I fly out of my seat, only to be pulled back by another harsh jolt. Our car bounces along a rutted dirt path, and with each gallop, I try to balance myself. There’s too much movement to make out the fine details. But when the road flattens out, I look out my window, out at the village through which the road snakes. On each side, a series of tall mounds line the road: hay-bale pyramids each rising 20 feet—a perfect arrangement of dried pastoral grass.
“Khodi yergiruh! [the land of grass!]” exclaims Zorair. We’re both tumbling in the back of a Toyota Fortuner. It takes me a second to turn and face him; my eyes are locked on the road as I count the bales in each arrangement, the straws, the labor.
He can see that I’m entranced by the pyramids.
“We let the stalks grow tall until mid-July. Then we all hit the fields—men, women, and children—and cut for hours.”
He pretends to hold a scythe and swings his arms like a magician yanks tablecloth.
“Each family collects more than a ton of hay during cutting season. I’ve spent long days in the fields; we would cut, collect, stack.” The winters are brutal in the village of Dilif. Once the fields are cut, the hay is raked and arranged into bales, stacked in pyramid formation. The pyramids are reduced to a pile of straws by the coming spring, and the cycle picks up again.
Zorair Kirakossian was born and raised in Dilif, in the heart of Javakhk. A thousand square miles of Armenian history, culture, and labor—Javakhk lies within the southern belly of the Georgian Republic. The region is 95% ethnically Armenian and has hosted this Armenian population for thousands of years. But Javakhk is officially recognized as Georgian territory. Upon Soviet occupation, the region was designated as a part of the Georgian SSR, which was maintained through de-Sovietization.
Nevertheless, the Armenian population has upheld its commitment to the land, with hopes of an eventual reunification with sovereign Armenia. Of course, such sentiment is met with strict scrutiny. Georgian officials, and locals alike, have harassed the Armenian population for decades—an effort to quell Armenian patriotism or identity formation. The Armenians resisted by investing in their cultural heritage—establishing Armenian schools that encourage Armenian language enrichment and strengthen national identity. The Armenian spirit here is unmatched; the fire burns strong in Javakhk.
We’d been traveling in this car, the Fortuner, for the past five days—through the long yellow valleys and over the rocky hills of Northern Armenia. I was tagging along with my grandfather and his team from the American University of Armenia, during a series of routine visits to dozens of rural towns and villages. The delegation represented the Turpanjian Rural Development Program (TRDP), which aimed to strengthen the local economy of the provinces through rigorous business training and micro-loan funding. For the past three decades, my grandfather, Haroutune, has spent six months of the year in Armenia, dedicating himself professionally to the University and its service-based initiatives.
Zorair is the country director of the TRDP. He ‘repatriated’ to Armenia in his twenties and has been living there since, proudly raising his son in their ‘homeland’. He returns to Javakhk regularly, especially through his TRDP site visits. Our arrival provided him with an opportunity to visit Dilif, and he insisted that we join him and his parents for dinner that late summer afternoon.
As we wind through the village road, masons, sicklers, and Diliftsis hanging laundry all look up at our car. The Fortuner leaves a trail of dust, of homecoming—an Odyssean return.
«Քեզի համար մաղով ջուր պիտի բերեմ։»
“I will bring water for you with a sieve.”
(Traditional Armenian proverb)
I fly out of my seat, only to be pulled back by another harsh jolt. Our car bounces along a rutted dirt path, and with each gallop, I try to balance myself. There’s too much movement to make out the fine details. But when the road flattens out, I look out my window, out at the village through which the road snakes. On each side, a series of tall mounds line the road: hay-bale pyramids each rising 20 feet—a perfect arrangement of dried pastoral grass.
“Khodi yergiruh! [the land of grass!]” exclaims Zorair. We’re both tumbling in the back of a Toyota Fortuner. It takes me a second to turn and face him; my eyes are locked on the road as I count the bales in each arrangement, the straws, the labor.
He can see that I’m entranced by the pyramids.
“We let the stalks grow tall until mid-July. Then we all hit the fields—men, women, and children—and cut for hours.”
He pretends to hold a scythe and swings his arms like a magician yanks tablecloth.
“Each family collects more than a ton of hay during cutting season. I’ve spent long days in the fields; we would cut, collect, stack.” The winters are brutal in the village of Dilif. Once the fields are cut, the hay is raked and arranged into bales, stacked in pyramid formation. The pyramids are reduced to a pile of straws by the coming spring, and the cycle picks up again.
Zorair Kirakossian was born and raised in Dilif, in the heart of Javakhk. A thousand square miles of Armenian history, culture, and labor—Javakhk lies within the southern belly of the Georgian Republic. The region is 95% ethnically Armenian and has hosted this Armenian population for thousands of years. But Javakhk is officially recognized as Georgian territory. Upon Soviet occupation, the region was designated as a part of the Georgian SSR, which was maintained through de-Sovietization.
Nevertheless, the Armenian population has upheld its commitment to the land, with hopes of an eventual reunification with sovereign Armenia. Of course, such sentiment is met with strict scrutiny. Georgian officials, and locals alike, have harassed the Armenian population for decades—an effort to quell Armenian patriotism or identity formation. The Armenians resisted by investing in their cultural heritage—establishing Armenian schools that encourage Armenian language enrichment and strengthen national identity. The Armenian spirit here is unmatched; the fire burns strong in Javakhk.
We’d been traveling in this car, the Fortuner, for the past five days—through the long yellow valleys and over the rocky hills of Northern Armenia. I was tagging along with my grandfather and his team from the American University of Armenia, during a series of routine visits to dozens of rural towns and villages. The delegation represented the Turpanjian Rural Development Program (TRDP), which aimed to strengthen the local economy of the provinces through rigorous business training and micro-loan funding. For the past three decades, my grandfather, Haroutune, has spent six months of the year in Armenia, dedicating himself professionally to the University and its service-based initiatives.
Zorair is the country director of the TRDP. He ‘repatriated’ to Armenia in his twenties and has been living there since, proudly raising his son in their ‘homeland’. He returns to Javakhk regularly, especially through his TRDP site visits. Our arrival provided him with an opportunity to visit Dilif, and he insisted that we join him and his parents for dinner that late summer afternoon.
As we wind through the village road, masons, sicklers, and Diliftsis hanging laundry all look up at our car. The Fortuner leaves a trail of dust, of homecoming—an Odyssean return.
«Քեզի համար մաղով ջուր պիտի բերեմ։»
“I will bring water for you with a sieve.”
(Traditional Armenian proverb)
We pull into a short driveway, a tributary of the village road. The car comes to a halt and Zorair tenses up. Good hospitality is bread-and-butter for Armenian families; first impressions are everything.
Outside my window, an older man, in his mid-seventies, walks down a stepped path with a slight limp. This prompts us to get out of the Fortuner, something we’d gotten in the habit of doing the past few days. Polite introductions and a dozen long handshakes kicked off every site visit, and this one was no different. The mannerisms were all the same: characterized by a sense of familial warmth, and the slightest hint of professionalism.
“Doctor Armenian, this is my father,” Zorair says with a nervous half-smile.
“Raffik, che? [Raffik, right?]” My grandfather extends his hand, his face beams with happiness, and Raffik responds with a quiet yes and a polite nod.
Raffik stands at about five-and-a-half feet tall. He sports a beaten baseball cap, all-black attire, and a white Sam Elliot mustache. He’s got tough, wrinkly skin, with the reddest cheeks—a healthy Armenian man. It’s strange, at once he’s the embodiment of a Javkahk man, this unique ethnic figure. But then again, nothing about what he’s wearing checks out. Is this Javakhk chic?
From the house, Zorair’s mother rushes over. When she’s introduced she remains silent, but gives us a big smile and bows her head. A streak of white shines from the center of her short jet-black hair. Zorair runs back to the Fortuner and grabs five or six large bags of groceries, meanwhile directing us up the path and into their modest estate. I’m trailing, but I can hear my grandfather bombarding Raffik with questions at the head of the pack. Zorair catches up to me and pulls me aside.
“Shant jan, come with me.” I follow his lead as he scurries over to a small brick shack up ahead. “You’re really gonna like this!”
Zorair struggles with the wooden door. There’s a rusted horseshoe nailed to the doorframe. The door itself is short, probably five-and-a-half feet in height. He finally swings the door open, and steps inside. A cloud of smoke blows into my face, as I step down into the small room, coughing and disoriented. Zorair picks up a circular metal cover, and to my surprise, the countertop is revealed to be a tonir (a traditional clay oven, usually dug into the earth). It’s an unconventional placement; tonirs are commonly located in the center of a village home. Families gather around the hearth—preparing meals and spending long evenings together. But in Zorair’s home, the tonir is in exile. It’s contained within a separate, but adjacent, space, outside of the home.
Zorair slaps my back and shakes my shoulder. “Just you wait, Shant jan. We’re gonna throw our kebab in the tonir! Have you ever had toniri kebab?” Before I can answer, he says, “Of course, you haven’t. At least, not like this: Dilif kebab!” He wears a beaming smile, expecting me to respond the same.
«Ծառը աւելի հպարտ կը կենայ, եթէ գիտէ իր արմատները։»
“A tree stands taller when it knows its roots.”
(Traditional Armenian proverb)
Three stools are set up in a slight curve behind the Kirakossian home. Raffik from Dilif, Aram (our driver and good friend) from Yerevan, Haroutune from Los Angeles—each to a stool. The three senior men sit facing each other, chests turned towards the family’s backyard.
The small lot is gated by a chain link fence. It’s unclear what the gate intends on delineating. Inside the lot: three apple trees and a yapping dog. Beyond it: the family’s vegetable garden, their livestock, and the hills of Javakhk. The land is one and the same, and both belong to the Armenian. Yet, the chain link fence still stands, tying the dog down—a makeshift rack for three different jackets.
Behind the men: a three-foot wide satellite dish. It’s secured onto the wall of the house, intent on receiving god-knows-what. The brick house digs into the earth, leaning to one side as if it’s about to fall over. It’s covered in wrinkles and patched up using sheet metal, chopped wood, and cement. It has to be a hundred years old. But engraved on a longer brick piece, I read “yr. 1958.”
“We are from Moush. Everyone from Dilif is from Moush. Our village is Nor Moush [New Moush],” Raffik explains. “When I was in my twenties, I brought home a girl from another village. Her family was not from Moush. My mother threw her out, and me with her. The next year I came back with Zorair’s mother, whose family is from Moush.”
Moush was a prominent community in Western Armenia. Much of the local Armenian population was either massacred or exiled during the Armenian Genocide of the early 20th Century. Those who survived congregated and reestablished their village. Longing made way for identity formation, and soon the Moush way of life continued as before. The scars remain, but the descendants of Moush wear them as a badge of honor.
«Հողը ճանկես, ոսկի դառնայ։»
“Scratch the earth, may it turn to gold.”
(Traditional Armenian proverb)
There’s a smaller hay-bale pyramid beyond the gated backyard. As the men head inside, I jump over the gate and start climbing a hill behind the house. The land beneath me is strong, and it holds my weight as I tread this dry, yellow patch.
About 20 yards from the gate, I stop at the pyramid and turn around, now facing the valley. Javakhk is a land of rolling hills and sharp peaks, grassland snaking between, and clusters of villages dotting the landscape. The sky shines a bright blue, and cotton-ball clouds float above Dilif. The moos of grazing cattle, the clacks and gurgles of flying swallows. A symphony of animal life fills the late afternoon sky, and chaos becomes a distant melody.
From the back lot, Zorair emerges. He catches sight of me and calls out from below.
“Shant jan. Come down here and take a look.” A cigarette hangs from one side of his mouth as he leans down and picks up a large shovel. He walks over to a bed of dirt in the vegetable garden, and I slowly tread down the hill to join him.
He digs the shovel into the mound and breaks up the topsoil. As he steps on the metal blade, dirt flies everywhere, revealing a network of yellow oblong nuggets. He grabs one of them and brings it up to my face. “Look at these kartoshkas! [potatoes!] We’re gonna go throw these in the tonir. Mmm mmm mmm….”
Zorair hands me a large burlap sack and throws in about a dozen nuggets as I hold it open. I follow him as he weaves through the garden, checking on the produce: two long rows of green Cannonball cabbage, a dense patch of tomato vines, and a small cucumber bush. He picks a few of each and throws them in another sack. As we step back into the gated lot, Zorair calls me over to a running spring and tells me to take out a couple of cucumbers from the sack.
“This water streams from the mountain ice. It gushes all year long, and the spigot is always cool.” He washes the cucumbers and then hands me one. “Javakhki varoong! [Javakhk cucumber!]”
I crunch into the little green finger, covered in tiny bumps and lathered in crisp alpine water. Javakhki varoong.
«Լեռը քեզի չի յարմարիր, դուն լերան պիտի յարմարիս։»
“If the mountain does not suit you, you must adapt to the mountain.”
(Traditional Armenian proverb)
I step into the primary residence and Zorair directs me down the hallway and to the left. I face a white wooden double door, with twin transom windows above. I push the door open and stumble into the dining room, where my grandfather, Aram, Raffik, and Narineh (the TRDP Javakhk supervisor) are seated around an oval table.
A soft whiteness consumes the space, as the late afternoon sun makes its way through the long windows. The rays pass through thin sheer curtains and provide a steady stream of brilliance. On all four sides, a series of columned wallpaper: pairs of poppy flowers running floor to ceiling, reflecting a gentle purple hue.
A needlelace runner set atop the wooden table completes the mise en scène. Colorful dishes and porcelain tableware exhibit an assortment of fresh greens, cheeses, mixed salads, and fruit. Two large bottles of wine are planted in the middle, and crystal glasses are set for each guest. Across the table, Raffik sits facing me, and Zorair faces my grandfather. Zorair announces that it’s time to open a bottle of wine. He pours my glass first. “Chooruh bzdigin, khoskuh medzin [the youngest gets the drink, the oldest gets the word].”
As if in resignation, Raffik then states: “We’re an intelligent people, but fate hasn’t worked in our favor.” This is met with a brief sadness and a short lull.
I notice my grandfather processing an appropriate response. He plants his palm on the table and declares, loudly:
“You determine your fate! Your destiny is in your hands. Faith is not our final resort. We are not sheep subject to the wolf’s appetite.” Raffik bows his head and then looks up directly at my grandfather. His eyes broadcast the last few straws of hope, and he listens intently.
“You belong to this land. It isn’t Javakhk, it’s Moush. Being tied to this land is of utter importance. How did we ward off the Turks? We capitalized on our inner energy…our national spirit!”
We all nod our heads in agreement, some verbally acknowledging the elder’s sermon.
He continues, directly addressing Raffik. “You, by tilling this land, by tending the running stream, by holding together this village, by raising a bright man such as [Zorair]…you, Raffik, have contributed more than those billionaires, those philanthropists…who throw money at a hundred different organizations.”
Raffik’s eyes light up, surprised by my grandfather’s words. But, they resonate with him. He humbly bows his head.
Zorair interrupts and suggests a toast to our collective struggle, our soldiers, our greater nation. And so, the conversation moves on, but the spirit in that room remains zealous. We’re reminded of our collective struggle: that of establishing a free, independent, and united Armenia.
«Երկու յետոյքներ տողանցքի ժամանկ իրարու դպան ու ազգական եղան։»
“In the parade two buttocks touched and became kindred spirits.”
[“Armenians become kindred souls upon meeting”]
(Traditional Armenian proverb)
From the head of the table, a series of “cuckoos” sound. I look up at the small grandfather clock that hangs on the purple poppy wallflower. Zorair goes on to explain how he acquired this in Tbilisi. I check the time and my watch reads “6:18.”
Meanwhile, Raffik darts out of the room, and Narineh trails behind him. The two return a few short minutes later, carrying three large trays of lavash-wrapped kebab—straight out of the tonir.
Narineh helps serve the kebab to everyone, and I get nervous as she approaches me. I turn to my grandfather and give him a look, so as to solicit some verbal intervention.
“Shant jan, tell me how much you’d like,” Narineh says as she starts setting pieces of pork down on my plate.
My grandfather interjects and tells Narineh that I’ve been having a hard time digesting meat this week, and Narineh removes the kebab from my plate. It’s the first time I’ve been back to Armenia since I stopped eating meat. My homeland is not conducive to my pescetarianism, and my choice suggests an unintended rejection of tradition. I feel ashamed, and worry that I’ve insulted the Kirakossians. But my grandfather looks at me and gently nods his head.
Raffik once again runs out of the doorway and comes back from the kitchen with a plate of roasted potato nuggets and a small, red plastic pouch. He serves the potatoes around the table, and we start dunking them in various homemade sauces and dips. Raffik then announces excitedly, holding up what I thought was some pack of Russian applesauce: “Who wants some ketchoop?”
And here I am, worried about tradition…
Once the table is cleared, all that remains is an empty bottle of wine and another, half-full. Zorair tops each of our glasses, finishing the other bottle.
My grandfather lets out a loud note, starting an all-too-familiar melody. When he’s happy, you can expect my grandfather to sing one of two songs. Back home, either would be met with loud groans and eye rolls. But at the Kirakossian table, when he starts singing, everyone chimes in.
«Խմենք, Հայրենի՛ք, կենացդ երգով.
Լինես երջանիկ, քաջ լինես միշտ հոգով։
Լարի թմբըր լա՛—լա՛, հա՛—հա՛—հա՛,
Լարի թմբըր լա՛—լա՛, հա՛—հա՛—հա՛,»
“Let’s drink to our Homeland, singing a toast;
May you be happy, may your spirit always be brave.
Laree tmbr la—la, ha—ha—ha!
Laree tmbr la—la, ha—ha—ha!”
I’m surprised—moved by the impromptu chorus. Everyone knows the lyrics and sings with my grandfather with great vigor. A true toast to one’s homeland—around one table, glasses in hand, singing in unison…“Laree tmbr la—la, ha—ha—ha!”
A fading beam of light filters through thin sheer curtains, and the blue-purple hue takes on a darker shade. We travel to and from the kitchen, clearing the table, placing china dishes in a rusting metal vat. The sound of clinking plates and silverware fills the house, but everyone is quiet—maybe an occasional whisper here or there. A once-zealous crowd is drawn to mindless cleanup, a subtle appreciation for Dilif’s hospitality.
The party congregates outside, near a circle of cars by the garage. Zorair races back and forth, returning each time with arms full of plastic bags—local teas, honey, produce, and leftover kebab. Aram packs the trunk of the Fortuner with Zorair’s bags and the rest of us draw out lingering conversations from before. We pass around a dozen handshakes and impart our gratitudes and warm wishes.
Zorair embraces his parents and bids them farewell. Come autumn, he’ll return to Dilif, but this time without the Americans or the doctor. Yet, the same hospitality will surely be there to greet him. No less for Javakhk’s native son.
The Fortuner leaves a trail of dust and the Kirakossians disappear within the thick cloud. The car hobbles around as it winds through gossiping elders and crowds of playing children. Aram slams the brakes and Zorair lets out a deep moan.
“Shant, what time is it?”
My phone reads 7:34.
“Damnit, we’re stuck. Just hang on for a few minutes.”
Before I can ask for clarification, up ahead, from the distant valley, a swarm of cattle hikes up the village road. It’s evident that we’re in for a show—a choreographed evening routine—a self-guided return from pastoral grazing. In a matter of seconds, the Fortuner is engulfed by a sea of mooing and bobbing horns.
“All the cattle know their way home,” Zorair explains. “The herd is comprised of all of Dilif’s livestock. The individual cows return to their respective owners, with little guidance.”
And indeed, little guidance.
Among the sea of brown and black, small heads race through, directing the herd with long wooden dwindles and light whipping. Boys, ages seven through ten, rally their herd and drive the cattle home each evening. Yes, the cows are mostly self-directed, but Dilif’s young shepherds navigate and reign in the occasional rogue hoofs.
I ask Zorair if he ever shepherded.
“Vay ihargeh! [Why, of course!] … every summer.”
The herd mostly passes us and the road seems to have opened; but, a cloud of dust still masks our view. As we turn through the narrow path, we scrape up against a small house set on the edge of a curve. A clothesline runs from one brick wall to the other, and a burgundy rug hangs, drying. As I admire its still-life flower pattering, the rug flaps up and a small six-year-old jumps out from behind, scaring the crap out of all of us. A buzz-cut menace, just as surprised, gives us a devious smile, and we laugh as we tread onward. A sigh of relief as the car rattles along, leaving the depths of Dilif.
I can’t help but feel an overwhelming rush of emotion. Javakhk is a repository of hope and a garden of national spirit; its beauty is unparalleled and its people are a force to be reckoned with. I turn to Zorair and ask him to explain this to me.
As Zorair responds, I watch the sun set fire to the yellow plain. A long, dry valley goes dark for the night, but the haybale pyramids stand guard—fortification for grass country.
