Memoirs of Small Town Life - Vardanush Khorshikyan

My Grandmother, Vardanush Khorshikyan, sits beside her husband in their small living room on the second floor of a two-story apartment building located on a busy street in Glendale, California. Her fingers, though having become painfully swollen and deformed over time from excessive labor, quickly move two knitting needles creating patterns of small knots that will eventually form pink mittens for her sixth grandchild. My grandmother was born in a small village in Akhalkalaki, Georgia on November 12, 1943, and grew up with four other siblings, a mother, and the faint memory of a deceased father. She lived in her village for eighteen years; then, she married and was forced to leave her village with her first husband who eventually abandoned her after the birth of their second daughter. Now, as she hums to herself a melody she learned as a child, she greatly regrets leaving the beautiful pastures of Akhalkalaki that were occupied by the most pleasant people who she considered family. Though the rushing of the cars drowns out her voice, she has adapted to the noisy streets, the smog, and the loneliness of this crowded city. Currently living thousands of miles away from her village, my grandmother has formed a greater understanding of the two entirely different lifestyles. According to Vardanush, leaving her small village gave the impression that she was being reborn into a world with no understanding on life.

My village was very old fashioned since it was isolated away from the city. There was hardly any sort of encounter with that kind of life. We kept to ourselves. Since our village was fairly small with one hundred households, everyone knew each other and was like a family. If someone needed to work, but couldn’t do it alone, the whole village would go and help them. God forbid, if there was ever a death the whole village would mourn. Grief and happiness was shared amongst each other.

After my father’s death my mother raised us with much difficulty. We, at the time, didn’t have water. The water was located at the bottom of the fields. With a lot of difficulty we would carry a stick with two buckets on our shoulders and bring it up. We would bring the water into the house and heat it up in huge tubs. We had a specific day. Saturday was the day to take a shower. Everyone would take turns to get in, take a shower, and get out. We would dump the water each time and fill it up again for the next person.           

We all, in turn, began to go to school while others of us began to work. Our schools were very good. The school always made it their business to help whoever needed it. Since I was a good student my clothes, shoes, and books were always given by the school and I was very thankful for that. The education was mandatory. No one ever missed class and no one was uneducated. It was mandatory to go to school at least until the eighth grade. After that, whoever wanted to go could go. Whoever didn’t want to or couldn’t, didn’t go.

Until I was in the fourth grade I went to school in my village. Since our village was very small, there weren’t that many kids or teachers. I went to the Gorkh village from fourth to seventh grade. From eighth grade I went to the Machajian village. I traveled to all those different villages on foot. Each village was at least a couple of kilometers away. I always traveled with my friends in the mornings. Our mothers would pack us lunches and they would be gone before we got to school and we would be hungry for the rest of the day because we ate it all in the morning. We walked from village to village from one path to another. No parent ever forbade us from going with the boys. We would play outside together all night and our parents never new where we were, but no one ever worried. Everyone was Armenian in my village and there was no foreign person whatsoever and there was never a time where a teacher, child, or parent did not accept a certain group of people. 

When there was a wedding, everyone would get excited and impatiently wait for the wedding day to come so we could all attend and celebrate together. Everyone was always invited whether you were a part of the wedding or not. It was unconditional. Small, big, old, young, we all had to attend. We would dance Kochari (traditional Armenian dance) until late at night. For three days and three nights it was a wedding.           

There were many traditions involved in the weddings. Let’s say they decided to go “see” the possible bride-to-be; they would plan it with the girl’s family in advance that they were coming to observe the girl. The daughter never came to see the guests unless the parents agreed to [consider] giving up their daughter to that family. Then, the daughter would come inside with a glass of water for the guest and go back out of the room. If they deliberated and decided on the marriage, then the groom would approach the family once again with fine trays called “Khonchas” (trays filled with food and other goods). Later, they would come for the “Khoskap” (when the groom’s family goes to the bride’s house for a dinner party) and put the ring on the bride’s finger.

We went to various places to spend time together. In our village we had a barn. In that barn there was a gathering area. They sometimes brought films to play in the barn. They kept the animals there but we would also take chairs from home and sit down and watch movies alongside the animals. There were also concerts. People from the city would come. They respected us and gave concerts for us. We would get so happy.

Everyone in our village and the other villages didn’t have fathers. They all died from World War II. Since my father had an injured eye, he didn’t participate in the war, but he died anyways in 1947. There were also many people that returned from war. There were people who came back with pride for their military positions, people that didn’t return, people who remained in Russia, and people who were held prisoners in Germany and got lucky when they came back after some time. Our cemetery was very close. Whatever vegetables and fruits we’d gather after school we would take my father his portion before going home.

Everyone was of the same religion in my village. A religion, at the time, that was prohibited by the Soviet Union. We weren’t allowed to go to church, to make sacrifices, or to baptize the children. There was nothing of the sort. Whatever we would do, we would do it in secret. There was no such thing as Christianity for the Soviets because they didn’t believe. Whoever was of a high rank wasn’t allowed to come close to religion. No one was allowed. Whoever did was secretive about it. I remember our neighbor’s kids to whom my brother became a Godfather. They baptized them at night. They brought the priest from Akhalkalaki. They secretly did the christening and no one found out.

Secretly, in our cemetery there was a hole. And in that hole there was a Khach Kar (large Armenian stone cross with engravings). Whoever went to the cemetery always kissed the stone cross, lit one candle, said their prayer, then left. However, it was all done in secret. Everyone was afraid. No one would ever tell on the other, but it was simply not allowed. If they found out and if you had a rank, they would strip you of that rank; take away the papers that said you had a rank and you became nothing, no one. They wouldn’t give you a job. And they might have also sent someone to kill you. The Soviets wouldn’t accept anything. That is why the people that came [to America] from Russia or Armenia didn’t really know any religion. We grew up atheist. My seven-year-old grandson knows the holy prayer so well that I sometimes feel ashamed.

In order to receive news, we had a secret radio. And we were able to hear voices from America with a lot of difficulty. The Soviet Union didn’t even let us listen to that. We would hear the voices of Americans from Washington [D.C.] for half an hour. We barely heard it with the static in the background. And if something occurred in the village, everyone knew. If someone made the smallest decision, the whole village knew about it. Make of it what you will. There was gossip. There’s gossip in one’s own house. You think there won’t be any outside?

When I finally left my village, it affected me very badly. A girl who came from the village didn’t know how to do anything. I didn’t know how to iron properly or cook. And everything I did know was left in the village. Regardless, my mother-in-law was a very good woman. She accepted me as her own daughter. If there was someone I could marry from my own village, it would have been better for me because I, for one, really enjoyed the village life. Our hills were very, very beautiful. Throughout May, they were covered in tulips. We picked so many tulips that we would have no room to put them all. As for me, I loved flowers so much. Even when I moved to Yerevan, I established a small, village-like property. I took it into my hands and picked the rocks one-by-one. I gardened and took care of that land with pleasure. I planted trees, vegetables, and every kind of fruit. Whenever it came to the time when I would enjoy my food, I left everything and came to America. And now it is as though I left one more child behind. I don’t care for my house over there, but I pity the loss of my garden.

However, in my village there was never any progress or any jobs. Besides the fields, potatoes, bread, and agriculture, there was nothing in the village. When I came to the city I had a child and began to work in the textile factory. I worked in the same place for approximately forty years, but I always went back to my village. Every summer I would take my two daughters to my mother’s village. And every summer they would love it more than me. Every time I took them they became so happy as though the world belonged to them. The pleasure I had once felt, my children felt a thousand times more. Now, my oldest daughter is forty-five and my youngest is forty-three and they both fondly remember their childhood in my village.

Interviewed by Ani Bezirdzhyan