Spring 2001

Armenian American

In the four years since its publication, Peter Balakian's Black Dog of Fate has become standard reading for Peace Corps Armenia volunteers. Corresponding via email, the author discusses the experience of diaspora in the States and tells us how they feel about the homeland. 

When you were in college, your father encouraged you in a letter "to visit the homeland one day." Have you? 

Yes, I visited Armenia in 1987; it was a marvelous trip and a wonderful time there. I hope to go back soon. 

Armenian officials would like to see diaspora return for good. 

I don't think the diaspora will return to Armenia for good. It's unrealistic to expect people who have built lives for decades or a century or more to leave them. Also, the diaspora is a source of power and wealth, which is now important for Armenia's future. I think diaspora-Republic dynamics will be good for all. 

Armenia ranks second, per capita, in aid from the United States and some here-including Armenians-believe that the republic has become something of a welfare state. 

I think Armenia needs foreign aid. I have no problem with that. Developing countries and new countries need help from powerful countries with lots of resources. This helps growth to get started. 

Is it the political state or the spirit of the nation that is most important to Armenian diaspora? 

I think both are important; they fuel each other and are a part of each other. After the 1915 Genocide, the idea of an Armenian spirit-as an invisible nation-became inevitable. 

What about your life experience makes you part of the diaspora? 

I've written about this in my memoir Black Dog of Fate. Growing up with Armenian customs and rituals, growing up with an Armenian ethos and chemistry in the family and house; these are essential. Everything from cuisine to church to a general consciousness about Armenian issues and culture. Reading Armenian-American literature for me was crucial; it doesn't have to be in Armenian, although that would be great if one could read it, which I can't. But in the works of Saroyan, the paintings of Arshile Gorky, the sculpture of Rueben Nakian, one experiences Armenia too-and deeply. Being Armenian is very much then about consciousness and feeling and sensibility, but it is also about working for the causes that help the Republic, about working for humanitarian aid for Armenia, about telling the Armenian story to the general public. 

Peter Balakian won the PEN/Martha Albrand Prize for Memoir in 1998. He currently teaches American Poetry and Genocide & War at Colgate University.

- Jeremy

April 1, 2001

I'll start with what Italy did to my soul. It took me back to reality or the reality that I know. After a few days I felt like myself again inside and out. I wasn't aware of the psychological effects of living overseas without all of the things from home. It is very difficult to describe, but an interesting experiment. Now I realize the importance of vacation time in the Peace Corps.

And, as the days pass I'm more comfortable being back in Armenia. During the rainstorm yesterday I was able to take a two hour nap. You know all the great reasons why I'm here. There are dozens. But, there are many reasons why America is the best place on earth. I can't wait to return. I've hit my ten month mark. After twelve months I will start the countdown.

When Jeremy and I arrived in Italy we went through culture shock. Jeremy was very edgy, and I felt like complete crap. You really don't feel comfortable in Europe-especially Italy-looking like a Peace Corps Volunteer. We were wearing old, worn out jeans carrying Jansport backpacks. My stomach was carrying ten extra pounds of winter weight and I was pale as snow. Everyone in Rome looks like they just stepped out of Vogue and GQ.

So, I purchased a pair of ubiquitous black slacks at Bennetton and some super hip bell bottoms from ONYX (which I couldn't fit into for the first three days). Unfortunately, the jeans have to be hemmed so I couldn't even wear them in Italy. Then once I purchased my leather jacket in Florence I felt comfortable. I ditched the backpack for a really cool big red purse that I purchased from a street vendor for $10. It truly broke my heart to be in Italy as a PCV. The dollar was so strong that everything was incredibly inexpensive. Suits, shoes, purses, etc. All these hip stores that would cost a fortune in the States had shirts for $15, purses for $20, etc. I hated that I couldn't take advantage of the shopping. My advice for you is to go to Europe with empty luggage. You won't be able to resist the cool clothing. Traveling will definitely affect your style.

So we had three days in Rome before the Hailes arrived. We stayed at a budget hotel ($40 per night) with a bathroom down the hall. It was gorgeous. Everything in Rome is beautiful. It was close to a metro stop so Jeremy and I were darting all over the city for three days. We are both concerned with fashion so Jeremy purchased a pair of jeans, Italian shoes and hip shirt to blend in. We spent our time going to see "Traffic" (in English), "Gladiator" (in Italian) and hanging out in the hip part of Rome, Trasteverte, where Jeremy's parents might not want to go. I'm glad we had some time to be alone, because the Hailes aren't late night folks. We preferred to dine out where and when there was a "scene".

We began our days with a cappuccino for me and an espresso for Jer standing at a bar. A bar in Italy means a coffee/pastry shop and the price doubles if you sit down, so everyone stands to drink their coffee and eat a bite. Jeremy usually ate McDonald's for lunch and I grabbed a sandwich to go. Every small bar sells fantastic little sandwiches. Shrimp, mayo and argula on white bread without the crust, tuna and mushroom, eggplant and ham on panini bread, the list goes on.

I have an entirely new outlook on sandwiches and pizza. I prefer Italian food over American Italian food. Everything is lighter and simpler. The Italians put everything on their pizza. I ate shrimp, mussels, clams, whole olives, capers, anchovies, argula lettuce, tomatoes, etc. on various pizzas. They never put too much cheese or too much sauce. It always tastes perfect, in my opinion. My in-laws, on the other hand, tried to order fettuccine alfredo and veal parmesan but no place served it.

The rest of the vacation was delightful in every way. Jeremy and I behaved as if we just fell in love. We got along extremely well with the Hailes considering we were together for two weeks. Ginny did cry on the second day during a political argument. We are only becoming more liberal and Ginny dislikes conflict. We had political, religious and financial discussions which at times became heated.

I hope to return to Italy soon. I want to go back to Florence and Rome. I want to bicycle through the Tuscan countryside, visit the Cinque Terra and Sicily, and return to Capri. I didn't really get tired of the museums, but instead began to develop a true art appreciation. It helps to learn about the artist and the time period. I'm still dreaming at night about Italy. When I walked outside this morning I could smell Italy. It surely was a influential place and time in my life.

- Jen

Before seeing art in Italy, you'll need to study up on the Renaissance. There are literally thousands of works so if you want to spend any amount of time admiring them, decide which ones are important to you first. Too often, we were zooming past them simply because there was not enough time. Even devoting four hours to the Vatican Museum will force you to make some choices. Also, there are so many significant works that you could easily miss. For example, we walked down a flight of stairs that I later found out were designed as a double helix and are considered a masterpiece. Who knew?

The Uffizi was surreal - so many works that I had studied in art appreciation, including Michelangelo's only painting on canvas, Botticelli's Primavera and Birth of Venus, and works by Leonardo Da Vinci. This is considered one of the world's great galleries, but it was hardly my favorite. It is the kind of museum that one should visit (and, of course I'm glad I did), but it wasn't particularly moving for me.

Michelangelo's David. You must see this in person. It is absolutely the most perfect work of art of any kind that I have ever seen. Somebody once said that after you've seen David, there is no need to ever look at another sculpture again. I don't agree with that, but it gives you an idea of David's greatness. And, when do you ever get to see his backside in pictures? David has a great arse.

I found the Spanish Steps to be slightly overrated. There are no Italians there-only foreigners and largely Americans-and the shops and cafes around that area are overpriced. If you like to hang out on Rodeo Drive, this is your place. There is some interest for me here in that Keats, Goethe, Wagner and other intellectuals relaxed at a nearby cafe. Now though, like Hemingway's old haunts in Italy, it has become a high profile tourist trap.

My favorite area in Rome is called Trastevere; that is to say, I would like to live there. To make a tortured comparison, it is a bit like the area around lower Greenville and Lakewood in Dallas - a place with cool pubs and restaurants, night life and lots of young people. And no tourists! Other places in Rome of particular interest to me were the Roman Forum, the Pantheon, Capitolini and St. Peter's Basilica. Notice I left out the Colosseum and the Sistine Chapel. Both, for me, were underwhelming. (But of course, if you're in Rome, you have to see them).

Florence (or Firenze) was my favorite place in Italy. I realize that it is everybody's favorite place, but I won't fight upstream on this one just to be different. In Florence I loved the Borghello (a museum that once was a jail). Here we saw Donatello's David, which I prefer to Michelangelo's. It is not as breathtaking, but perhaps more interesting.

In Venice, my favorite places were the Peggy Guggenheim museum (modern art and possibly the most satisfying museum I visited) and the Jewish Ghetto - where the name "ghetto" originated. But the preponderance of tourists in Italy seem to cluster in Venice. Three McDonald's in this small city and every other restaurant is overpriced - particularly Harry's, which was once known as Ernie Hemingway's watering hole but is now renowned for it's $14 martinis.

In the near-death-experiences department...I bought these funky shoes in Italy that are wide at the toe. I decided too late to get out of the Metro, and so I held the doors open as they were trying to close. I squeezed through my body, but then they slammed shut on my shoe. I thought (and my family feared) that the train would take off and I would be slammed to my death against the wall of the tunnel. But mercy prevailed as the conductor must have seen me sticking out the door and he opened the doors again.

As far as family dynamics, everything was back to normal. I reverted back to a teenager the first couple of days we were together (as I generally do), but after that, things were fine. My parents now think I am some kind of left wing nut (perhaps because I advocated the legalization of drugs and the idea that Jesus was not really the incarnation of God-ideas I don't necessarily believe, but which make for interesting conversation).

But I was reassured that I haven't changed that much the other night after we returned home to Gyumri. Our Armenian friend Anahit said, "I've known Peace Corps volunteers for several years, but have never met conservative Texans like you."

I might want to be Jack Kerouac, but it's just not going to happen.

-Jeremy

February 24, 2001

There is too Crying in Baseball

A few years back, basketballer and Nike pitchman Charles Barkley famously uttered for a television ad, "I'm not a role model." Barkley-or at least the agent who signed him for the commercial-was flat wrong. Though his antics were overplayed and his comedic value overrated, on the floor Barkley inspired. Given a potato sack for a body, he used his considerable backside to compete with and to best his taller and more athletic opponents.

And when he retired, having failed to capture that elusive championship ring, you had to feel for him. Not because his career had been wasted. The man made enough money to declare himself a Republican (which he actually did). And not because he would never hear the end of it from Jordan-buddy. At least Barkley isn't running a team in a way that would make the L.A. Clippers blush.

The reason we savuh tanem for Barkley is the same reason that hundreds of Dale Earnhardt followers have spent the past week weeping for ESPN cameras. We feel like we know these people.

I'm not suggesting that it's okay for moviegoers to well up in tears when Gwyneth Paltrow wins an Oscar. Or that Americans should get emotional over Diana's car wreck. These über-celebrities spend their lives behind a mask. Everything we know about them is what their publicists want us to know. Yes, there are unintended exposures, thanks largely to deft paparazzi and principled cops. But generally, people who cried when JFK Jr.'s plane went down are people with limited emotional capital.

Sports is different. It seems easy to denigrate NASCAR fans as redneck minions who don't know no better. After all, their heroes are adorned with all the trappings of the plebian culture: Marlboro, Budweiser and Goodwrench. When we see legions of them caravanning around the South to watch cars race, our gut reaction is to wish these people would get a job. And when we see grown men crying over the loss of a racecar driver, we wish these people would get a life.

But the emotional connection with Earnhardt is a real, albeit one-sided, one. The reason is that Earnhardt was never able to wear a mask. Like every professional athlete, his career life unfolded before his fans.

There is one athlete whose death would elicit my tears. Derek Harper is his name; "best player to never appear in an All-Star Game," his claim to basketball fame. In a 1984 playoff gripper against the mighty Lakers, Harper dribbled out the clock thinking his Mavericks were ahead. They weren't. And when the final buzzer sounded they had lost.

After that game, Harper wept in front of news cameras. He had let down himself, his team, and a city full of followers. There was no buffer in the person of an agent or publicist. Only Harper and his emotion on national television. I saw my hero cry, and I cried too.

For years afterward, I pulled for Derek. He led the Mavs almost to nirvana, only to have a cocaine-addicted star teammate descend to the abyss. He took the Knicks to the NBA finals, only to watch teammate John Starks go one-for-seventeen in the seventh and deciding game. Then he went to Los Angeles, where he was too old and jaded to walk Kobe around in a stroller. I became a Knicks and then a Lakers fan as my main man became a journeyman.

Some people bellyache about behavior such as mine. They say that we should start living in some fictive place known as the real world.

But sports is the essence of reality. Athletes are some of the only entertainers who perform on a naked stage. Their successes and failures are for the world to see. Their emotions are unadulterated. They don't know the game's outcome any more than we do. When athletes are on the court or on the field, they are partaking in an event more analogous to the real world than a two-year stint in the Peace Corps will ever be.

I didn't know Dale Earnhardt, never followed him, and don't really care that he died. But I can understand the sadness in his followers. They spent week after week rejoicing in his successes and lamenting his failures.

When one of our sports heroes dies, there is a justified period of sadness and loss. Then, after a time, we get on with the task of finding another athlete to fill the empty space left in our vicarious existence.

- Jeremy

January 26, 2001 

Yesterday evening I brought a propane balloon home by cab and plopped it down inside the shop near our apartment. The cheese-and-eggs guy nodded at me and I went upstairs to summon Jen's assistance--god help me--in carrying the thing. Jen eventually accompanied me down to the store and when my main man saw that she was going to carry one end of it, he scurried from behind the counter, grabbed it from her and helped me take it around the corner and up three flights of stairs.

These are the precious moments in Hayaston. Your taxi breaks down and people stop to help. Your electricity goes out and you go to the home of the 'master electrician' and walk in without knocking and he gets up from horavatz to come fix it. Your wife is being a whiny-baby about carrying half of 20 kilos and the cheese-and-eggs guy leaves his post to carry it up to your apartment.

These moments occur every day and yet there are so many screwed up things about this culture that you often miss the revelations. You would think that this place is ripe for ambitious Peace Corps type projects. Everyone around here is a supposed master at something. We've got electrical engineers selling peanuts on the side of the road because the ex-Soviet regime pulled out all of Armenia's factories. We have biochemists like Jasmine (I interviewed her for the web site) who are begging Peace Corps for a job teaching the almost worthless Armenian language because their institutions haven't paid them in so many months. We have surgeons who moonlight--and daylight--as builders because: One, they aren't paid for their highly skilled labor; and two, Armenians in general are embarrased to visit a doctor as it would be tantamount to an admission of weakness.

We have all these people who must be itching for something meaningful and yet they've got the Armenian mentality: Pogh chikaw, gortz chikaw. It means there's no money and no business and there's nothing we can do about it. Volunteers spend their first 6 months complaining about this mindset and then they develop it for themselves during the next six months. That's the stage that most of us are in now (Jen being the notable exception with her unblighted optimism about peoples' ability to change and faith in God that everything will work out for the best). So most volunteers can pretty much write off these 12 months and look forward to year 2 when you actually get something accomplished.

In recent weeks there has been an overall slide. People spend much of their time gossiping and kibitzing about who did what and about what she should do. Though we're living in a country of 2 million people, we are a small family of Americans who are generally tired of one another. And winter doesn't help. During July, bucket bathing is quaint. When it's 0 degrees Celsius in your bathroom and you have to walk out into the snow to get water attitudes begin riding down a slippery slope.

Fortunately I have Jen who, as somebody wrote in an email this morning, "must be the most positive person in the world." Our home has become a place of uplift, as I think our Gyumrians would agree. It is the place where people come to be told lav kileenee (everything will be good) and to be reminded that, really, they wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Those of us imagining an assignment in the South Pacific have our doubts, but my better angels tell me she's right.

Like Jen will tell you below, she's taking care of me. Because I have nothing better to do, I read her journal and have lifted the following: "As a wife, I will accept Jeremy and love him for the exact person he is everyday, and I will pray selflessly for God's blessings in his life. His life I will no longer judge. I will keep him healthy and fat." How can a man not live well when his wife has that for a new year's resolution?

-Jeremy

January 24, 2001

I've been wanting to write for a few weeks, but I just haven't felt the inspiration. Today it came. Jeremy and I left for Yerevan early this morning in the bitter cold for a quick trip. We needed to make airline reservations for an upcoming trip and get a few shots at the Peace Corps office. About thirty minutes outside the city our marshutni broke down. No panic, this is normal. Rarely will a trip across town run smoothly. Every experience on Armenian transportation exudes adventure and thrill seeking. So we wanted to have donuts at around 10:00 AM. Oh well! We shouldn't get our mind set on donuts and coffee. Just as I'm imagining my mom coming to visit this summer, the marshutni begins to roll backwards in the ice heading toward the edge of the drop off. My mom would have had a heart attack by now. I don't think she knows what she's getting into. I stood up in the back and started yelling. The quiet and calm Armenians murmur, "problem chikaw" (meaning no problem). We finally managed to turn around and park. As I'm envisioning sitting on the side of the road all day with no heat an auspicious looking man pulls out a bright blue cell phone. Don't ask me how or why this man had a cell phone in the middle of the deserted tundra. But, Armenia is full of surprises. Our rescue marshutni arrives twenty minutes later with a crew of people for who knows what. So, we all cram into the new marshutni with a seat shortage. Jeremy sits on the lap of the cell phone man and I position my rear end in between two aisles. This is our position for the next two hours. The amazing part of it all is that I thought it was hysterical and the no seat on the marshutni didn't phase me. I don't think I remember normal life. This is the only life I can relate to.

We've been in Armenia almost eight months. I was expecting winter depression, but it hasn't hit. Contrary to what everyone expects, I love the cold weather. Give me ice and snow over Texas heat any day. You can always warm up with hot chocolate (thanks to everyone who sends it), kerosene, hugs and speed walking. You should see me walk along the street. It is almost a run, but it's the only way I can keep my body warm because I'm already wearing three or four layers.

Jeremy and I aren't teaching during the winter months. My classes do not begin until March. So, here is a typical day. We wake up whenever we wake up, usually around 8:30 or 9:00 AM. I make coffee and check email. Then I'm off to the 30 degree "Mama's Diner" to prepare the greasy start to Jeremy's day. I hate to contribute to his unhealthy lifestyle, but otherwise he would look like a starvation victim. The man can not keep weight on without his McDonald's. So every morning without deviation I make fried Cajun potatoes topped with sour cream, three scrambled eggs with grated cheese, three slices of bacon (when we can afford it), and toast with lots of butter and jam.

Jen and the peroshky tatik

Then, before I talk myself out of it I spend an hour studying for the GMAT, my winter project. The rest of the afternoon consists of language study, shuka shopping, working on business curriculum and my 3:00 PM aerobics class. I think I'm having a small impact on the fitness of Armenian women. They don't like to sweat, but they are beginning to imitate some of my higher impact fitness techniques. During the evenings I have formal language lesson with a tutor, dinner with friends, or read by the kerosene.

I've had some really high moments in the last month to dispel my winter blues. We, the Gyumri volunteers, spent about five hours at the Catholic orphanage last week dining with the nuns and playing silly games with the kids. The place is like a jewel in this dreary city. It seemed near to God, like a refuge from all the evil in the world. Then on Sunday I hosted a tea party in honor of my 26th birthday. (With the help of Mom, Mom Haile, Aunt Carol and Aunt Theresa who sent most of the treats) It included French and English tea, German cookies, Pepperidge Farm butter cookies, dainty sugar cubes, English blueberry jam, and shortbread. In addition, I made honey walnut muffins and salmon walnut and egg salad tea sandwiches. I spent hours slicing bread and cutting the edges off. To my surprise and delight eighteen Armenian girlfriends came. They brought flowers, chocolates, a pink scarf, a coffee set and a beautiful set of six wine glasses. That evening Sharon threw a dinner party and Anahit baked a white and chocolate cake covered in crushed peanuts.

Life is good. God is good. I can't complain.

- Jen

January 19, 2001

For those of you interested in what we're up against, here are a few anecdotes.

The Not So Good

Americans often rail against their public school system. They have a point. There are too many poor teachers-mostly teaching in inner cities-who have not earned the right to instruct a classroom of enquiring minds. But some of the tactics of Armenian educators might make us grateful for what we do have.

Most of my students came to class on the first day of school. Since that day, I haven't seen several of them at all. Those who do come to class are generally more interested in the kind of entertainment I will provide as opposed to the pie-in-the-sky notion that they might learn some English.

I haven't taught in the states before but I'm aware that most 13-year-olds do not attend school because they want to pick the brains of their teachers. Nonetheless, their parents insist that they go, knowing that an education will expand their childrens' future opportunities.

In Armenia, not so. My children do not come to school because nothing that happens within those walls matters. A student's grades are dependent on the amount of power (i.e. money) that his/her father is able to wield. The Armenians use a grading scale of 0 to 5 (with 5 being the highest score). Children whose families bribe the headmaster receive 5s. Children whose families are begging for free loaves of bread receive 2s and 3s. Those who receive 5s will go on to college. Those who receive 2s and 3s will one day beg for free loaves of bread themselves.

The Bad

When I left Dallas I said good riddance to traffic, but the commute might be worse here.

There are two types of buses. One has a contour that is Volkswagen-vanesque, with the engine in the back and a single door in the front near the driver. On top are a half-dozen cylindrical gas tanks. Getting on the cartoon bus is an adventure in itself. Often, the thing is packed so full of people, that there are men kind of hanging out the doors like guys on the side of a fire engine. You would never think that another person could fit, but then here comes a lady with two kids. All three of them are carrying huge bags full of potatoes or cucumbers. They just hand the bags up to someone on board, and then push themselves in.

It's most fun to ride near the front of the bus with the driver if you're lucky enough to get that spot because usually they only let their friends ride there. Drivers customize their buses with stickers, old Soviet rubles, pictures of Cindy Crawford, felt dice for the rearview mirror, and empty vodka bottles. Every bus has a picture of Jesus and a sticker of a naked lady, displayed beside each other and covering the spedometer and engine temperature gauges. The Jesus pictures are torn out of church hymnals and the stickers come from Viagra bubble gum packets.

The roads are full of potholes, and I don't mean potholes like we have in the states. These things are big enough for Jen to fall into. So the buses go clunking along, driving on whichever side of the street is the smoothest. And they don't really have bus stops, so the bus might stop to pick someone up, drive 20 more meters, and pick up someone else. Every time the bus stops, the driver turns off the engine to save gas. Often, when he tries to restart the bus, the engine won't turn over, so he jumps out and goes to mess with engine. For every engine that won't start, there are at least three Armenian men who go to check on it, and who all have different opinions about what should be done. On the rare occasions that the bus works up enough speed to do so, the driver turns off the engine and coasts -- again, to save gas. In August, six people died because a driver had turned off the engine while the bus was in motion and he couldn't get it to turn back on.

The other kind of bus is 10 Dram (2 cents) less because it doesn't require gasoline. These buses have two poles that grab onto electrical wires above the street. Hanging from these poles are ropes. Because tickets are easily fixed with a small bribe, nobody pays attention to parking laws. So whenever a car is parked on the side of the road, the driver has to veer to the left and then the poles come undone. The driver gets out and grabs the ropes like a puppetmaster and tries to reattach them to the wires above. 50 meters later you have to repeat this drill again.

And the Ugly

One of the sisters at our local Catholic orphange is a board certified physician. She is a Saint if I have ever met one, having given her life to serving -- not in Italy or in New York City, but in seemingly godforsaken Armenia. She was born in America and educated there. For obvious reasons, she doesn't think that the ever-young and ever-partying Peace Corps volunteers are sacrificing all that much.

Recently, she received a $1 million grant from an American benefactor to set up a free medical clinic in Armenia. I should qualify that statement: patients would still have to pay a bribe to be given a referral. No amount of benevolence can stop the local powers-that-be from getting their cut.

Anyway, when the good doctor asked the Armenian Department of Health to approve her project, they rejected it. Their official response included the following statement: "The request is denied because Sister ...... has never contributed anything of value to Armenia. The only thing she has ever done is help the poor and the needy."

- Jeremy

January 3, 2001

Remembrance of Things Not Yet Past

Eight days before the Third Reich's gambit into Poland-a move that would ignite World War II-Adolph Hitler was questioned by an observer about his policy of Jewish extermination: How would he succeed in removing an ancient race from the face of the planet? The despot allegedly responded, "Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?"

Who indeed. The Young Turks' systematic deportation and massacre of Armenians during the first world war has become the cruelest cover-up of recent times. In 1915, under the guise of relocation and in the midst of raging war, the Turkish government determined to rid itself of Armenians living within its borders. The upstart regime feared that the minority posed a threat to its nationalistic campaign and, during the next eight years, removed some 1.5 million Armenians with ineffable brutality.

In an age that gave us the Nazis in Germany, Pol Pot in Cambodia, and the villainous Milosevic, the actions of the Young Turks were seminal. They are, as Michael Arlen writes, "the source of the bloody river linking the great murderous events of our century." But they have become part of a forgotten past that we are condemned again and again for repeating. Though we have museums on both American coasts to commemorate the Jewish Holocaust, one must be an archivist to gain an understanding of the atrocities committed against the Armenians.

The silence is downright shameful. Until France and the Vatican summoned the courage in recent months, relatively few world leaders had even acknowledged the genocide. In October President Clinton urged Congress not to pass a resolution that would have required him to use the word "genocide" when referring to Ottoman killings of Armenians. Ankara, echoing a threat made in previous years, had warned of "dire consequences for U.S.-Turkish relations" if such a resolution were to pass.

There is no love lost between Armenia and Turkey, which have maintained a common border and animosity since 1918, when Armenia gained its first modern independence. Since then, the Turks have used wealth and ties to the United States to discredit their neighbor's claims. In recent years, they have gone so far as to infiltrate American academia, installing Turkish Studies departments in several colleges and universities, including stalwart Princeton. In this phase of neo-genocide denial, the chairs are intent on turning it into a subject for debate.

In the minds of Armenians, however, it is hardly that. Many Armenians are the granddaughters and grandsons of survivors. They have heard eyewitness accounts of the bludgeonings, burnings and drownings to which so many of their people succumbed. For them, this is not a topic upon which reasonable minds may disagree. They might understand the west's unwillingness to sacrifice military and economic interests for the sake of Armenia, but they are not ready to accept it.

American diasporans-resorting to politics-have put their pocketbooks behind an insistence that the United States use its moral authority to set the record straight. But a handful of Armenians remaining in the homeland have suffered through natural disaster, their benefactor's collapse, massive emigration and war. Though their feelings about Turkey are equally strong, Armenia's weak economy produces very little leverage. As Armenians in the States boycott Turkish foods and wines, those left behind are trying to remember which of the town bakers owes them a favor.

Despite the seemingly interminable war of words, hopeful signs are ambient. Turkish sojourners have brought flowers to the genocide memorial in Yerevan and Armenian young people seem more anxious than their elders to let bygones be bygones. Finally, we have the EU. If Turkey is to enter-a quantum leap in its efforts to become part of the West-stringent demands must be met, including a requirement that it tell the truth about the deportations during World War I.

For the past decade, American politicians have dickered about what to do; one day offering resolutions to assuage diasporan constituencies; the next, pulling them off the table and claiming to be "patriots first." In the end, though, the Armenian nation will have to resolve its grief from the inside out. But the United States, by denouncing the Turks' insolent revisionism, can help to restore dignity to a nation that has little remaining. Who speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians? A nation of survivors does. Perhaps it is because the evils are so unspeakable that the world has failed to hear them.

- Jeremy

December 5, 2000

While staring out of the marshutni window yesterday tears rolled down my face. A memory came over me of my first trip overseas. It was in Germany during Christmas break of my senior year of high school. As I looked out of the train over the snow capped mountains and wooden chateaus, I cried out of disbelief and thankfulness. Why me? Why has God given me this gift? At that time I thought nothing more could make my life complete.

That is what it is like to have the passion for travel. I'm overcome with God's love for me because he sent me here. There are people who give up everything they have to see the world and those that think they are crazy. As crazy as it sounds, there is something inside of me that makes me feel at home when I'm away from home. I feel as though I'm experiencing a miracle. Some people spend their entire lives to find their dream and achieve it. Why has God given me mine already?

I am beginning to understand the many ways I'm changing. God is becoming an image of freedom rather than a set of rules to follow. I'm learning that there are many things that stand for "good" that are not necessarily church initiated or biblically based. But, God is Lord over all of them and loves everything that he has created. It is us that makes them tainted.

Anything seems possible to me now. I do not hold a set standard for how my life should look in five or ten years. A certain type of person is not ruled unfit to be a good friend. Because a person might wear pink leather or they are over sixty five does not deter from the relationship. My fashion preference is in transition. I'll let you wonder what that means. But, don't be surprised if I return home looking different as well as being different.

On one hour's notice last week I was given the opportunity to attend a conference in Yerevan on NGO strengthening for six days. If you do not ask, you do not receive. In retrospective, I'm thankful that I persistently asked for a place at the conference of which only four volunteers were invited. A typical East Coast, New Yorker type facilitated the conference which was sponsored by an American organization, World Learning. In addition to learning a wealth of professional knowledge, I made many great contacts in the non-profit arena. Following the conference I was asked to assess NGOs in my community for World Learning which equals exceptional experience. On Friday, I was sent out to assess the Union of Information Technology Enterprises. UITE is the only organization existing to promote the technology industry in Armenia. Jeremy and I are meeting with them on Wednesday to discuss website design and marketing.

On the lighter side, my off hours were amusing in various ways. First of all, I stayed for six days in Yerevan, the capital city. That explains half of it. It is so much like life in an American big city. My mornings began with a jog followed by a cup of American drip coffee at the donut shop, Yum Yum. My evenings included movies, delivered pizza, and ten to fifteen good friends to laugh with.

To the disappointment of some, I still love to shop. Penny and I spent several evenings at the Hayaston mall, similar to a really bad outlet mall. But, the joy I felt after my purchase of a new lipstick wrapped in a cute, plaid bag was dreamlike. I also found a much needed pair of black fur-lined boots. My hiking boots just weren't appropriate with my navy pants suit. I must admit how giddy I feel wearing fur-lined boots, a long, black wool coat, scarf and hat. It is so novel to a native Texan.

Although Jeremy's absence was difficult, I had a fabulous time with my friends. Peace Corps is one good way not to grow up. Things like dancing, late nights and delirious silliness is the norm. I appreciate who I am becoming. It is apparent that before Peace Corps I was on the verge of becoming a very anal adult.

I miss you & all the holiday parties! Please send your Christmas cards TODAY!

-Jen

November 26, 2000

Saturday, 50 Americans celebrated Thanksgiving in Gyumri, Armenia. Our venue was an underground cafe across from our apartment that had a cavernous medieval feel. But with orange turkeys, candles and other decor, it was also very American. Our country director showed up with cranberry sauce and another volunteer located a few pumpkins. So we ate all the customary foods except pecan pie and sweet potatoes. Some bonuses were from our Italian-American friend, Bon-Bon, who made ravioli and meatballs. Our friend Jim from Boston made creamed onions that were out of this world. After dinner we had a disco in one room (J-P's music mix); then Aaron and Chana played guitar in another. The entire week was filled with the smell of good food and great friends. I can't say I missed much about home. It's Sunday afternoon and I'm still in my pj's, stuffed again from leftovers. I'm so tired I can't move.

- Jen

Fall 2000

Conversation with Jasmine Harutjunyan

Question: You are a favorite among PCVs for your teaching style. But you're not a language teacher by trade.

I studied biophysics at Yerevan State University. Since 1972, I've worked at the Institute of Biochemistry in Yerevan. Currently, my husband and I are studying the neurochemical workings of the retina.

Has your work changed since Armenia achieved independence in 1991?

Before the Soviet collapse we were unable to communicate with scientists in other parts of the world. Now my husband, who heads the laboratory, can attend international conferences with foreign scientists. Much of the progress we have made, as a scientific community in Armenia, can be attributed to this change.

When did you begin moonlighting as a language teacher?

I applied for employment at Peace Corps in 1997 and began with the A5s that summer.

Do you think Peace Corps has been effective here?

Peace Corps has given us the opportunity to communicate with Americans. English is now the international language; without it, Armenia will be left behind. Volunteers are important for the regions because they spark the imaginations of the young people.

And the young people are, I suppose, the future.

Things are getting better in the present. In the past few months several factories have been reactivated. For the first time in a long time, Armenians have reason to be optimistic.

Are tensions easing with the Turks?

We are neighbors and always will be. Normal relations would be desirable for Armenia's economy, but I cannot imagine that happening. Personally, I cannot imagine having a friend from Turkey. Out of eleven people in my father's family, eight were killed in the genocide. They lived in an old Armenian city, Ezrum Vilayet, which is now within Turkey's borders.

As strongly as you feel about the genocide, are you disappointed with the United States' failure to recognize it?

Of course. I am sure that it will happen eventually, as it is historical fact. It is strange that a powerful country-such as the United States-would allow Turkey to control it. The Vatican and France have now recognized the genocide. Turkey wants into the European Union. It is only a matter of time.

I believe that the U.S. should take the lead in restoring dignity to the Armenian people.

Look at the pictures of the corpses stacked upon each other. The genocide must be recognized so that it will not be repeated. If recognized earlier, maybe Hitler would not have succeeded in conducting the Holocaust. Armenians are often asked why we dwell so much on the past. These massacres are more than a memory. They are part of our lives. My sister lives in Israel. In classrooms there, the Holocaust is spoken about every day. The Armenian genocide is no less a part of our lives.

What do you think of the U.S. presidential imbroglio?

The United States is so far advanced in its democracy that it is destroying itself. Americans want every ballot counted by hand and believe they can do so. Democracy taken to its extreme is impossible.

We're advanced, but we can't figure out how to make matsoon. How do you do it?

First warm a bucket of milk under the sun. Then add a spoonful of matsoon.

But where did Armenia get the first spoonful?

There has always been matsoon.

NOTE: For the past four summers, Jasmine has worked as an Armenian language teacher for Peace Corps. 
I spoke with her recently at our In-Service Training.  - Jeremy

November 9, 2000 

The last time I set the alarm for 5:30 AM was six months ago. In fact, it has been three months since I set the alarm at all. But, election Tuesday would not go unnoticed for Jen and Jer. For us, it's as much a holiday as Thanksgiving or Christmas. We went to bed nervous the night before, although Jeremy was pretty sure it was a foregone conclusion and stayed up writing about it.

So Tuesday morning we dialed up Voice of America on the shortwave. For the first few minutes all we could hear was "Nakhnakan Tvialnerov GORE arajinnerits e." Then we found English speakers reporting that Gore was in the lead, that he had taken Florida and that the race was all but finished. Thrilled, I rushed through my makeup and hair (I would teach at 10:00 AM). At six we were off to the Berlin, a German-built hotel and hospital complex that is the nicest place in town. They have a satellite with BBC, the same venue that gave us wall-to-wall Olympic coverage last month.

Upon arrival we weren't surpised to find the large iron gates closed and padlocked. You never want to get yourself in an emergency in the middle of the night here because the hospitals may not be open. I wasted no time hiking up my skirt to scale the gate. It was pitch dark and we were frantic. Of course, the hotel was very dark when we arrived. Delirious and acting like an ugly American, I held down the doorbell until someone--anyone--heard it. Artursh answered the door rubbing his eyes. We had woken the night guard. We attempted to explain in broken Armenian that this was a most important day for Americans and we had to see the television.

For the next eight hours we were glued to British television in a German hotel in Gyumri, Armenia watching the American election. The British use the most hysterical language like, "So Jonathan, I'm rather mistified by" this or that. I missed Cokie Roberts. A few hours later Sharon and her Dad showed up. Mr. Hazouri ordered breakfast for four and we had a grand time with our tea, eggs and BBC coverage of the election.

Too bad, though, that I had to teach at 10:00 and unlike Jeremy who left his students without a teacher, I took a cab straight to my class about a quarter after. Little did I know that we wouldn't know the results for a week. Two hours later, I rushed back to the hotel to find Jeremy, Sharon and Dad Hazouri with empty beer bottles and roasted peanuts shells. We spent the rest of the afternoon watching British pundits wax political as we drank wine and ate another kilo of peanuts. Bush, Gore, no Bush, never mind. Sharon called North Carolina but her brother knew no more than we did.

So for now we wait, going on with life in Armenia wishing ours were the overseas ballots they were waiting for.

- Jen

November 7, 2000

The Intranational President

As I sit before my keyboard on election morning I cannot help wondering how my kids know what I do not. Yesterday, my seventh formers learned about the current American presidential election. We talked about the issues (in 13-year-old-English-as-a-second-foreign-language terms): about Bush's tax cuts for the über-rich, about his commitment to keeping guns on the streets; about Gore's pledge to protect the environment and his desire to spread American prosperity the world over. After spending an hour coming to neutral terms about the race--the cigar-chomping fat cat versus the man of the people--I asked my students to vote. By an overwhelming margin, they chose Bush.

Insulated as I am from American media, culture and, well, Republicans, I must be forgiven for not getting it. As a Peace Corps volunteer in Armenia, I can't get Oprah, I can't get Drudge and BBC, the supposed World Service, is busy covering cricket matches in Sri Lanka. Limited to sobering Newsweek reports on war in the Middle East and earnest Voice of America commentaries on such scintillating topics as Nebraska's unicameral legislature, I am deprived of the images and soundbites that compose the fulcrum of the modern American presidential campaign.

I haven't seen the pedantic sighs or the "subliminable" messages or the kiss that gave Gore his August bounce. I don't get focus-grouped, Gallup never calls and, as far as I know, nary a candidate has appealed for the PCV vote. Stripped of the anecdotes, I vote on substance. So if George W. Bush makes his ascent to the White House this winter, as my children predict, this antipodean American will be left scratching his head.

The reason I put so much faith in children (even ones who met the candidates just twenty-four hours ago) is track record. Since 1956, Weekly Reader has polled American students prior to each election. And for 44 straight years the kids have been right. Yesterday, the venerable publication released its results for--as Comedy Central has dubbed it--Indecision 2000. It's Bush in a landside by 32 points.

If Bush wins today, as the children expect, it will be because he out-campaigned his opponent. In a year in which most voters stayed home, he will have articulated his positions well enough to mobilize his Republican troops and made few enough mistakes to gather up the undecideds that were never captivated by Al Gore. In the end, an American public with record-low expectations of their president will have elected Bush because he was the one they could abide on television every day.

If so, it will be a shame. Because the man best able to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States will have gone home to Tennessee. And the sunny, laid-back governor of Texas will be leader of the free world. If America were the United Kingdom, we woudn't be in such a quandary. Bush could be the figurehead and Gore, the policy wonk. This would have worked well in 1980, too. But in America, we ask one man to be all things and Bush is the one less capable of pulling it off.

After his ballyhooed failure to correctly name important foreign leaders last Spring, the governor was hardly challenged on foreign affairs during the balance of the campaign. When Jim Lehrer asked him during the second debate whether he agreed with American intervention in El Salvador, Nicaragua, Grenada, Lebanon, Libya and so on, Bush answered yes, no, yes, yes and yes. Americans can only wonder what his answer would have been to the follow-up: So what exactly did you like about the intervention in Lebanon?

Certainly Bush's knowledge will grow as he journeys through his tenure. I wasn't all that up on foreign affairs either until I began reading Newsweek regularly. But one must wonder about a public figure who had traveled abroad only three times in his life--though presented with ample opportunities--prior to the 2000 campaign. Not particularly fond of reading policy briefs, or literature for that matter, Bush doesn't strike you as someone who understands deeply what he is talking about.

Limited in his ability to discuss volatile happenings in other parts of the world, Bush falls back on well-worn Republican mantras. Most obtusely, that it's time to get big government out of the lives of the American people. Mr. Bush, I live in Armenia and can tell you what it's like when government stays out of the lives of the people.

Casting a shadow over my primary school in Gyumri, there stands a ten-story building that was ravaged by the 1988 earthquake and subsequent looting. When I arrived here last month, I pitied the people living near such a massive eyesore. Then two weeks ago, a bulldozer began the task of razing it and the site became an imminent deathtrap. Impossibly, somebody decided to take it down from the bottom up. Concrete blocks the size of sedans were left in a crumbled mess for days, littering the adjacent streets and inviting children to play in the wreckage.

Three days ago a child from School #15 was killed when a live load tumbled down upon him. When his body was brought to the school today, he was barely recognizable. As his classmates and the surrounding community mourned, there was a kind of resignation in the air. For most of the past century, the people were subject to a Soviet culture that showed little regard for life. They do not expect to be protected from hazardous construction sites because that is not what the government here is about.

George W. Bush puts great faith in businesses to act responsibly. But given voluntary regulatory compliance (as oil companies in Texas were given regarding environmental laws during the Bush regime) would American companies invest in fences to keep children out of harm's way? I'm not ready to live in an America that takes that chance. It's not likely that Bush will dismantle OSHA or the FDA or any of a number of regulatory agencies that make our nation great. But it is certain that he will not take steps to strengthen them.

So if the kids are right, I'll wake up tomorrow morning to another Bush administration. I don't get it, but then, I don't have the perspective of my compatriots at home. Ralph Nader and others say that the Republican and Democrat candidates are one in the same. That talk, though, is coming from home. Americans observers from overseas--whose ballots will not be counted until long after the nation has made its decision--tend to think otherwise. Maybe we can't see the entire picture from here, but we've got a pretty good view of the big picture.

- Jeremy 

November 6, 2000

We returned to the farm in Bazum and of course our parents were so happy to see us and all and wondered why we hadn't come back sooner (it's only been a month and a half) and they fed us and we got indigestion. But then, my host dad said he was going to take the head off a sheep and did I want to come along? So I witnessed my first slaughter, with the lamb kicking and screaming as he cut the head off with a knife the size of the large blade on a Swiss Army Knife. After the head came off, they hung the carcass up on a rope and the dogs lapped up the blood that fell to the ground. Then they cut off the legs from the knee down. These, they threw to the dogs like we give our dogs a bone. The coat of wool came off, and then you've got to disembowel the thing which is as disgusting as it sounds. The bowels they threw into the yard, I guess for birds or rats to eat. Finally, they took the meaty part of the animal into the living room and put it on a blanket, even as the kids were playing Super Mario Brothers--brand new in Armenia--on a black and white TV. The information age is breaking in on this 19th century world and I'm here to see it all.

October 23, 2000 - I'm in my apartment at midday and my hands feel frozen. It's getting darn cold here and we're still in October. Last night I had the winter gear going with gloves, hat, and scarf. The dogs are getting cold, too, and hungry. Last week our sitemate Jeff was bitten and had to get rabies shots at Peace Corps Yerevan. It's beginning to feel like survival.

My weird life is beginning to feel normal, though. There are irritating things that happen every day. It's amazing the disparity in quality here and in the States. Things are always falling apart here, whether electrical sockets that smoke when you plug in the oven or napkins that are about as durable as American toilet paper or plastic bags that are torn by the jagged edge of an eggshell. It took 15 minutes to send and receive six emails the other day. We've got leaks in our pipes and holes in the windows that let in drafts. Armenian pens write for about two days and batteries last only a little longer. All of this I am now taking in stride. But I can't yet abide the Armenian mentality. The people here, by and large, are unable to think about anything critically. For years, the Soviet Union forbid the people from doing so. The combination of rote memorization education and the lack of incentive for ingenuity has crippled the people. Thank god for America. Every day, thank god for America.

- Jeremy

October 17, 2000

We've just returned from a serendipitous weekend of travel. On Friday we arrived in Yerevan to attend the Philharmonic at the Opera House. Our friend, Sharon, called the Embassy's cultural liaison for free tickets. We marched in decked out in blue jeans with our backpacks, sleeping bags and cameras. We were obnoxious. Of course, all of the Armenians were dressed in their best eveningwear. At intermission we hobnobbed with the players down at the bar and met a cool guy named Nick. The concert was surreal, the venue was stunning and we felt like we had left Armenia for a night. The evening couldn't have been better or so we thought. As we were leaving I saw some Americans across the balcony. They were pointing at us saying, "Look at the backpackers", so I waved and hurried up to introduce myself. It's not like we are used to seeing other Americans everyday. I cornered the very friendly man in a tweed overcoat that looked familiar. We talked about Peace Corps, the poverty outside of Yerevan and exchanged stories of our adventure. I asked him where we might find some decent food at this time of night and he rattled off several top-notch cafes in the area. I quickly explained that we are paid in drams, not dollars, therefore, $1.10 is the maximum I can splurge on a bottle of wine. Many shops and cafes in Yerevan are not super cheap because they cater to the business traveler. The friendly man in the tweed coat handed me a $50 bill and said, "Dinner is on me". You don't know how cool this is unless dining out is your hobby and you haven't had an impressive meal in four months. This might be the greatest random act of kindness that I've experienced. Jeremy, Sharon and I didn't debate for long. We headed to the nicest restaurant in Armenia, Dolmama. It is a quaint little spot, like I prefer, with no more than eight tables. The Armenian owner lived in New York for most of his life so it was our first encounter with fabulous food and customer service.

Our fun continued as we headed to Gavar on Saturday, a small town by the lake, for Eric's birthday celebration. About half of our group of 25 Americans enjoyed a sit down horovats (barbequed chicken, pork, eggplant and tomatoes) with many local Armenians. It may have been one of the longest parties of my life. We started at 2:00 PM and we were still dancing at 10:00 PM. Yes, Jeremy and I are dancing or at least trying. As the days go by, we become less concerned with what we can't do.

Daily activities in Gyumri are full of life. I have been told that this is a depressing city and I should have no part of it. Of course, winter hasn't hit, but I love my city. The yellow leaves are falling, the air is cool and brisk and we can still get fresh fruit. I have to confess that we splurged on a hot water heater so sometime this week we might have a real shower. We have guilt over this, but not enough to stop the installation. What can I say? I'm spoiled. Jeremy and I are both reading more than during our four years of college. My advice to all: Ditch the television. Of course, I'm sure Jeremy will buy a DVD player upon arrival in the U.S. But, I still think my life is richer without a T.V.

My work could not be more fulfilling. Many volunteers would argue this since it seems like the Armenians will never change. But, little things inspire me. I'm teaching classes to women on leadership, goal setting, volunteerism and self-esteem. Some women have never been told that they are smart and beautiful. If I'm just here to do that, so be it. I'm also teaching a Business and a Computer course at the university. As time permits, I plan to educate NGOs on how to fund-raise. I will try, at least. Boredom is not a problem. Jeremy is busy dealing with unruly children. God bless him. He's also gearing up for the Charlie Brown Christmas Play he plans to put on with his kids. In his free time he is learning new words, reading articles about the election and practicing his writing skills. I'm as happy as I've ever been. I'm sure some of that has to do with the person I get to share all of this with and my faith that God has a plan. And, every time I feel down there is a box of goodies in the mail or an endearing letter. Thanks to all of you for the generous encouragement.

October 9, 2000

The Right Thing To Do

It is a sleepy Saturday afternoon in this northwestern Armenian city, but Peace Square is full of commotion. Café patrons raise their voices, children shriek, and impatient drivers lay on their horns as a funeral procession makes its way into the city center. In Gyumri, public expressions of grief are decidedly intemperate events. Aging Soviet-made limousines, adorned with flowers and photographs, drive around and around the square. Even those who chauffeur the grieving family are joining in the cacophony.

Death is celebrated, here in Armenia, even if life is not. In this city of poor schools, empty storefronts and dilapidated housing, the cemetery is elaborate and breathtakingly vast. Oversized marble monuments honoring the dead are purchased by the sale of precious heirlooms and depletion of family savings. Heating may not be afforded this winter and children may not be fed, but the deceased will be properly laid to rest. As preposterous as this sounds, it is not surprising that people here are so interested in posterity. In their minds, a tombstone may be the only link to better days.

History has been harsh for the Armenian nation, located in a place where Europe, Asia and the Middle East intersect. Dominated by their neighbors for centuries, Armenians have endured an onslaught of slicing and dicing, as their borders have moved farther and farther inward. Even their national symbol, Mount Ararat, lies within neighboring Turkey and many here feel that the world has all but forgotten them.

Now comes a U.S. House resolution, passed last week by the International Relations committee, stating that the Ottoman Empire committed genocide against the Armenian people during World War I. Accepted as a given here (and by virtually every major historian, worldwide), the statement of genocide is anathema to the Turks. They insist that thousands of their own were also lost during the conflict. This is an issue that has been a source of enmity for these two countries for almost a century. With the resolution now stalled due to pressure from Ankara, Armenians must cautiously await justice once again, suffering for the lost honor of their ancestors.

Among Gyumri natives-who live in a city just ten kilometers from Turkey's eastern border-there is a prevailing sense that life will not soon be better. Many remember the Soviet era fondly, when Armenia attracted tourists from all over the Caucasus region. In those days, large industries flourished as rubles flowed into the country from nearby Soviet states. Armenians were never wealthy, but they had steady work and a decent way of life.

Then, in 1988, tragedy struck as an earthquake took some 30,000 lives. Though much of the nation's predicament is a result of Soviet collapse, Gyumri natives blame this disaster for their current suffering. Indeed, many buildings here were no match for the 6.9 magnitude shock, which killed hundreds of schoolchildren and left thousands more homeless. In the three years that followed, Moscow scrambled to provide housing for the displaced Armenians. However, relief efforts were poorly organized. Temporary windowless dwellings, or domeeks, were brought in and dumped into the middle of the city as construction began on new high rises to replace those that were destroyed.

The new buildings would never see completion. In 1991 the Soviet Union collapsed, as did the economy. A lingering war in Nagorno-Karabaugh led to blockades by Turkey and neighboring Azerbaijan. Years of central planning had made Armenia highly dependent upon trade with Soviet states; now that these routes were closed, the country became isolated from the rest of the world. Two particularly harsh winters, exacerbated by a lack of heating fuels, left the country in dire straits as more deaths ensued.

Despite a long-awaited independence, employment in Armenia dropped 60% virtually overnight. Those who could afford to leave-generally the country's most talented and able-bodied males-flocked to Russia seeking refuge and work. The remaining Armenians fell into two categories: those who siphoned dollars from foreign aid for personal gain, and those who now live with extended family in the same tiny abodes, which no longer seem so temporary.

The road to Armenian recovery is a long and winding one. For sure, the nation has many deep-seated problems that can only be solved from within. Leaders in Yerevan must show the resolve to reform corrupt government institutions and to take steps that will instill confidence in the rule-of-law. And, a prudent settlement must be made concerning the Nagorno-Karabaugh region. But influential world powers, such as the United States, should help in restoring dignity to the Armenian people, especially when the needed measures are so easily within their grasps.

For eighty-five years, Turkey has maintained a revisionist stance on history that humiliates this proud nation. Still, the western world kowtows to Ankara in the name of strategic defense. Turkish authorities claim to possess Ottoman archives that tell the true story. If so, the Clinton Administration should insist that these documents be produced. Otherwise, insolence will win the day and Armenians will continue to suffer for it.

Fall 2000

A Day in the Life

When the lights go out in Armenia there is no great public outcry. What good would it do? Instead, somebody calls the guy who owns a pair of wire cutters and up he goes to the roof. Herewith, my day begins as a Peace Corps volunteer.

The Armenian arrives in typical gear for a cold early morning: untucked button-up shirt, warm-up pants, and dress shoes without socks. He knocks on my door, we engage in the usual why-is-an-American-living-here repartee, and then I find out that there has been an explosion in the electrical center. Naturally, the only way to the electrical center is through my ceiling.

At one time I might have thought it inconvenient to have electricity emanating from the roof of my home. But now I'm not complaining. My neighbors who bake bread-and sell it for ten cents a loaf-will lose the day's living if their ovens will not turn on. The American in me is happy for them because they work seven days a week and could use the time off. As I walk past their house, I notice the men sitting under a tree smoking cigarettes while the women are cleaning the ovens.

Though Gyumri is a small town, my route to School 15 is often more menacing than a Central Expressway commute. In a country where laws are rarely enforced, drivers move freely in and out of oncoming traffic and think nothing of red lights. I once thought that Dallas must be the worst walking city in the world. But here I encounter several dozen stray dogs as I walk the several blocks to school. Scars on their bodies indicate brutal turf wars and limps mean they have lost battles with moving automobiles.

My school is a charming place but it neighbors a tragic eyesore. A short stroll away, the remains of a building litter adjacent streets like so many junked sedans thrown in a heap. The building was ravaged twelve years ago by a devastating earthquake and subsequent looting. Then last October a bulldozer began the task of razing it-from the bottom up! Recently, a child from School 15 was killed when a live load from that wreckage tumbled down upon him.

I arrive at school early and go looking for people I know. My language skills are suspect still, and conversation is really just a lot of smiling and nodding on my part. I find several teachers in the lounge drinking sootch, and one of them gets up immediately to pour a cup for me. I tell her no sugar, but she proceeds to put three spoonfuls in a cup the size of a shot glass. Like most Armenians she doesn't think that there is such a thing as too much sugar, and her mouthful of gold teeth speaks to this conviction.

My third form class is known as "the zoo," and today they live up to the moniker. I enter to find children running around the room, climbing on desks, shooting spit wads and hitting each other over the head with notebooks. I spend the forty minutes of class time trying to persuade them to sit down. I am relieved to find that my seventh form class is better behaved. Because I'm teaching conversational English, I have asked my students to call me "Jeremy" when we speak. Most of them refuse, and instead call me "Comrade Haile."

When classes are over, I enjoy rock star status. Children grab onto my arms, legs and torso as I try to leave the school. Finally, a teacher sees my struggle and escorts me the rest of the way out to the street. I arrive home and find that the lights come on but the water does not. "Vochinch," I say, which is a wonderful Armenian word that means "whatever."

Jen, my wife, walks in shortly after. She has spent the day visiting several factories that haven't been operational since Armenia achieved its long-awaited independence in 1991. Jen tells me that, oddly, the managers and several workers continue to show up every day, even though there is no work to do. They seem to believe that their presence at work remains time well spent.

Tonight I brush my teeth, using water out of a bottle and trying to wash dishes with the runoff. I think about where I was six months before, and remember being tired of the predictability of it all. Indeed, how boring to have running water for two years straight.

But here I am in a country where the only thing predictable is the unpredictability. For several years, I was always looking forward and always looking back. There has always been a tradeoff. Living in Armenia, I have been spared a miserable Cowboys season, but have missed the glory of my beloved Mavs. I cling to the hope that no matter where I am, I only have today.

- Jeremy

September 17, 2000

Tonight Jeremy and I enjoyed our first dinner alone together in almost four months. We had a lentil, potato, and sausage concoction with a side salad of sliced cucumber and tomatoes. Since our arrival at sight we've had a dinner invitation every night of the week and it is obvious around my waistline. We have five single sitemates who love having dinner guests.

Friday we moved into our new home. I have to admit it is a bit nicer than the typical Peace Corps housing placement. The landlord, a widow, moved in with her daughter so she could rent her apartment to pay for her husband's elaborate gravesite monument. It seems like the woman was fairly well-to-do before the Soviet collapse. Our 4th floor apartment on the Main Square is stocked with crystal and nice rugs. She admitted to selling most of her nicer furniture out of necessity. Like the rest of the former Soviet Union, Armenians lost all of their savings in rubles when the Soviet Union dissolved. We have a spacious (in the Armenian sense of the word) kitchen, bedroom and living room. When I use the descriptive words beautiful, spacious, or charming remember that I've been living on a farm for three months. Everything seems lovely in comparison. The apartment is cozy with elaborately painted walls and light fixtures. The difference between an apartment in Dallas and our Gyumri apartment is that we don't have hot water, a shower or flushing toilet. Many of the other volunteers in nearby cities have to carry buckets of water up four flights of stairs to boil pasta or wash dishes.

One of my favorite things about our city is the shuka. The shuka is a huge open market with hundreds of individual sellers of fruits, vegetables and random odds and ends. I'm obviously a foreigner wherever I go with my blond hair, fair skin and big smile (although I try my best not to). I walk through the crowds passing live floppy fish and hundred-year-old ladies selling sunflower seeds while listening to loud pleas to buy this or that. Many of the vendors speak to me in Russian since they assume I don't know a word of Armenian and it makes it even more confusing. It is such a spectacle when I open my mouth and start speaking in Armenian. Everyone stops in a dead silence and stares. I love it.

It really doesn't bother me to be the center of attention. For some people this could be a nightmare. Everywhere I go all heads turn as I walk by, and I've learned to tune out the whispers. Hopefully, this will die down since I walk the same area of town every single day. Now, that I'm comfortable I stroll into the shops and shout a Texas friendly, "Barev Zes", which has made me very popular among the shopkeepers. I walked past a bread store yesterday and heard a little old lady yelling "Jen" from the back of the bakery. I think the smokers loitering out front must have tipped her off that an Americatzi was in view.

Everyone has been asking me, "What do you eat?" It depends on where you live in Armenia. We happen to be in the second largest city so we have more options than most of the country. Yogurt imported from Germany, cheese from Australia and chocolate from France can be found in the nicer shops of Gyumri. Armenian products are typically lower in quality and heavy in salt and sugar. We have fruits and vegetables that are in season: apricots in July, peaches in August, and grapes in September. When winter rolls around we'll be eating lots of potatoes, cabbage and spaghetti. It's not bad at all. The meat is problematic since it sits in the open air unrefrigerated and covered in flies. Maybe I'll buy some in the winter. We do not have access to lettuce, pre-packaged foods, chicken breasts, decent oatmeal, peanut butter, tuna, common spices and many other foods. We spice up all of our meals with Tabasco, red pepper flakes or Cajun seasoning sent from home. Texans and most Americans enjoy spicier foods that the Eastern bloc countries.

We were able to watch the Olympic opening ceremonies at the Red Cross on Friday. We still haven't found a way to email from Gyumri, but we've had to concentrate on finding an apartment. Our parents are on a 31 cents per minute calling plan so we've heard from home three times this week. Even though I'm dying to talk to all my girlfriends for hours, the isolation could be much worse.

There are so many things I'm anxious to share. Next time I promise to write about the orphanage, possible tennis lessons, my work and my site mates. Please pray for the wisdom I desperately need and a selfless love for the Armenian people.

P.S. We can be reached on the phone: 011-374-41-2-13-97. That's the international code, country code, city code, and our phone number. The best time to call is 10:00 PM Central, 8:00 AM our time. It is difficult to get through but the reception is great. Don't call unless you find an excellent calling plan because I won't let you off the phone.

- Jen

September 1, 2000 

Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I believe Jen wrote that I had lost 15 pounds. Not even close. It is true that I don't care for the food, and therefore have not eaten as much I might at home. Also, when you have an empty cupboard, there aren't as many opportunities to snack. As for my health, I had a twelve hour bug that kept me up one night. But I haven't lost any teeth, my hair is growing profusely, and my stools -- well, we shan't go there.

We're just now settling in to the first of 23 months. Last week, we were sworn in as PCVs. This week, we chill out.

I've been saying from the start that I have three priorities when I arrive at site. The first: to get a toilet seat, which I found at the local home depot for a too-high $3. The second: to get a drip coffee pot; got that the second day here. Finally: to get Jen's hair cut and colored so that I don't have to hear about it anymore. That adventure is coming later this week.

Our city is not the type of Peace Corps assignment you might expect. There are not farmers here in need of modern tilling techniques. We do not wash our clothes in a river or cook over an open fire. Currently, we're living in an apartment near the main square. There are stores all around us like you might find on the side of a Texas highway. They carry bread, eggs, beef jerkey, smokes, sodas and ice cream. About five minutes away is the shuka, where we can find everything from Titantic videos to Mercedes hood ornaments. It's kind of neat, with Armenian music blaring and shady guys walking around, stacks of bills in their hands, insisting that we trade our American dollars for their Armenian dram. The dress here is western, although they don't have our casual sensibilities. Women walk about town in heels and evening attire, even on lazy Saturday afternoons.

What makes Armenia one of the most difficult assignments in the world--or so we've heard--is the depression that casts a pall over the entire nation. As we've written before, various parts of Armenia were once tourist destinations for people all over the region. Soviet leaders visited places like Gyumri and Lake Sevan on holidays. Large industries flourished as the Soviet Union pumped money into the country. Armenians were never wealthy, but they had whatever they needed.

Following the earthquake in 1988, the USSR scrambled to provide housing for the thousands of homeless Armenians. Temporary windowless dwellings (called domeeks) were brought in and dumped into the middle of the city; construction began on new high rises to replace those that were destroyed. But they were never completed. In 1991, the Soviet Union collapsed and so did the economy. Employment went from 100% to 25% virtually overnight. Those who could afford to, streamed out of the country and across the world. Those who could not, remained, and remain to this day. Many of them have grown children with families who live with them in the same tiny domeeks, which no longer seem so temporary.

So the atmosphere here is fraught with pessimism: How can we start businesses if nobody will invest? Why should we build hospitals if our doctors flee to the States? Why should we learn English when the rest of the world doesn't even know we're here? I suppose that our job here is to give the Armenians reasons to believe, to be the freaking Light of the World.

I'm not sure this is going to work.

- Jeremy

I've spent two days in my new city of Gyumri. You could never imagine how crazy they have been. Maybe Wade could understand with his book selling adventures, but at least he was able to communicate in the same language.

I guess I'll start with our swearing in ceremony. We were finally sworn in as Peace Corps Volunteers on Friday at 2:00 PM in a nice, hot, crowded government building. It was a two-hour formal ceremony with speakers from the Embassy, local political officials, and Peace Corps staff. That evening we all headed to a nice restaurant in a nearby city. It was quite a party with lots of toasts, dancing and food. The next morning we journeyed to our new city of Gyumri on what had to be one of the worst roads in the country on the older version of a Marshutni (small mini vans that are a bit safer than the buses). All this would have been easier if I didn't have that last shot of Cognac to celebrate yet another toast. It was like a two-hour Disneyland ride with nausea and a headache. The best part of the day was when the back of the Marshutni flew open and we watched our luggage tumble down the road while cars dodged the debris. Fortunately, by the grace of God our laptop stayed in the vehicle somehow.

Later that afternoon we were dropped off at our supposed new home. We entered a dirty little house that smelled like dolma. It was adorned with red tapestry and had the feeling of Elvis-meets-funeral-home. A little tatik (Armenian for grandma) was running around trying to feed us sooch (Armenian coffee). It could have been many things that made us react the way we did. The family forgot we were coming and hadn't moved out yet, the place was gloomy, and there sat a birdcage with live birds in our living room. Without seeking counsel or permission from anyone we hailed a taxi and loaded twelve pieces of luggage, a stove, water filter and huge propane tank in the taxi and left.

We are currently staying in a small room on the second floor of a building in the center of town. We later discovered that this wasn't actually O.K. with Peace Corps, but I guess what's done is done. Unfortunately, we are still rather particular. The mood and feeling of our apartment and neighborhood are very important to us. Of course, I know that doesn't surprise anyone who knows us well. So, we are looking for an apartment in the center of town preferably on the second or third floor with a telephone and running water most of the time. Our only problem is that Peace Corps will pay very little for our rent.

So, how do I feel right now? I still feel a bit unsettled because we haven't found a place to live. Some days, I don't want to like this, because I don't want to be separated from my friends and family for two years. So, I wait hoping that I will be miserable for just one day. Then, I would have an excuse to go home. But, that hasn't happened. The most I can claim is having a few bad days, but no misery here. People and new places fascinate me and usually bring me joy wherever I go. I also think I thrive on challenge. God is always good even when I can't see it. So, pray that I will trust him and live the carefree life he desires for me. I miss you all so much I can't remember what I don't like about you.

- Jen

Summer 2000

Our Top Ten Armenian Experiences (so far)

August 11, 2000

I promised myself I wouldn't write any letters or email these last few weeks of training because I would sound so sad. But, today is a good day. I have to admit that I am shocked, flattered and filled with joy because I know that I am loved. I don't know how many people in the world have friends from college that would write this often and lengthy. I can't imagine another set of in-laws that would mail my Gap jeans for an ungodly amount of money to Armenia along with 2 dozen or more granola bars. Kel gets the award for the longest letter, if you can believe that! (4 pages typed). Tiff writes the sweetest and most endearing letters. Renee gets the award for writing most often. Although, Scott Haile out does everyone. We received his 7th letter this week. So, just so you know your time is not wasted.

Jeremy and I have been having a hard time lately. We look forward to letters more than anything. Instead of giving you the bad news, I will tell you all of the interesting and wonderful things about the last few weeks. Jeremy and I are going through the last stages of training called "Practicum". This is where we are observed doing the type of things we will be doing at our actual site for three full weeks. Jeremy is teaching English for two classes everyday in our little village of Bazum. All of the kids love and respect him. In my opinion, he is the best English teacher on our team. And, I think we can thank Mom (Ginny Haile) for that. He reminds me so much of you, Ginny. He starts his lesson plan every night at 10:30 PM and it is absolutely creative and amazing. As always, Jeremy is successful! I think he is surprising himself because a month ago he thought he was doomed. He has an elementary age class and a high school class.

My Practicum consists of teaching business concepts to university students, business managers and non-profits. You can't imagine how stressful this is. It is like finals week in college but it last three weeks. Today, I did a two-hour training on market research. Don't ask me how I stood up in front of business owners and talked for two hours. I surprised myself, as well. My lecture went really well, so that is why I'm in a good mood today. Actually, I enjoy this and it makes me think that I might want to teach full-time sometime in my future, Lord willing.

The bad news is that we've both been depressed off and on lately. I was given a hint of where my permanent site will probably be, and I'm not happy about it. I won't go into more detail because things could change. I feel like, as usual, my opportunities are limited because of my gender and "sweet-like appearance". Do I fight for what I want or humbly accept what God has given me? What is God's will? The day that I was so upset I opened up my Oswald Chambers book and it said, "A Christian is one who trusts the wits and the wisdom of God, and not his own wits. If we have a purpose of our own, it destroys the simplicity and the leisureliness which ought to characterize the children of God". This, of course, put me in my place.

So, I think I'm going to be O.K. with whatever God gives me, but unfortunately I always have my own agenda, even in the Peace Corps. So, pray that I will be content and joyful. I would rather control my life and get exactly what I want when God might have other plans. Jeremy is down in the dumps about everything. He can't imagine teaching English to kids for two years. He really hates learning the language. He stopped eating everything last week, but snickers and Cokes (the only American foods he could find). He has lost 15 lbs so I'm trying to make him eat some high fat foods. Thank God for Mom & Dad Haile's package yesterday. The look on Jeremy's face was worth your outrageous shipping costs. You could have given him a trip to Paris and he wouldn't have been more excited.

Now, that training is over I think I'm scared. Wow, I'm about to start my real life here. The wonderful thing about starting our life in a few weeks is a coffeemaker. Yes, we have survived three months without American coffee. Armenian coffee doesn't count, it is like a super strong espresso that you can down in a second and it will keep you wired for days. They sell drip coffee makers in Yerevan. I think we will be better off with our coffee. Don't you? On the bright side, I love my new Peace Corps friends. I honestly think I haven't gained weight and I'm on the 100% bread and starch diet. So, it goes to show you, diets are stupid. All I do is walk everywhere and I guess I burn it off. Of course, I'm running three days a week like a lunatic. I carry rocks in my hands to throw at mean dogs, I dodge herds of sheep and cows while the village people stare at me. My married life is awesome. All I can say is that we are so weird we understand each other. I'm learning a lot. I'm trying to learn how to camp because we go camping all the time, but I still can not manage to sleep on the ground. I just lay there all night. This is hard. Peace Corps is hard. Not having a telephone is hard. I miss you all so much. Thank you for making me feel special. All my love.

- Jen

We continue to hear from people who haven't heard from us, although we personally witnessed the postal worker person take our mail and put it in the Outbox on her desk. Whether or not it's still there, I don't think even she knows.

Today is a bad food day. I don't want to eat Armenian food again, ever. There was a time that I enjoyed an organic, garden-fresh tomato. Heck, I would even pay double for it. Now, I can't saturate the thing with enough Tobasco sauce to make it edible. Dinner is only an hour away, but I haven't yet developed a plan to be med-evac-ed (sent to Washington for medical treatment) or administratively separated (kicked out of Peace Corps) before that time. Refusing food is not an option because it will continue to appear on my plate until it is gone. This morning, I ate a cucumber that I had avoided for a good four weeks.

I have now completed day six of my teaching practicum and I have to admit that I am enjoying myself. For the first couple of nights, I lay in bed trying to relive the moments six months ago that made me think I would like to spend two years of my life teaching English to twelve-year-old ESFL (English as a Second Foreign Language) students in Armenia. Lately, though, the kids seem to be responding to me. Getting their attention is easy; my very presence is the biggest news story in Bazum this century. The difficult, or eye-opening part, anyway, is the amount of preparation that goes into it. You teachers out there are working longer hours than I ever knew.

I don't know. I look at the map of the world on our wall: I see America over there and Armenia over here. There are many things I could be doing over there that would be useful to me, even if I'm not sure humanity would be better served if I were over there, doing some of those things. We've just received tragic word that our dear friend Rikki Flowers has passed away, and life seems very short to me today. What will best serve my future? To consider the question requires more presumptuousness than I am willing to conjure up, right now.

I think that I have been depriving myself of meaning for the past several months. I've been thinking of this trip (as Jen and I call it) in terms of its effect two years from now, as if when I return to the states, I will be getting on with my real life. Now that I'm actually living in Armenia, that line of thinking doesn't work. Instead of absorbing, relishing even, the utterly fascinating happenings about me, I find myself counting the number of days left. And yet, I am sure that if I were to give up and go home tomorrow, I would mourn an opportunity missed.

- Jeremy

July 14, 2000

Life in Armenia improves every day. Nothing has changed about the country since we arrived, but we have changed, if ever so slightly. As of today, we're half-way through training. On August 26, we swear in as PCVs.

Much of what we're learning will become apparent only in retrospect, when we reflect upon these crazy times 5, 10, 20 years hence. Of all the Peace Corps assignments across the globe, this one is particularly fascinating to me. Glancing out the bus window at the torn up buildings and debris, we're tempted to think about a lush assignment on some Pacific island. But, Jen continues to smile because she's living in the former Soviet Union. Every day we have a greater idea of what Soviet life has meant for the past 70 years. And how strongly it lingers.

Much of the great Armenian predicament has to do with the Soviet fall, but perhaps equally devastating was the earthquake in 1988. Some estimate that 100,000 Armenians died that day. The initial shock came December 7 at 11:39 A.M. We've only been here a month, and already the time and date is etched in our brains. A few minutes later, the second shock came, collapsing concrete upon hundreds of people. Perhaps the greatest loss was that of children. Sadly, schools were among the most poorly constructed buildings in many parts of the country. To this day, Armenians mourn the timing of the quake. Twenty minutes later, and thousands of students would have been outside-on lunch break.

-Jen

June 21, 2000

We live on a farm in Bazum about two hours from Yerevan, the capital. We are some of the few trainees without indoor plumbing. This makes me think God has a sense of humor: If anyone needs to learn to use an outhouse for three months, it is Jeremy and me. We live in the mountains with a beautiful view. On a casual walk around the village we run into sheep, donkeys, cows, chickens, turkeys, wild dogs, horses, etc. On the downside, our telephone can only call other homes in the village, which are walking distance anyway. It is fortunate that we live on a farm because fresh fruits and vegetables are only a short walk from our room. Unfortunately, everything else that is prepared for us is fried in heavy oil and fat. We are learning to adapt. I am craving granola bars and Jeremy is craving McDonald's.

So far, I'm very impressed with my Peace Corps experience. The training is excellent and I feel like I'm back in school. We learn the language in a group of 5 trainees for 3 1/2 hours a day, six days a week. Honestly, I enjoy it most of the time. Just about every other moment is occupied with cultural training, business development classes, reading Armenian history, economics and training material. The rest of the time is spent with our host family, Svedik and Petra. One of the hardest parts of the summer is waiting for the location of our two year assignment. I believe we find out on August 18th.

Although I miss the telephone, health foods, and my loved ones, there is no place I would rather be. I'm doing something that I thought I could never do. Most of my opinions on life are challenged regularly. That doesn't happen very often at home. I already have a long list of care package items, but I will wait to post it. Now that I am here, I realize how difficult it is to forget about all the exceptional products that I'm used to.

Hopefully communication will improve. Keep our health, safety and cultural adjustment in your prayers. Until next time.

- Jen

I hope that this letter finds you well. Really, I hope that this letter finds you at all, considering the very few people who have bookmarked this website. If you are reading this, then I suppose you have arrived.

As I write today, I am glad to be in Armenia. Yesterday, however, I told Jen that I wanted to go home. Such is life for me here, with much tossing and turning. In my wanting moments, I am miserable. I think about the things that I don't have and won't have for 27 shagging months. These thoughts are becoming fewer as the days pass. Then there are the moments when I psych myself into believing that I am actually living in this third world. In these moments, I can turn on a faucet and patiently wait until brown water comes out. And then I can patiently wait until the color goes away. This is nothing to get upset about; it's just the way it is.

Don't think I'm about to abandon modern conveniences, though. I filter water religiously to avoid annoyances like giardia. I keep names and phone numbers stored on the Palm Pilot. And, of course, I'm sitting here in front of my laptop updating the website.

I do seem to be having a harder time than Jen. I haven't really become fond of the people here, perhaps because my verbal skills are limited. The other day, I had a conversation with an Armenian that went something like this:

ME: Barev tsis. (Hello.)

HIM: Barev tsis. (Hello.)

ME: Inch pes es? (How are you?)

HIM: Lav em. (Good.)

ME: (blank stare)

HIM: (What is this American doing in this godforsaken country?)

Also, Jen seems to like the meals better than I do. The food itself is fine. The problem is in how and when it's served. For breakfast, we typically have pasta and tomato sauce with cucumbers and cherries on the side--and chocolates for dessert. For lunch, bread. For dinner, well we don't really get to have dinner because it's served at 11:00 PM. I won't even get started on the vodka and cognac shots at breakfast.

We see many things here that we've never seen in America (mainly because we didn't grow up in the 18th century). Some of the things that we would consider atrocities back home: open manholes in the streets (the covers are stolen for scrapmetal), an outhouse built directly over the river, exposed electrical wire in places kids play, cars without seatbelts, busdrivers who turn off the engine when they are going downhill (to save gas), one-lane roads, water faucets in houses that only come on for an hour every third day. Walking to school today, I witnessed a horse with its neck tied to the ground with a two-foot chain. All the poor animal could do was eat the grass right under its nose. In the western world: animal abuse. Here: the most efficient means to an end.

It's easy to go on about the bad things here. But there are many things we love about our new home. For the next two-and-a-half months, we are living on the side of a mountain. It's cold in the mornings and temperate throughout the day. It's quiet, there are few stressors and plenty of times to play. Today we hiked upward until a cloud enveloped us; this weekend we go sightseeing. Our bed is made out of lambswool and our water comes straight off the mountain. I can even pick up U.S. Open updates (Tiger Woods is a freak) on my shortwave radio.

- Jeremy