When I was four, my parents left me for a year in Beirut with my aunt and uncle, while they went to Saudi Arabia for work.
I remember the bakery across the street from my aunt’s apartment. The smells of freshly baked cheese bread and Manaeesh (Zaa’tar Bread) were irresistible.
The baker had a huge mole on his face with hair on it. As much as my mom told me not to stare, I couldn’t help it and I would stare. I feel bad for staring but I’m glad that I remember the man’s face so vividly forty years later.
That year was the only time that I attended an Armenian school.
My uncle would leave one Lebanese Lyra for each of us on the table in the doorway for our lunch money.
I would sometimes give my lunch money to my oldest cousin to get my lunch because I couldn’t reach the lunch truck. The problem was that she would just pocket the money and leave me without food.
But my hunger was nothing compared to the hunger for food and safety the children are facing in the Armenian enclave of nagornokarabagh, that is being attacked by its bordering bullies, Azerbejian, and its big brother, Turkey.
Please help me raise awareness for the war against Armenia.