I have often heard an Armenian say, “That genocide of yours…”, “that Armenia…”, “you…”, and always “that of yours”. Or even without “that”: “Armenia”, as though Armenia were not within him and he were not in Armenia, as though it were somewhere far, far away, in any case outside him, and perhaps concerned only you, the Armenian ruler, the Armenian cleric, the Armenian intellectual. “You have worn us out with that genocide of yours.” “That Armenia of yours is nothing much either.” “These Armenians of ours…” Now he has brought it a little closer, “these of ours”, but still it is not himself: he is someone standing beside this tragic, comic, bewildered phenomenon.
Often they have been “the innocent lilies of the valley, who neither spin nor toil” beneath the burden of a national complex, “yet exist beautifully”, and through them we exist. Sometimes they have been those who have removed their one and only human life from this national tangle of ours; sometimes people who imagined that being Armenian and being Armenia was a task they would do better than you, if it were given to them.
“Those Dashnaks of yours.” “Those communists of yours.” “That papism of yours, more papal than the Pope.” “That ghetto-like self-isolation of yours.” “That sail-less internationalism of yours…”
Yet we are one another’s strength and weakness, pride for one another and a brand upon one another.
To renounce one another — no, we cannot; we cannot deny ourselves.
It is difficult to be Armenian, but impossible not to be Armenian.
Among different languages and faiths, we are Armenians. And for each and all of us, our identity would not be a burden if we did not weigh upon one another, become a burden to one another. This is so, and only so. But secretly we hope it is not quite so, that we can hide from one another, steal in secret, commit adultery in secret, be cowardly in secret, imprison and kill the upright, brave person within each of us, and hope that it all remained hidden from everyone. Yet my body testifies that it has been robbed; the emptiness in my ears cries that my brother does not stand behind me.
But is today that day? Is today not the day to curse our unhappy fate? Today, yesterday and tomorrow: it is always that day, the day to be and to decipher our destiny.
We have inscribed our fate with our own hands. And clear and indelible is the writing that rises from those of our people who have been honest before their human calling; illegible and nonexistent is the writing of those who have been and not been, who even today are here and absent.
And God forbid that our absence today, the absence of us who lack courage, should tomorrow hand the reading of our destinies to strangers: “There was a country called Armenia. Its sons were unbrave, particularly disliked working, and were dishonest towards their tasks. They ate their homeland and thereby ate themselves.”
The existence of many, many others like us is no consolation. What provokes envy is the lofty presence beneath this sun of those who were in our position but today are a measure of the human being and humanity, of nation and nationhood. We could be as much ourselves as they are themselves. We can.
This is easy, not difficult, if it is not difficult to shed blood and sweat upon this soil, clear the square of this rubbish of words and deeds, refrain from cheating in your work as worker, soldier, public figure, scholar or writer. Otherwise, the country of human beings is a machine too; it cannot be deceived. Otherwise, they have another name in reserve for your martyred people; they are waiting for you to leave.
The weight of our history is more than enough to bring down even the most enduring among us. Let us, the living, not weigh upon the living. Let us not.