced to move out of Armenia, that this was their country and they would stay and fight to make it better. Music to my ears.

Astgh Igityan, a facebook friend, drew the distinctions between the old and new generations in Armenia succinctly (my translation) – before the mayor’s reversal.

In our country, the middle-aged and elderly cross the street without using crosswalks or under red lights more often than the youth. It’s the middle-aged and elderly who more often than the youth cut in line at the grocery store. It’s the middle-aged and elderly who more often than the youth try to subvert protests – although they complain more and are more pessimistic than the youth.

So, hereafter, nobody should be so brazen as to say that we have a bad youth.

Later on, she had an encounter with one of these said elderly – again, before the mayor’s reversal.

(Old lady:) It’s pointless, kids, leave this country, get out of here.

Sometimes it’s good to not listen to your elders. And if they keep giving you bad advice, it’s never good.

These kids didn’t listen to their elders and they won.

The new generation of Armenian youth is not just fighting against the old guard which is ensconced in its seats of power but it’s also fighting against popular mentality. Երկիրը երկիր չի (ԵԵՉ for short, as I recently learned – thanks Vartan!), after all, was invented by the old generations and is continuously spouted off by them. Well, brace yourselves because apparently I’m not the only one tired of hearing this; recently, Երկիրը երկիր է was launched on facebook as a first step toward remedying this mental sickness.

The success of this movement isn’t just in getting the mayor to reverse his decision and standing up, in solidarity, for social justice. Rather, the greatest success is the triumph of the belief of those involved that they can win and, what’s more, that they will win – that it’s just a matter of time and tenacity. The fire in the belly of the people of Armenia is burning anew and it’s spreading.

The time has come to say thank you to the old generations for the ground they prepared for today’s youth and it’s time to say goodbye. Goodbye to the hopelessness, to the depression, to the fatalism, to the cynicism, and to the pessimism.

To quote Armenian rapper extraordinaire, Misho: սա հաղթանակի սերունդն ա. Ask about us.

By: William Bairamian

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Artsakh : Armenia v2.0 (I)

(First in a several part series about Artsakh)

There are a lot of complaints about the Republic of Armenia. It’s corrupt, there is no respect for the law, oligopolies control the economy, the environment is mindlessly ravaged, the people are unemployed, depressed, and looking for a one-way ticket out. There is a lot of the same in Artsakh, but it’s better.

"The Artsakh Republic is the Armenian people's pride." Yes it is.
“The Artsakh Republic is the Armenian people’s pride.” Yes it is.

Years ago one of my brothers came here then told me, “when you see it, you realize why we fought for it.” And when I saw it for the first time, driving through Berdzor, surrounded by a forest so thick it looks like a blanket of trees covering the mountains, I knew what he meant. All the geopolitical and historical arguments I’d made for Armenians’ right to govern themselves on this land went out the window; one needs to but see the majesty of these mountains to grasp why Armenians will not let this land go.

I was speaking with the driver of a dilapidated GAZelle we rented to travel to Shushi. He said he was from Stepanakert, he looked about 50. I asked him if he was originally from here because I know there were a lot of people who were displaced during the war; he affirmed that he was. He told me that he and his whole family were here when Stepanakert’s civilian population was being shelled with GRAD missiles by Azerbaijani forces from Shushi. He may have fought in the war; I didn’t ask. But I did ask whether he planned on staying or going. He responded like most people here do: “Where am I going to go? This is my home. If I go, who will stay?” This is the attitude of a guy driving a van that can climb a hill at no more than 20 MPH and who lived through the criminal bombardment of the city in which he and his family were living – and this is the attitude in Yerevan.

In Stepanakert, the streets are clean and the people mellow. A police officer stopped us because we weren’t using the crosswalk because, really, who uses crosswalks anywhere outside of California? Artsakhtsis do. He asked us to use the crosswalk and was on his way. Whereas the drivers in Yerevan seem almost like they are trying to run pedestrians over, the drivers here stop for people crossing the street. And the people crossing the street acknowledge the gesture. What is this humanity?!

The taxi drivers don’t try to gyp you as soon as they realize you’re not from there. Actually, several of them tried to refuse the 100AMD tip I tried to give them and only took it after I insisted. Another time, we asked our taxi driver to stop on the way up to Shushi so we could see the tank used in its liberation. From where the tank is situated, I could see the driver milling around in the bushes and I wondered what he was doing. When we descended, it turned out he was picking blackberries for us. Hands stained, he handed them over. Ya, really.

The men don’t all have what seems to be a male fashion accessory in Armenia: the half-dome stomach. They look stronger, like what you read about in Armenian fables – except with unfortunate Caesar-style haircuts.

There are new buildings that have been and are being built in Stepanakert and part of the apartments in each are allocated to war veterans and their families. Speaking of buildings, they have managed to rebuild the fortress at Tigranakert while unfathomably not putting a cafe next door – or inside.

And there is jingalov hats, for which there is even a song (if you don’t understand anything, don’t worry, it’s in the awesome Karabakh Armenian dialect). If this doesn’t signify an improvement on Armenia, I don’t know what does.

It’s not all perfect. There is still a war going on. I found this out when I tried taking a picture of a poster memorializing the sacrifice and strength that wrought victory that was on what turned out to be a military dormitory; three young soldiers promptly popped out of their station to tell me to tell me pictures weren’t allowed. More seriously, soldiers die regularly on the front line.

Shushi, the crown jewel of Artsakh and the Caucasus, is still mostly in ruins. Some buildings have been rebuilt but many of them are derelict and awaiting what government officials say is a final plan for what to do with the city and how to do it.

Persian mosque in Shushi.
Persian mosque in Shushi.

Some of the people I spoke with have told me that there is corruption here, too, although I’ve come to learn that corruption means different things to different people. For some, a police officer taking bribes is corruption. For others, a government official using their influence to secure financial benefits for him or herself is corruption. Nevertheless, there isn’t a general feeling that the government is embezzling all the funds in the country like there is in Armenia.

And despite the heartwarming story above, there is also emigration. The Republic of Artsakh is woefully underdeveloped and the people suffer because of it. The little that the government is able to do has been compounded with the investments of some wealthy Armenians, mostly from the Diaspora, but it hasn’t been enough to catalyze an active and vibrant economy. Agriculture is the traditional mainstay but a mixture of land mines, irrigation issues, and lack of any developed formal agriculture economy, villagers have a difficult time making ends meet.

On the issue of emigration, though, what was most impressive was that any young person I met that was college-age or a college graduate expressed little desire to go abroad and stay abroad. There is certainly an interest in seeing new places but the feeling is always that they should return to Artsakh – and they do, as many of the Artsakhtsis I met who had spent time in the United States or elsewhere had.

Frankly, the Republic of Artsakh realizes that it cannot be the Republic of Armenia. It cannot discourage investment by creating the impression that an oligarch might step in for a piece of the pie if he sees fit; it cannot completely ignore the social needs of the elderly and veterans; it cannot act like it doesn’t have youth and uninterestedly kill their desire to stay and help their homeland.  What has happened is that the Republic of Artsakh’s supposed curse – lack of international recognition of its statehood – has been a blessing because it has required it to be better – exemplary, even. When Artsakh starts setting the trend for its bigger, internationally-recognized brother to the west, don’t be surprised.

By: William Bairamian

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What’s Your Number?

For those of you who don’t know, numbers are a big thing in Armenia. So important that people go to great lengths to secure numbers that secure their importance – likely because they’re insecure. The most evident of examples is what you see on the roads, often in Yerevan, but really everywhere. License plates are the most visible proof that you are a VIP (“veep”, in local parlance) – and certified to break all rules with impunity. Thus you have combinations like “11 oo 111” or “23 LL 233”. The more uniform your license plate number or the more clear the pattern, the more cool you are. You know, like in high school when your importance is determined by the clothes you wear and not the ideas you bring to the table or the deeds you perform.



Another iteration of the number fetish is with phone numbers. It makes life, easy, really. If I meet someone with a license plate number that proves that they are cool and they give me their cool-making phone number, something like 23 23 23, then I don’t even have to worry about their personality, character, or intelligence because all the work in determining whether this person is worth interacting with is done for me. And, in fact, I trust that in the near future, it will be an awfully easy way to pick out the dimwits who actually concern themselves with this rather than, I don’t know, reading a book.


Note the dangerously dark tint. Perfect for running people over unnoticed.

When businessmen, politicians, university rectors, and the people who take cues from them (i.e. the masses) stop depending on their license plate and phone numbers for the the respect they think they deserve and start commanding that respect through their actions steeped in love of country and nation, we will know a new and right path.

By: William Bairamian

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Street Art, Yerevan

Yerevan is not a pretty city. It’s dirty – the air, the streets. Most of its old architecture, as I’ve come to learn, has been obliterated in favor of poorly built new buildings in pursuit of some silly, and elusive, European ideal for a city and a country and a people which are not European. The city’s parks are unkempt and many include gaudy cafes that tempt your humor, making you wonder whether someone really thought it was a good idea to put bright lights and Coca-Cola umbrellas in a quaint and otherwise peaceful place.

A lot of Yerevan’s look and feel has to do with the carelessness of the authorities and their disregard for aesthetics. Thus you have KFC signage in a pleasant park (see below) or overflowing trash cans or ruined sidewalks.


But the authorities’ inattention to beautifying Yerevan is most blatantly obvious while taking a stroll down Northern Avenue toward the Opera. On the main thoroughfare, nonsensical graffiti is visible on the entrances to the underground parking lots. Mind you, this is an area that opened in 2007 as the premier, central shopping and pedestrian area in all of Armenia. Although it’s impressive that someone was able to manage tagging in this area without being caught (from what I can tell, the street is well-lit throughout the night), the unsightly textual spray-paintings are out of place on the otherwise prim and proper avenue.


Perhaps more surprising is what I found at the capital city’s pride and joy, the Opera. The vaunted structure is where anybody who’s made it big in Armenia performs and anybody who’s made it big, thinks they’ve made it big, wants to seem like they’ve made it big, or just enjoys good performances goes. It’s so popular that all the idiots in the country got together and built cafes in the park across from the Opera and in such a way that the Opera is not visible from most of them, thus eliminating green space for a cafe you could’ve put anywhere but you put next to a structure you mostly can’t see only so you can say you put your cafe next to it.

On the ramps leading to the equivalent of Armenia’s Lincoln Center or Disney Concert Hall you see similarly nonsensical graffiti. Maybe there is a good reason (I doubt it) that it’s not cleaned up the rest of the year but it’s tourist season! You can’t expect to have your two central structures littered with gibberish. I know it’s far-fetched to expect Yerevan authorities to care but this is one of the things that can affect their bottom line and if we know anything it’s that that is definitely motivation for them.

If you were wondering, this is “street art” which I don’t appreciate (although I love some other graffiti).


Part of Yerevan’s blight are the soul-lacerating Soviet-era concrete projects. From the outside, they make New York’s projects look like a Ritz Carlton. The entrances to these crumbling depression machines are seldom, if ever, at the front of the building but rather in a courtyard accessed through a similarly drab passageway.

Some creative minds – or perhaps just one – saw an opportunity in these passageways and started painting and colorizing the gray. It’s almost hard to believe before it’s done but the difference some paint and pleasant imagery can make is astounding.

More importantly, somebody saw something ugly and instead of letting it send them into a spiral of hopelessness, they innovated and beautified. Credit to those who had the idea and made this happen.






There is also a smarter variation of textual street art and it usually takes the form of a stenciled message meant to elicit some feeling – pride, hope, inspiration, rage. I’ll take these crude markers of mental activity over the KFC awning and hooliganism from above any day.

“Freedom, Equality, Solidarity. Liberation”
“Voluntary Rights Are Strength” and “It’s begun…”

Finally, what could be cooler than walking down a street and seeing a painting of one of your favorite authors unexpectedly plastered on an otherwise forgettable wall? A lot of things but this is nevertheless pretty cool.

To celebrate the 500th anniversary of Armenian printing, Yerevan was deemed World Book Capital in 2012. Most of these seem sanctioned and done by a certain BB Media and thankfully they were done with some verve and pizzazz.

More refreshing is that these giants of literature, now staring at thousands of passerby, have been deemed worthy of public exaltation in a place where, if the overheard conversations of young men are any indication, the speech and behavior of the criminal-elite is preferred over the mellifluous poetry of literate forebears.

Next step: books-for-mafia-soap-operas program.

Papa Ernest Hemingway
I don’t know. Help me out.
Edgar Allen Poe
Hovhannes Tumanyan

As is seen in these pictures, the battle between the positive and negative takes many forms. An individual with a can of spray paint can use it to write utter nonsense and soil an attractive thing or they can use it to convey an empowering message; a person can look at a dull, dark passageway and sulk or they can use it as their canvas.

It’s only a matter of how you look at the world and what you see: hopelessness or opportunity?

By: William Bairamian

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Cheq Zzvel?

Taxicabs are tabloids on wheels. Their drivers will tell you all sorts of stories, some true, some not. Yerevan’s taxi drivers aren’t as talkative as the ones in New York or pretty much anywhere else I’ve encountered them. They don’t seem to care much where you come from, only where you’re going. And if you’re not a local, you may be inclined, by fear or interest, to attentively watch the road as your vessel comes painfully close to running over several people during the length of your trip instead of striking up a conversation. But, like any taxi, if they talk, the information you glean, if true, can be a window to the society of which they are the transporters.

Taxi in Yerevan's Republic Square. Credit: Vigen Hakhverdyan
Taxi in Yerevan’s Republic Square. Credit: Vigen Hakhverdyan

Alas, we happened upon a jolly-looking-though-not-so-jolly young fella who, as soon as we sat in the car, started musing angrily about the people walking up and down Northern Avenue on a warm evening rather than spending their time in a park surrounded by trees and wildlife. I recently spent two weeks exploring wilderness throughout California; there wasn’t much question which side of that question I ended up on. We made a connection so now we had to talk – otherwise it’d be too awkward – so we did.

He must have noticed from my accent that I’m not from Yerevan, which isn’t hard to do. He asked me how long it had been since we’d come to Yerevan and I responded by saying, “one week.” He didn’t even flinch, immediately following up with, «դեր չեք զզվե՞լ» (“aren’t you disgusted, yet?”). It was a suggested eventuality in the form of a question. I wasn’t sure how to respond except by honestly saying that I wasn’t yet disgusted but sarcastically gave him the opportunity to tell us what was disgusting so we could become disgusted, too. He sounded off his laundry list of problems that I’d heard a thousand times. Nothing is ever new – except he was younger than the others, maybe in his 30s. I was hopeful that he was an exception, that he was the fake tabloid story. I didn’t have high hopes but I kept an open mind.

A few days later, I was speaking with a younger man, probably in his late 20s. We were doing some work together so he asked me what I was doing in Armenia and I told him that this trip was for a project but that it’d please me to move here in the future. He quipped back with the most common of the anti-Armenia retorts: «Երկիրը երկիր չի» (literally, “the country is not a country”, i.e. the country is a worthless shithole that doesn’t deserve to be lived in by anybody who has half a brain) accompanied by him emphatically telling me not to move.

If a tabloid story could be considered a thesis, it would need to be validated by a few different sources before taking it seriously. I had one corroboration that Armenia was better off dead. Another taxi ride later, I might have been convinced.

Seated for a long car ride in another taxi, just barely beyond urban Yerevan, the complaints started flowing with unhindered fury. Everything from how much Kirk Kerkorian never wants to have anything more to do with Armenia to the condition of the roads to how villagers weren’t picking all their apricots thus letting them go to waste.

It’s a national pastime, really, complaining. I’m not at all surprised so many people want to leave. If I had to listen to that my whole life, I can’t imagine I would think that living anywhere, possibly even a dog shelter, was better than Armenia.

Thesis confirmed. Mass disdain, dismissal, disgust.

But I won’t accept it. The results are not final.

I had given that first taxi driver a tip when paying him, which he thought was a mistake and commendably pointed out. I told him it wasn’t a mistake. What I didn’t tell him was that I was sure that he would eventually find a way out and that I was especially pleased that I had contributed to him leaving by giving him that extra 100 drams so he could abandon this place he disdained so much.

He, or any of the people I have met, could have talked about better things. There are great things going on, too: Ayb High School, Luys Foundation, AYF Youth Corps, Civilnet, Green Bean, urbanlabEVN, Tumo Center for Creative Technologies, Dilijan International School of Armenia, Gyumri Information Technologies Center, ONEArmenia. And a plethora of others. If not talk about these things, perhaps the scenery, or the food, or that hundreds of children can run around soaking random people with water throughout the country, unattended by their parents, with nary a worry about their safety. We can talk about these things but we choose to focus on self-pity instead.

Young people who are supposed to compose the vivacious, sprightly, hopeful core of any country are repeating the same tired aphorisms of their parents. After many years of reflecting on this malaise, there is not one thing that I can point to that I consider valid: not that there are no jobs, not that the government is corrupt, not that the prices have gone up, not that the trash is not being collected. These problems aren’t exclusive to Armenia, it’s just that Armenians think that they are. What’s more, there is no interest by most in solving the problems. Somehow, invariably, the onus is always upon somebody else to figure things out and make them better. If that doesn’t happen, time to head for the hills (of Glendale).

Fact is, in Glendale, and whatever other place refugees (because that’s what people who leave a place they no longer feel at home are called) from Armenia settle outside of Armenia, this mentality hardly changes. The complaints remain. The nuclear physicist lamenting that he’s driving a taxi in Yerevan will be doing the same lamenting in Santa Monica except to someone who has a harder time understanding him.

America wasn’t perfect. People did shit. When there were no jobs, they created them. When the government was corrupt (I only wrote that in the past tense for effect), they organized and demanded accountability. When the prices went up, they toughed it out (side note: inflation is a well-known concept in this thing called economics and every time that the prices go up in Armenia, it’s not a governmental conspiracy, it might just happen, you know, just like that. That’s why I can’t buy a Double-Double for 50 cents as portrayed in those goddamn posters they have at every In-N-Out surely put there to mock you). When the trash wasn’t picked up, they threw it in the Hudson River and thus created the largest landfill in human history and called it New Jersey – and they even started living on it!

I’m only using America’s example because that’s the one with which I’m most familiar. But there are others. When English people realized how much England sucked, they didn’t relocate to Spain (although they decided to lay claim to a rock named Gibraltar just to piss them off), they conquered most of the world so they could create the most important city on earth and vacation in exotic places like India, Kenya, and the Americas without having to get a visa. When the Japanese realized they were living on a rocky strip of land that was useless in every way a normal country would need to operate, they started inventing things like samurai, Toyota, and sushi and are now able to buy whatever they want. Even Canadians, who long ago had to helplessly reconcile being an American territory, somehow resist the urge to join the mainland and keep working on being the most socialist state of the Union.

There is surely someone reading this and thinking that it’s so easy for me, a Diasporan, to so freely criticize the decisions of these suffering people from my comfortable Diasporan life (lol). First, I’m commentating on this as an interested party. That is, I live in Glendale and that is where at least 50% of emigrants from Armenia end up so I definitely have a chicken in this fight. Second, I’m commenting as an observer and a student of politics, history, and societies. Armenians need to realize that their problems are not unique and they are not the worst in the world and that if they’re going to leave Armenia en masse, they should be honest about the real reason they are doing so: they do not love the country. Until they’re in Glendale, of course, which is when the bitching starts about America and reminiscing starts about the wonderfulness of Garabi Leech, Opera, and Cascade. Which is kind of like belittling and cursing your spouse until you get a divorce then, when you’re with your new partner, extolling your ex’s virtues.

Let’s put it all out on the table: when one loves something (a nation, perhaps) or someone, they commit to them, come hell or high water, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, till death does them part. If hell, sickness, and poverty dissuade you from your love, then it wasn’t love to begin with and it’s not love once you leave and profess it.

I hate to air dirty laundry but this is one of those things. Our nation has been overcome by naysayers and it needs to stop. The eternally depressed and depressing don’t get a pass because they think their life (and I guess no one else’s) blows a fat one.

The people who live here in Armenia who are working so hard to make this place better should not have to be subjected to the incessant morass of the depressed masses. Their work is already difficult. The young people who are optimistic about their country shouldn’t have their beliefs tested by the half-witted uninterested at such a young age. These people have to deal with unemployment, corruption, rising prices, sporadic trash cleanup. The last thing they need is someone telling them all the things that are going wrong in the country. After all, they must know – they are the ones trying to make it better.

Instead of asking if we are yet disgusted of this country, let’s ask another question: Բողոքելո՛ւց դեր չեք զզվե՞լ:

By: William Bairamian

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The Coolest Bathroom Ever

I’m fascinated by bathrooms. These places of respite can exacerbate or calm. Disgust or pacify. Some can even be beautiful. This one is cool; the coolest ever.


Sure, the barbed wire on the toilet seat looks like it’s trying too hard to stand out. But the thought of having your skin so close to barbed wire, even if it’s covered by hardened plastic, hints at danger, sadism, and plain crazy. I didn’t experiment by sitting on it for the sake of living on the edge (or, the wire, lol!) but the thought was enough. Then I moved on to the odd water basin that resembled those old soap dispensers in elementary school with the “soap” which was surely just chalk mixed with gravel squirted out water wildly and wastefully. But it was different.


Upon reflection I wondered why anyone bothered with making this one different. They could’ve just shoved some tile and porcelain into the would-be john and nobody would bat an eye. They didn’t, though, and what they did do is revolutionary.

Somebody decided that they were going to brave the treacherous tides of being the vanguard. They saw banality and consciously chose to add color and spice. Somebody thought that the way of doing things, even if it was the type of toilet seat and washing station they were going to choose, didn’t have to be predetermined and that they were going to decide the fate of this bathroom because it was theirs. They didn’t try to get all the other restaurants and bars to change their toilet seats and water stations (as far as I know), they just did what they thought was best for them. Now, thousands of people will see and use that toilet seat and they will see and use that water station and know that the next time they cut their hair, buy some shoes, vote, write a paragraph, talk to a boy or a girl, think to say something, they can be unordinary. They will know that they can decide freely and that it’s all right. For one day they experienced what it was like for their skin to be teased by trapped barbed wire and their hands washed with erratically spraying water because somebody had been irreverent to the conventions of bathroom design and, in the end, it wasn’t half bad.

By: William Bairamian

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Vivacell Zoo

Armenia likes to think it straddles the east and west. Almost every descriptive text introducing the country makes some reference to the mix of western and eastern traditions, culture, food, and other things. My experience at the Vivacell store painted this picture perfectly.

Well-appointed and sleek, the store was like any other you might expect to find in the west. Even more to the point, there was a kiosk where you punched in the reason for your visit and you were given an automatically generated number and waited your turn until called. Things are changing!

Not quite.

The east is too deeply ingrained to so easily disappear. After all, why wait until your number is called if, well, you don’t have to? Example 1: group of impatient, slightly angry-looking young men. Knowing that they were supposed to come after me and seeing that they were hovering near one of the help desks, I watched to see what they would do. After a customer got up and walked away from an agent’s desk, the pack leader brazenly and nonchalantly pulled up a chair without waiting for the number to be called. It looked like the agent was going to help him, too, were it not for a young lady in our group who pointed out that he had not waited his turn. He looked irritated that he had to wait for his number to be called but moved away.

My turn (Example 2)!

My agent was pleasant enough. She was very helpful, patient, and professional. She was signing me up and going through the terms when a woman whom she apparently knew came up to her in a hurry. Without paying much attention to the fact that I was sitting there being helped by her friend, she shot off some questions about how much she had outstanding on her account. The agent helping me seemed a bit uncomfortable that her session with me was being interrupted by her friend but she wasn’t able to manage much except to tell her to wait a moment before she could look up her balance while she was helping me, which she eventually did. The interrupting woman (hereafter, “the yazva woman”), ever neglecting that her friend was helping a customer and that there were several other people in the store waiting to be served, continued yapping away until she got her answer about how much she owed, shelled out a few thousand dram, told her friend, my agent, to apply it to her account, and sped out of the store. Helpless, the agent did as she was asked, took care of the payment, and then finished up on my account.

Thus the Vivacell store became an 18th century bazaar. Or maybe that’s what it already was and I was fooled by the luster of the sleek design. But I can’t be entirely disappointed.

Armenians love each other. However much they express superficial disdain for each other, they love each other. It’s something I haven’t seen with any other people. They want to help one another, especially if one of them swallows their pride and asks. You may want to say no because you’re tired or sick or angry but you do it anyway because you share some inexplicable thing with that other person. It’s magical.

Then there are the bastards who abuse this magic. Those who appeal to the craving of the potential helpers but at the expense of their other brethren. Order is an opportunity to abuse the orderly for them. My agent wanted to help – I don’t blame her. But the yazva woman cared not that she was wasting my time and that she was wasting the time of the people waiting behind me. That she was abusing the belief of the people there who were also seeking help by way of order and that they were equally worthy.

And if not that day, one day, a person in that line behind me will see another yazva unconcerned with the community and will learn that so that he may not have his time or money wasted, he must be the yazva. He must disrupt the order. He must cut in line. He must break the rules. He must trick and deceive before the other yazvas do it first. Until we become a nation of yazvas.

I should have asked the people in the line behind me, on behalf of the yazva, if they wanted to allow her to go ahead. I should have asked the yazva, courteously, whether my or the other peoples’ business was less important than hers. And I imagine if she was asked the next time and every time she tried to violate the order, even if she never changed, the community would grow stronger. And the community would have the power to reject the yazva and to refuse her and her self-interest. The community would recognize the agreement that to experience its magic, order must prevail and it would deem that the disorderly must not expect to reap the fruits of a system they are intent on violating.

And the potential yazvas would relish their newfound compatriots, feeling solace in choosing the good over the bad.

Our fight is within. Between the people concerned with putting themselves first and those concerned with putting their nation first; the people they love so. We choose every day which person we are through our actions. We can be the yazva or we can be the nation.

I choose to be the nation and I want you to join me.

By: William Bairamian

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First Day

The excitement from seeing this made my hand shake and the picture blurry. (Not really but I thought that was a good story/excuse.)
The excitement from seeing this made my hand shake and the picture blurry. (Not really but I thought that was a good story/excuse.)

First impressions can change so easily. That’s why it’s important to remember them. At least to know from where you came. So here are some first impressions:

The Airport: Last time I came, it looked like a gulag processing center. Now it puts LAX to shame. OK, that means nothing because LAX is the worst airport I’ve used besides the tent that doubles as the Paris terminal for RyanAir. Nevertheless, very nice. I even had the pleasure of encountering a smiling cop who offered to help with my visa paperwork (which entailed giving me the form and telling me I needed to fill it out). The sign as you enter the customs line which says, in English and Armenian, that it’s illegal to give or take bribes was a nice touch. Gotcha, Armenian government ;).

Last time, the taxi drivers just picked up your bags and tried to coerce you into their cab. I guess someone realized that might not leave the best first impression on visitors so they scrapped that plan. This time, we took AeroTaxi which are these Cube-looking cars that have a flat rate to downtown Yerevan, about 4500 AMD (i.e. ~$11). It was the most advanced automobile I’ve ever sat in because it offered free WiFi during the ride. Ya, in the car. And the car was brand new. There was also free candy which went uneaten. Nice touch though. The drive to town still felt like a makeshift rollercoaster ride but the idea that there was WiFi in the car kept my mind occupied until we got to the destination.

Vast, welcome differences at the airport. After all, you know what they say about those first impressions.

The Road: Casinos. More of them and bigger. On the ride to Yerevan, you’re flanked by sleazy-looking casinos reminiscent of a prepubescent Atlantic City (i.e. the place New Jerseyans and New Yorkers go until they discover Las Vegas). I could take the view that these are also where residents of Armenia go to donate money to the oligarchs who they lament for taking peoples’ money. Gambling is a waste of time, money, and mind but it’s a person’s own business if they want to piss their money away. I just wish they would spend more money and make them a little more classy so that their clientele could be some of the visitors to Armenia rather than the poor suckers in the country looking to get rich with money they probably can’t spare. Maybe they will – business looks like it’s doing well.

I have to confess that as we passed Lake Yerevan and our cab driver seemed to think he was driving Formula 1, I was hoping that Shavarsh Karapetyan was somewhere near in case the race we were in ended somewhere in the water. Thankfully, his heroism wasn’t needed – not like he needed any more godlike acts on his resume.

The City: We arrived into the hustle and bustle of a typical…Wednesday night. There was so much traffic you would think the clubs had just let out. No, just people shifting (no, not shift it and don’t act like you didn’t think that) about in the poppin’ cafe hoppin’ scene. Like good Diasporans, our destination was Northern (Հյուսիսային) Avenue. To compare again to the last time, Northern Avenue was just a big hole in the ground with a bunch of cranes surrounding it and now it’s a relatively bustling place.

Side note: I’m not going to make any arguments about whether the money spent to create Northern Avenue could have been better spent elsewhere. That can easily turn into a circular argument where the question of which sort of investment is preferable is tiredly discussed and, in reality, there will be no conclusion. Rather, I’m surprised so much money was spent on such an unspectacular property. Leading from the beautiful Hraparak/Republic Square through quaint Abovian Street to the majestic Opera, Northern Avenue hardly distinguishes itself in any way for such a central feature in the city. It seems to me more a manifestation of the undying need to emulate things European – nearly every European city has one of these pedestrian shopping boulevards – than to rediscover (discover?) a uniquely Armenian design befitting the location the Avenue commands in the center of the Armenian world. Architects and urban planners can feel free to destroy my purposeful neglect of the Soviet-style grandeur of Republic Square and the Opera but I think they could still agree that at least those have some Armenian character. That said, I like the clear view of the Opera from the Avenue so, at least, +1 for that.

After settling in, dinner was at Kavkaz (I hear the name is used by many eating establishments) where I had khnkali and fried sulungi which are both apparently Georgian. I also had Adana kebab as my main dish so I didn’t feel totally bad that I was having non-Armenian foods the first night I was in Armenia. The highlight, though, was նռան օղի (pomegranate vodka). It was delicious, like candy, but without forgetting that it was a vodka.

The waiter was more pleasant than many I’d encountered in the past. I try not to think much of it when a waiter outside of the U.S. is not like the overly attentive, oftentimes annoying waiters whose smiles and attention are at the expense of them incessantly hovering over your table and trying to get you to leave (is it just me or does every waiter in the U.S. get off their shift while I’m having dinner thus forcing me to pay before they leave? Though I’m not sure how their leaving is relevant). Anyway, he cracked a few rare smiles and that was that.

By the way, how you order food is a dead giveaway that you’re not a local. I don’t fully understand it but the way locals order food is one of the most fascinating things and I haven’t been able to wrap my head around it. I was awed last time and I don’t think much has changed this time. Orders at restaurants are made as commands such as, “you will bring this, this, and this.” For someone used to the meek western style of ordering food where you have to kiss the waiter’s ass to ensure that the food’s not late and didn’t touch any otherwise covered body parts or bodily fluid, this is a shock if there ever was one. In the past few days (because it’s already been a few days), I’ve heard people talk to waiters like what you see in movies about the Deep South during the Reconstruction. Actually, no. This may be more akin to how I imagine Xerxes from 300 might order food. One guy who looked like a grandpa seated with his grandchildren told a waiter that in order not to waste his or his family’s time to bring out the food at once. Not only is this a foreign concept to me, I absolutely refuse to become accustomed to what I feel is an unjustifiably discourteous way of communicating with another person. So, I out myself as an outsider every time I order food by asking for a menu item or, if I’m feeling audacious, by saying “please.” At least my conscience can rest easy on this front. And you know what, I’m going to believe that the waiters appreciate it.

First day. Lots of good. Some of the same old. All things considered, happy to be here. There is no place like it.

By: William Bairamian

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I’m William Bairamian. I’m from the Diaspora: the Armenian one. The center of it: Los Angeles. I’m now in the Hayrenik (Homeland). No, I wasn’t born here but yes, I consider it my homeland nonetheless.

This is my second time here. Last time was in 2007. Yes, it’s changed, as it seems to every time you blink. Of course, the change most people mean when they say it’s changed is of the superficial variety: new buildings, bigger cafes, nicer cars, better restaurants (all in Yerevan, mind you). There are other changes, more subtle, perhaps in the people, perhaps otherwise. I’m more interested in the latter. And observations. And opinions.

My commentary will be about Armenia, Armenian people, the Armenian people, the Diaspora, and related thoughts. If I happen to write about skydiving one day and you’re hard-pressed to find its connection to Armenia or Armenians, try not to hyperventilate and deal with it. I welcome any viewpoints, even critical ones. Just try to maintain a modicum of decorum with me and with others who might participate.

Now breathe. It’s fresh. And rancid. But never stale.

You can also follow me on Twitter at @Bairamian.

Welcome to theGampr.

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