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Realizing A Dream
Realizing A Dream

Crossing the Border to Home

Don't Call the "Iranians"


Over the past half decade or so, no diasporan presence in Armenia has so noticeably increased more than that from Iran.

When Armenia hosted Iran for a soccer match this August, one commentator said it appeared as if the game were held in Tehran, given the large turnout of Iranians on hand at Vazgen Sarkisian Republic Stadium in Yerevan.

The Iranian language is commonly heard in Armenia's capital, whether on the steps of universities or in the yards of neighborhoods, where the distinct sound of Iranian pop music may be heard piping from windows into the evening.

Oddly, neither the Department of Migration nor the department of Middle East Relations at the Ministry of Diaspora has figures on the number of Iranian-Armenians who have settled in Armenia in recent years. Nonetheless, their presence is felt in many aspects of Armenian society, especially in trade and food services.

In addition, each spring for at least the past three years, Yerevan, in particular, has become the favored Persian New Year holiday destination for Iranians (and not just Armenian-Iranians). Last spring, an estimated 20,000 crossed the border—in tour buses, in cramped family vehicles, and by air. For the Iranians, it has become escape from the enforcement of Islamic traditions that liberal-minded Iranians find restrictive, especially for holidays. And for Armenian merchants, it has become a shopping boom that brightens the post-holiday slump in commerce.

Generally speaking, Armenia-Iran relations have taken on intensified geopolitical significance, as the administration of Iran's President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad routinely is at odds with Western governments and has been the target of international sanctions. Armenia necessarily balances being a good neighbor with being a good player in efforts to keep all sides happy—for it is from all points of view that Armenia's interests are shaped.

From Armenia's perspective, no neighbor's friendship is more important—a fact of life that has become more diplomatically challenging as Armenia's staunch allies—the United States and Russia—grow more impatient with Ahmadinejad's defiance of accepted norms of international behavior.

The growing Iranian-Armenian community in Armenia comes from an estimated 70-90,000 Armenians in Iran, among whom are descendants of some 500,000 craftsmen and artists who were brought to Persia in the early 1600's by Shah Abas.

In the late 1940's, when Josef Stalin consented to a program of repatriation inviting ethnic Armenians to make new homes in Soviet Armenia, Iran—sharing a border with Armenia—was an obvious source for enticing returning families.

The program of repatriation was abruptly halted in 1948, but some Iranian-Armenians still looked to make Armenia home. Decades later, what may have started as patriotic intentions took on the urgency of survival, as Iran was in internal upheaval that led to the overthrow of Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi and the start of the current era of Islamic order.

The weight of escape

In the tumultuous late 1960's the Hakverdian family of Tehran looked north to Armenia, and weighed the notion of life under a Soviet regime against the likelihood of life under an Ayatollah. For the Armenian family, the choice appeared clear.

Son Eduard, then 18, recalls standing, day after day, for nearly a month in a queue outside the Embassy of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in Tehran, hoping for approval of the family's application to move to Armenia.

But from Armenia, the infrequent letter from relatives was not encouraging.

"I congratulate you on Edik's marriage" came the message from an aunt who had been among the repatriates to Armenia during the brief 1940's experiment. Edik (Eduard), in fact, had not gotten married, nor did he plan to, but under the watch of KGB mail censors, the aunt's message was code that the Hakverdians should not leave Tehran and that Eduard should make his family there.

But Iran was heading in a direction likely to be unsuited for Armenian Christians and, while they would be prohibited from expressing their religious heritage in Soviet Armenia, at least they would be "in the homeland."

Like some 40,000 others who arrived between the 1940's and 1970's, the Hakhverdian family crossed the border into the Soviet Socialist Republic of Armenia in May 1970—crossing, too, cultural and political borders that would close around them.

"Having lived under a totally different system, we found ourselves in another reality, an alien and often unacceptable one," recalls Eduard, now 58, a writer, and translator of Persian literature.

He isn't simply recalling the adjustments of moving into a socialist society, but is also referring to the surprisingly unfamiliar experience he found in the difference between the Iranian-Armenian community and the Armenian one.

"We were communicating in Armenian, with Armenians, but almost everything was different—be it mentality, lifestyle or regime," remembers Hakhverdian.

The proud repatriates were looked upon with suspicion by Soviet authorities and with a degree of contempt by the Armenians. The Soviet sympathizers viewed them as spies, while the Armenians called them "Akhpars"—making fun of the way the outsiders pronounced the Armenian word for "brother" (aghbar).

Estranged from those expected to embrace them, and oppressed by the communist political structure, the Hakverdians and others like them had a rude awakening from the dream of returning to the "homeland."

Once the family had reached Armenia: "We would wait for a letter for at least eight months, and in order to make a telephone call we had to go to Moscow. That was the order," says Eduard. (A former KGB officer interviewed for this article verified that during Soviet times immigrants to Soviet republics were not allowed to make outside phone calls except from Moscow for the first five years after they'd moved. After that, calls could be made from the local KGB headquarters.)

Hakhverdian first had a close encounter with the KGB in 1972 when, together with his friends, he had prepared leaflets leading up to April 24 and calling for the anniversary of the Ottoman-era Genocide of Armenians to be marked. At five o'clock one morning, he was arrested and taken to a KGB office.

"I was shocked and did not understand. If in Iran we were allowed to not work on that day, April 24, to commemorate the victims, then how could they forbid us to do so in our own country, our homeland?" says Hakhverdian.

Despite the difficulties he faced in Armenia, Hakhverdian refused a chance, in 1987, to leave for the United States. His parents, brothers and sisters left. Eduard and his wife—for better or worse—stayed in Armenia, where he struggled to write, and was mostly ignored.

Newspapers and magazines refused his work.

"They weren't saying it was bad; rather, they were saying it was too sad," says Hakhverdian, remembering that period of his life as "experimental." Editors working under State authority wanted to know why his poetry was so pessimistic in this thriving socialist country where people enjoyed their lives.

Even though he had no hope that his works would ever be published, he continued to write and translate the best works of Persian literature.

The years of silence were broken in 1988, when for the first time the Garun (Spring) literary magazine published Hakhverdian's translation from works by Iranian writer Forugh Farrokhzad, which elicited a wide response.

Hakhverdian settled in Etchmiadzin, to the obscurity of a literary translator's life and the solitude to look back and question decisions. He says he doesn't regret leaving Iran, nor does he regret passing up the chance to move to the States.

"My whole life in this country has been like I belong here," he says, though acknowledging the unexpected challenge to earn the right to belong.

Armenia's independence brought long-awaited opportunities for Hakhverdian, when dozens of books by Iranian authors were translated by him into Armenian with support from the Iranian Embassy in Armenia. His crowning work came in 2006, when he finished the translation of the Koran, the holy book of Islam, into Armenian.

"Perhaps you won't believe it, but every day I feel the joy of being in Armenia. This is a different, indescribable delight and I am sure that everybody feels it at some time," he says.

Mount Ararat and two poplar trees

With childlike delight, 30-year-old Nairi Melkomian remembers the day when she received the passport of a Republic of Armenia citizen. A day that usually passes as an ordinary duty for most local Armenians, has, for Nairi, become the most memorable day of her life.

Nairi says that after some delays that lasted for a month in 2009, a worker at the Passport and Visa Department, when completing the papers and writing that she was a citizen of Iran and the UK, asked scornfully: "Why do you need (the Republic of Armenia) citizenship?"

Angered by the question, Nairi replied to the worker: "If you haven't realized it by now, you will never understand it."

"I had two passports, yet neither of them showed that I am an Armenian. One presented me as an Iranian citizen, the other as a British citizen. And where was the Armenian? It was already 17 years that I'd lived in Armenia, I spoke Armenian, but legally was not Armenian," says Nairi.

"When they gave me the passport to sign, I could not check my emotions for a few minutes, my hand was trembling, the workers were laughing and could not understand why this woman had such emotions," she remembers

Nairi and her large family feel they earned the right to be citizens of Armenia, having endured all the difficulties of a newly independent state—the years of severe shortages of electricity and lack of heating amid cold winters, and queues for bread and fuel.

The Melkomians were rare diasporan Armenians who came to Armenia immediately after the country declared independence in 1991.

"Everything happened very quickly. It wasn't even a matter for discussion," says Nairi. "If Armenia was to be independent, then we had no business being in another country."

Nairi's parents—Norair Melkomian, who was born in Iran and educated in Britain, and Nanik Ter-Harutiunian, who was born in Syria and raised and educated in the UK—had decided even before marriage that they would live in Armenia once it became independent.

"I certainly did not understand, but my parents were well aware of where they were going," says Nairi. "They knew that it would not be easy, but going was the only certainty, and there was no alternative."

The decision surprised and angered their relatives and friends in Tehran.

"My grandmother would cry: ‘Where are you going? There is war there. Everybody else is trying to run away, but you are going there.' That's what we would hear all day long, but my parents were very determined," says Nairi.

In October 1991, Nanik Ter-Harutiunian set out from Iran with her four daughters, one of whom was 11-year-old Nairi, and the youngest, Gayane, age three. After several days' journey by bus they reached Turkey, and from there came to Armenia by the then-operating Kars-Gyumri railway.

"Everything was strange for me. The language seemed to be the same, but was odd because so many Russian words were mixed in speech. My classmates were so surprised that I didn't speak Russian and would even ask if I were, indeed, an Armenian or whether I was Muslim. They would ask: ‘If you're Armenian, then why did you live in Iran?' In short, there was a torrent of questions, to most of which I didn't know the answers myself," says Nairi, recalling that the most painful thing for her was the fact that they were not being accepted as Armenians. Rather, they were treated like strangers and, because they were Armenian, were under scrutiny to earn their right to claim a place.

"While (in Iran) we lived amongst foreigners, my parents would always tell me that we were Armenians—that we were nothing like Iranians. And then when we got back to our homeland, we were suddenly called Iranian. It was a big blow," she says.

The Melkomians, who were among the pioneers of the new repatriation wave, struggled at first, but slowly got back on their feet, even though during the first few years the father of the family had no job and took care of his four children and wife, thanks to some savings. A decade on, with the support of friends and colleagues, they set up a factory producing women's sanitary products, known today for its Feminex pads, and employing about 30.

"In our business my father encountered the bad aspects of our society's mentality—to buy goods of foreign make even if the locally produced item is just as good or even better. This is no surprise, but it makes you feel discouraged. If your economy is so developed that it does not need your support, then it is ok. But if you simply contribute to the Turkish economy by constantly buying those (foreign) products, that is unacceptable," says Nairi.

After graduating from the Department of History at Yerevan State University and the American University of Armenia (political sciences and international affairs), Nairi joined the Birthright Armenia program in 2007. She was well suited for an executive assistant's position because she had an idea of "both worlds"—Armenians from Armenia and from the Diaspora.

"At Birthright I found what is called Armenian identity. The diasporan young people coming to Armenia under the program, some of whom are Armenian by only half or a quarter, opened up a new world both to themselves and to me. It is when you are in this land that you understand who you are and it was important for me that each of them should find his or her homeland," she says.

Now Nairi considers herself to be "a local with a stranger's accent," and she says she is deeply grateful to her parents for the chance.

"My parents made sacrifices so that today we could enjoy the pleasure of being citizens of Armenia. It is very difficult to leave everything and start over from scratch when you are 40, especially when you have four children. Had they not done it, I would have had to do that myself and experience all that difficulty. They paved the way for me to live in Armenia as a full citizen," says Nairi. She adds that too many diasporans see Armenia as "a gift inside a bubble"—that is to say, something ideal, isolated and preserved. Then they get disappointed after learning its reality.

"Your homeland is not only Mount Ararat and two poplar trees," says Nairi, referring to the image of Armenia idealized in paintings with the biblical two-headed mountain in the background and a valley with poplar trees in the foreground.

"The reality here is that when you cross a street you may get run over by a car; that entrances to buildings can be dirty. It is a living organism that has it all—good and bad. This is the homeland and we all should build it up, and complaining is the easiest thing to do."

The most secure place...

For many in Armenia's capital, the hunt for authentic Persian cuisine leads to Henrik Navasardian's restaurant, Aria.

When Iranian-Armenians want a taste from their past, they go to Aria. And when the increasing number of Iranian tourists to Yerevan need a taste of home, they've heard Aria is the place to go.

The 44-year-old businessman who was born and raised in Iran first visited Armenia in 1993. He says the first thing that impressed him then was the people's warmth. In fact, he adds that in those days there was little in the newly independent state besides people's warmth and attention.

"At that time it did not even cross my mind that I would be living here," says Navasardian. "During the Soviet times my relatives had moved to Armenia and, seeing their difficulties, I always had some sort of fear. Then I realized that for my family and children this was the most secure place."

The family made the decision to move from Tehran to Yerevan in 2000—mainly so that the son, now 15-year-old Ervin, (and later six-year-old Edita) could attend school in Armenia.

At first it was difficult. Navasardian's wife, 43-year-old Armine Darsbidian, remembers that she had her first bitter experience in Armenia while attending a parents' meeting at school during which one of the parents said: "Take money from the Persian. She has come from the country of the Shah; she's rich."

"It was very offensive to me. I went home crying because I thought we'd come here to live with Armenians and instead we were being estranged," says Darsbidian. "People were not accustomed to seeing (repatriates). It seemed to them that if somebody was from Iran, then he or she was an Iranian. We preserved our Armenian identity by staying away from Iranians."

In the 1990's Navasardian was engaged in Armenia-Iran trade but, after relocating, he began to consider setting up a more substantial business.

He opened his first restaurant in 2004, situated near Cascade in downtown Yerevan. He had long before that thought of a name, Aria, which is derived from the name of Aryan tribes. In 2009, he opened a second, more stylish Aria restaurant near Opera Square on the premises of a former popular night club, Astral.

"In the restaurant business I managed to realize what I could not do in Iran," says Navasardian. "I was always keen on singing, but if I had sung in a restaurant in Iran, I would have gotten 75 lashes (for singing in a non-Persian language, and in a restaurant, in violation of Islamic law). Here, I sing for my guests and they get pleasure from it and so do I."

For Navasardian, who lives in a modest apartment in the capital's northern Arabkir district, his business, he says, is more a means to show Armenian hospitality to foreigners than to get rich.

"I'm doing everything I can so that people won't leave Armenia dissatisfied, especially when in April Iranians come to Armenia for Nowruz (New Year) celebration and many have parties at my place. I myself work in the kitchen so that everything is done properly, so that they feel satisfied with my country," he says.

Navasardian even purchases meat prepared according to Islamic laws, respecting the religious traditions of his guests.

"If they are pleased with me and others, they will come here again, and we all will benefit from this—be it the State or our society. And if our State thinks a little about its citizens, then no one will want to leave the country, this is the most secure place for us Armenians," says Navasardian.

Finding calm

The Republic of Armenia coat of arms hanging on a wall in Sevak Hovhannisian's Yerevan flat has traveled from Yerevan to Tehran and then back to Yerevan.

In 2002, when he got it from the Vernissage, a popular outdoor flea market in downtown Yerevan, he didn't think it would return to Armenia one day. On a visit, he took that coat of arms and a big drum to Tehran. Four years later, the souvenirs were among the household items packed for the Hovhannisians' move to Armenia.

"What we did in Iran only benefited Iran. We were working for the good of others there," says Hovhannisian, 42. "We decided to come here to live and work. You feel a sort of calm in your country, even though there are many problems. Most importantly, you know that you are in your own country, next to your compatriots."

For the Hovhannisians, leaving Iran was hard. They were leaving behind a huge metal processing and machine-tool workshop inherited from the family patriarch, as well as a reputation for being among the best specialists in the field.

"When our customers learned that we were going to Armenia, they felt offended and would say: ‘Haven't we been good to you? To whom should we entrust our work?' They were sort of jealous," remembers Hovhannisian.

Two brothers coming from a family of well-known artisans in Tehran decided to come to Armenia and apply their skills here. But in Armenia they found that starting another machine-production company was not feasible, because there weren't large factories in Armenia, i.e., no customers.

In 2007, they set up a firm, SIS Art and Graphics, which offered large-format printing, laser engraving, souvenir production, graphic design, advertising posters and other marketing items, creating a new presence in this saturated segment of the local market.

"I not only consider quality as our advantage; we also like to take the time to explain what should be done and why. Often after spending a long time they do not place an order, but that doesn't matter," says Hovhannisian.
At the beginning Hovhannisian's family felt some estrangement—they were not getting that open-armed embrace they expected, and it was particularly insulting when they were mistaken for Iranians.

"I had a customer with whom I worked for two years who said I spoke good Armenian for an Iranian. I said my name is Sevak, like Paruir Sevak's name, and asked how he could think I was an Iranian. Once, during the Nowruz period, someone came and congratulated me on the occasion. It was embarrassing for me, because it is very insulting for us," says Hovhannisian.

While Sevak and his 36-year-old wife, Catherine, still find life challenging, their children, nine-year-old Arin and 11-year-old Ariga, are at ease.

Ariga thinks of becoming a journalist or a linguist, and Arin says he has decided to become a scientist. The lad says he wants to build robots "to make the life of Armenians easier; so that people should not waste time and energy to do what robots can do instead of them."

Meanwhile Ariga, the future linguist, has a few words about their adopted home: "It's good, all are Armenians."

Originally published in the November 2010 ​issue of AGBU Magazine. Archived content may appear distorted on your screen. end character

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