I just got a trip report from my father, who took a trip through Cilicia and Western Armenia. It reminded me of the trip I took back in 2004, which was much the same route.
It’s a very strange thing to experience and look back on. I imagine it’s much like one day your house is attacked by a band of thieves, who kill some of your family and move into your house. Then, many years later they tell you that for a price you can visit your old house, which you certainly can’t have back. And you do. You can’t help but wonder, but want to see what it was you lost. You go back and although they’ve remodeled and added on some new wings and torn down some of the old sections, you can see the room where aunt Ester and uncle Khosrov were murdered. You can sit in the huge yard and marvel at the fruits and veggies. Your hosts will be kind enough to offer you tea. After you’ve paid for your Turkish visa, hotels, transport and food… it’s a bittersweet experience. Years have gone by, and I still don’t know if it was more bitter or sweet.
Nevertheless, 2 days ago, as we drove past the Ararat Valley on the way to Karabakh, I was remarking how this was the only real, large valley we have left as Armenians. That in Turkey it was one after another, many much larger. It stunned me. To see it on a map is one thing, to drive through…
Yesterday, driving through Karabakh, and hiking up to Gtichavank again on a beautiful mountain, we only knew that this land was ours, and we could never let it go…
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