Samuel Armen

The majority of events that happened during this trip will be published in a different article in Hetq. By this time my Armenian had improved exponentially, to the point where I could say, "Yes g'rren mi patmootyoon Gyumri-ee masseen vortegh yes dzanvelem." – "I am writing a story about Gyumri where I was born."

Hopefully this poem and two 360 panoramas will provide a decent fragment of my experience in Gyumri:

The Return

Gyumri is a city of silent expression. It is a city abundant with unbelievably beautiful women, confident men, inexhaustible laughing children, and the elderly who often appear as stagnant and ancient as the structures whose welcoming smiles seem to hide a fissure of despair from long, long ago.

Gyumreen kaghak eh vortegh z'vartjanken yev t'kroortyoonn el miajamanak en. Gyumri is a city where joy and sadness do not exist separately, but together, simultaneously, always and everywhere like air or God, forged by the need and faith to survive.

Gyumri is a city where the mothers of families who often do not have enough food to eat leap at the opportunity to feed you, even if you are not hungry.

Gyumri is a city where metallic Fords, Fiats, Toyotas, and Chevrolets are parked by garages made from stones used in ancient cities.

Gyumri is a city where the Earth, the land, the ground, the soil – the most solid structures; the forces where are all born upon – shook and quaked and became unstable and slaughtered so many.

One must use both eyes to hear, both ears to feel, and the heart and patience to listen in Gyumri.

Gyumri appears simple, but it is only the busy centers that are simple, while the quiet personal areas are intricate and complex.

After all of this, one mustn't find it too paradoxical that it is Gyumri where I was orphaned, and then, after being adopted by a most beautiful loving family, it is Gyumri where I return to seek he and she who are no longer family.