My father’s mother died when he was 10 years old.
The cause of death is unclear and mysterious.
I was told that she was pregnant with her third child when an airplane flew very low over her head and scared her into a shock that she didn’t recover from and died.
Shortly thereafter, my grandfather sent my father to a monastery in Vienna, where my father studied to become a priest for 4 years.
My father never wanted stewed potatoes when I was growing up because he said that he had enough boiled potatoes in Vienna to last a lifetime.
He gave up his aspirations for the priesthood and returned to Anjar at the age of 14.
My father was the proudest Armenian I know.
Along with my mom, he went to great lengths to make sure that my brother and I spoke Armenian and knew about our ancient and resilient culture.
He was also the proudest #American I know.
He was furious when he saw people burning the American flag on the news. He would yell “you stupids, do you know that it’s that same flag that gives you the right to burn it!”
I’m glad that he’s not alive to see what’s happening to Armenia today.
Do you know what’s happening?
There’s a war against Armenia.