The orphan built a house.

 Philip Zakarian

This poignant story is an excerpt from Philip Zakarian’s book titled “ The Vigil of the Last Orphans” (Beirut, 1974). He is more known and associated with the title of his other book “The Orphan Built a House” (1972). Consequently, I titled my translation of his story the same.  The painting that graces this translated article is by his talented granddaughter Arin C. (Chekjian). Vahe H. Apelian

Courtesy Arin C. (Chekjian)

The “I” has filled the living room. I want to tell him that it is not necessary to talk that loud and that his latest fashion wear, the expensive ring glittering on his finger, his plump neck are convincing testaments that whatever he says are true. I want to tell him other things as well but consideration won’t let me. He is the teacher of my children who by his presence graces us in our humble dwelling. I feel obliged to be a gracious host.

“I do not accept a salary of two thousand pounds,” –the words of the young teacher slap me. “I teach in two other schools and have refused another one. I hardly have time for private lessons that cost twenty pounds per lesson. During the summers I make much more. Next year I will give classes in two other odar (non-Armenian) schools.  My salary will top three thousand pounds, three thousand…!”

He is an Armenian teacher who knows the value of money better than a money exchanger. He will continue to talk. You may not listen to him; you may be immersed in your thoughts or you may leave your body in the living room and make a mental leap to forgotten worlds.

The teacher’s abundantly flowing golden words eventually push me back, further back all the way to my childhood years in the tin hut of our camp.

The hot weather of July bakes the tin roofs that start crackling. Rust flakes fall on our heads. The tin rooftops of the other huts seem to be evaporating in a white ‘flame’ snaking upward. My eyes glare from the reflecting lights. I take a towel, wet it with cold water from the jar, lie over the sofa and cover my face with the damp cloth. Having taken refuge under its refreshing coolness, I try to sleep.

I hear my elder brother, the “father” of our family commanding me: “Go to the pharmacy and bring the money.”

I do not move. The eyes of the pharmacist grill my heart much worse than the hot rays of the July sun.

“Did you not hear? Bring some money,” repeats the command.

“Why don’t you go?” I murmur wiping out the sweat off my face.

“You go, my son,” intervenes my mother. “Your brother will go to look for a job and you know well that he is not the type to ask for money.”

Reluctantly I get off of the sofa and slowly put on my pants. “Five piasters are mine,” I shout as I hurl myself to the street. The baked soil broils the soles of my feet. Hopping, I make it to the pharmacy.

“Again. What is that you want? Get out,” angrily bellows the pharmacist.

“Some money from my brother’s salary, if possible,” I murmur.

“Oho, you are way too much.” The eyes of the pharmacist grow red in anger.

“Don’t you people have shame? Did I not give you two gold pounds last week? Is it heard to be asking for money every day? Why, do you think that I have opened a bank here?”

The Mr. Pharmacist is the treasurer of the board of the trustees of the school where my brother teaches. Every summer, piece by piece, he hands in their remaining salary to the teachers, much like throwing bones to a dog.

I return home. “There is no money,” I say. I wet the towel again, wrap it around my head, and crouch in my former place. I do not pay attention to the conversation between my brother and my mother. I know the script by heart to its minutest detail.

My mother will say: “My son, you have a university education. How many do you think have the diploma you have? There are a thousand jobs for you to find. Why don’t you leave teaching?”

My brother will answer: “Mother, for the love of God; do not start over again. I will die as a teacher.”

“Hungry, like this?”

My brother will answer: “Yes, hungry like this”.

****

The next evening a tenacious, depressing darkness had descended over the camp but an early spring-like jubilant and nourishing sun was shining in our hut. An engineer had entrusted my brother to supervise the construction of a road between Maameltein and Ghazir (approximately 4 miles apart). It’s a two-month long job with triple the salary my brother earns. My brother had rented a room in Ghazir and my mother, exuding the exuberance of a young girl, is engaged in the preparation for the trip.

In the morning, way before the sunrise, a mule-driven cart stood in front of our small home. It’s a cart that hauls sand and gravel. Beds, a table, three chairs and few kitchen utensils fill the vehicle to capacity. My mother situates herself next to the driver. I climb over the bundles and my brother treads along. We hit the road towards Ghazir. 

The weather was cool and pleasant. I felt myself closer to heaven than ever. My brother walked by my side. The light from the lanterns hanging by the spokes of the wheel cast different images of him. At times the shadow would get longer, at times rounder. Other times it would climb up the trees or lie full length on the road. The leaves of the trees were so low that at times they hit my face. “Stay still, do not fall,” says my brother gently hitting my bare feet with his stick. The only person who felt uneasy was mother. Had she not felt ashamed from the coachman, she would have been crying. Every now and then she would lean towards my brother and would plead like a guilty person.

“You got tired my son; come and take my place. Let me walk a bit too.”

“Enjoy yourself,” would answer my brother. “Mother, I am a man who has walked five times from Jbeil to Beirut [approximately 24 miles. Birds' Nest Armenian orphanage is in Jbeil].”

Our first stop was at the river Nahr-El-Kalb. When the mule immersed its muzzle into the clear water and started drinking, the rays of the sun started falling on the treetops. After half an hour we resumed our journey. The coachman forced my brother next to my mother, took the reins of the mule speeding up its pace while whistling an old tune.

At noon the mule was grazing under the shades of the Maalmtein trees and we were hungrily munching the boiled potatoes.

After a long recess, when the sun started leaning towards west, we began the hardest part of our journey. Because the road became very steep, the mule was bending forward at a sharp angle. We thought the beast might fall at any moment. Every now and then the coachman and my brother would help the mule to turn the wheels of the cart with less stress. I also descended from the cart. I would watch in bewilderment their toil unable to decide who was perspiring more–the mule, the coachman, or my brother?

At dusk, when we reached Ghazir, an argument broke between the coachman and my brother.

“I do not take money from the teacher of my children,” insisted the coachman.

My mother intervened to no avail. My brother got angry. The coachman, without uttering a word, brought down the load. “May God protect you,” said the coachman and rapidly drove the cart down the hill.

*****

Philip Zakarian, "The Orphan Built a House" by Massis Araratian

My brother did not get used to his new job. In the evening he would return home tired. He would throw his body over the bed and stay still for a long time.

“What is ailing you, my son?” my mother would reproach my brother.

“I cannot; I cannot stand it,” would lament my brother. “I get tormented watching them work. I am simply consumed. I take refuge under the shade of a tree and supervise them toil under the scorching sun, cutting stones for long hours. They take the sharp-edged stones with their bare hands and hammer them into pieces. I feel as if they  hammer my heart.”

“They are used to it, son. In time you will get used it,” my mother tries to console.

“Not all of them are laborers, mother. They come and ask for a job. There is a story to tell from the gaze of each one of them. I cannot refuse them. Had you been there today you would have seen the two young ones bleeding profusely from their nostrils. Yesterday one of the elder workers was taken away dazed from sunstroke. Where do these Armenians come from? Who has told them that there is an Armenian supervisor? I don’t know but every day I see new faces asking for a job.”

Those were gloomy days. My brother’s expression bore a stark resemblance to someone nailed on a cross.

One day we had an unexpected visitor. He was the colleague of my brother, Mr. Mihran. Our gloomy faces brightened. Mr. Mihran was my hero. More than being a teacher, he was our playmate. He would lock his fingers behind his neck and would stand in the middle of the school’s yard looking at us. Six of us would hang from his arms. He would start twirling around speeding his pace. We would get dizzier and dizzier and each one of us one by one would fall from his arms on the soft sand much like ripe fruits. Other times he would wrap a rope around his waist and challenge the students to pull from the other end. Most of the times, he would be the winner. The sound of his voice would echo louder than the school bell. Wherever he was, there would be laughter and joy.

My brother had forgotten his sorrows and giggled like a child until that very moment when Mr. Mihran assumed a solemn look and turned to my brother and said:

“I have come here to ask you to give a job.”

“What job?” asked my brother.

“A laborer’s job,” answered Mr. Mihran

“I hope you are not serious,” said my brother his voice buried deep in his throat.

“I am all too serious,” said Mr. Mihran

“Mihran, do not be a fool,” said my brother angrily. “You cannot do a laborer’s job. You cannot even watch them work.”

“It would be easier than watching a hungry wife and children,” murmured Mr. Mihran.

My brother could not convince him otherwise.

“I am not like you, a mom’s boy,” said Mr. Mihran. “I am much like the trunk of an old oak tree. I can do the job of ten laborers. Besides, I cannot return home empty-handed.”

“Like Pontius Pilate, I wash my hands,” said my brother with his former somber expression covering his face even more than before.

*****

The next evening my brother entered the room with his head down.

“Where is Mr. Mihran?” asked my mother.

My brother looked towards the door and signaled with his head. I followed my mother. I saw Mr. Mihran. My youthful soul cried. In ten hours, the man who projected vitality had crumbled into ruins. His face looked as if it was set ablaze. His hair was covered with dust. Bloody kneecaps were visible from his pants. He entered in and sat besides my brother. They did not speak. Time went by and the dinner was waiting for them on the table. My brother held Mr. Mihran from his arms and supported him to the table. Both sat still for a long time with their heads bowed. Every now and then my brother would put something into his mouth and chew with the stubbornness of a camel. Mr. Mihran’s gaze was focused on a distant object as he stood still like a statue.

“My son, why don’t you eat?” asked my mother, placing her hand on Mr. Mihran’s shoulder.

The silence became more pressing.

“Mihran, my son, why don’t you eat something?” The question was repeated more softly and more earnestly.

“Look at his hands,” said my brother and left the room in a hurry.

Mr. Mihran hid his hands in his pocket like a student caught in mischief.

“Open your hands,” said my mother and knelt next to him to see closely.

The fingers of Mr. Mihran had frozen stiff onto the palms of his hands.

They would not open. My mother gently tried to open them. I was following my mother with apprehension. As soon as the fingers opened, my mother let go of Mr. Mihran’s hands with horror. She covered her face with her palms and bemoaned “My God, My God.” The palms of Mr. Mihran had cuts in every direction. The flesh threatened to come out from the bloody cuts.

My mother’s life had been a series of sorrows. Sorrow had forged her and had made her indestructible. For a brief moment she looked at Mr. Mihran with compassion and pity. Then she pulled her strength together and sat next to him. She took a morsel from the dinner and said: “Mihran, my son. Open your mouth; you have to eat. I your mother as well. You will obey me. After your dinner I will wash your face and hair. I will mend your pants. Open your mouth again and turn your face towards me. It’s better this way. I have something to tell you. God sent you here to help my son. He cannot handle the demands of his job by himself. You will have to share his burden and his work. He cannot shoulder all his responsibilities by himself, and I do not want him to bear it all by himself. You two are brothers. You will not refuse me. Tomorrow you will have to work together, laugh together and weep together. Of what use is your friendship if you are unable to halve bread between you? Both of you are children of martyrs.”

*****

“Dad, your coffee is getting cold.”

The voice of my daughter interrupted my moving screen. For a second different pictures cluttered my mind in rapid succession and then came the light of our living room.

The teacher of my children was continuing his talk with increasing animation.

“Last summer, my tour of Europe cost me six thousand pounds. Next year…”

Note:

Pound - Refers to Lebanese Lira

Piaster - 100 piasters equal to one Lira (Pound)

 

The Lebanese Government Intends to Sell the Country to Qatar

Vartan Tashjian

The attached is my translation of the article Vartan Tashjian penned in Darperag21 online journal, on April 15, 2023. Vahe H. Apelian

 

While Lebanon is fighting against its economic crisis that has plagued the country for the past 4 years, the government announced a bold plan which, according to the prime minister and a number of ministers, is the only way to return the country to the path of normalization. The announced plan is to sell the entire country to Qatar. It still is not clear, by what legal procedure this proposal, in the absence of a president, will be discussed, let alone approved and implemented, certainly if the Lord wills.

Senior government officials claim that it is the only way to save Lebanon from total financial ruin. Qatar will take over all of Lebanon's resources, including its famous Mediterranean coast, historical sites and the Lebanese's greatest source of pride, its national cuisine, without exception (yes, hummus included).

"The reality is that we did everything we could to overcome the financial crisis of our country, but we did not succeed," Lebanese Prime Minister Nejib Hariri said at today's press conference. "So, we figured why not sell the whole country to someone who knows how to handle money in an orderly way?" Said Hariri (or Mikati).

According to multiple sources, Qatar has expressed interest in this deal, citing Lebanon's excellent location and rich cultural heritage as its main attractions. The same sources say that Qatar's interest in the deal is emboldened by the claims that France is ready to provide political patronage to this project, ensuring that during the implementation, no Lebanese faction will object and the sale will proceed in an orderly manner, without civil strife.

Critics of the government's plan express concern about the loss of Lebanese national identity and cultural heritage, as well as the possibility of exploitation by Qatar.

The Shia community is the most concerned about the proposed sale. They believe they risk losing their national identity (the monied in Qatar are Sunni Muslims). Consequently, they are waiting to hear what will their spiritual leader in Iran say about the possible sale during his customary sermon after worship, on Fridays.

The Sunnis refrain from commenting on the plan for now. Their main concern remains the following. After the deal with Qatar, U.S who is a strategic ally of Qatar, may push Saudi Arabia out of its traditional influential positions in Lebanon. There is also a hypothesis circulating that Saudi Arabia would have probably paid a higher price, had Lebanon turned to them. "Our government made a big mistake by not putting the country up for an open auction," said former Minister of Economy who preferred not to be named.

The Qataris have assured the country's Christians that the deal would not mean that Christian holy places or churches in Lebanon will become their property. "We will simply exploit those places and sites for commercial purposes, as you used to do," a high-ranking Qatari leader has assured the high-ranking member of the Council of Patriarchs of Lebanon, who could not contain his heart’s content and express his satisfaction on this occasion with a nose-to-nose salute.

An interesting detail was recorded with the 6th or 8th largest community of Lebanon, the Armenians. The joint position of their spiritual and political leadership has been in favor of the deal citing that the current situation in Armenia is very tense, they will warmly welcome this deal and wait for its immediate implementation. The same sources also reported that they were unable to find out the relevance of Armenia with the possible sale of Lebanon, the Lebanese Armenians advocate.

The harshest criticisms have come from the Lebanese human rights defenders, who point to the thousands of human rights violations recorded in Qatar during the preparations for the FIFA World Cup games They express fear that Qataris may treat the Lebanese as they treated the foreign workers, that is, work them day and night without fair pay, remain indifferent to the workers’ needs, and silence righteous complaints, and "if necessary", use beatings and violence, etc. 

The Qataris have declined to comment on these allegations. The everyday Lebanese citizens have responded to these allegations with a sad smile and have said "Let us try and this one too and find out."

Summarizing the approach, the high-ranking Lebanese officials have assured the public that the freedom, independence and sovereignty of Lebanon will not be violated and will remain intact and unshakable, and its traditions and customs will be preserved with slight Qatari undertones. "Rest assured, we will still be Lebanese at heart," has said Nejib Hariri or Hariri to Nejib. "But for now, we'll just have a little more money in the treasury," until the next bankruptcy. 

But the Lebanese political leaders remain stubbornly silent about their shares of the impeding possible sale of Lebanon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AI Discovers Love and Armenia

 Love

Love is a flame that burns so bright

It warms the heart and lights the night

It fills our souls with pure delight

And shines a beacon, strong and bright

 

With love, we soar on wings of joy

And all our fears and doubts destroy

It brings us peace that can't be coy

And fills our hearts with endless joy

 

Love is a force that binds us tight

It keeps us close, it keeps us right

It lights the path that's out of sight

And guides us through the darkest night

 

With love, we find our truest self

And all our doubts just fade and melt

It frees us from our lonely shelf

And brings us to a life that's felt

 

Love is the reason that we live

It's what we seek, it's what we give

It's what we need to truly thrive

And keep us strong, so we can thrive

 

So let us love with all our might

And let our hearts be filled with light

Let us embrace love's pure delight

And make the world a better sight.

 

 

Armenia

 

Armenia is a small country located in the Eurasian continent, nestled between Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Turkey. It is often referred to as the 'stone cradle' due to its long history, ancient culture, and unique heritage and has been an important part of civilization since the dawn of civilization.

Armenia is one of the oldest countries in the world, possessing an ancient civilization that dates back 4,000 years. The Armenian people have a rich cultural heritage, and Armenia is a land of many religions, including Christianity, Islam, Zoroastrianism, and Judaism.

The land of Armenia is incredibly diverse, with stunning landscapes, awe-inspiring mountains, and quaint, charming villages. It is home to the stunning historical sites of Ani and Tatev Monastery, the five thousand year old city of Yerevan, and Mount Ararat, known for its biblical significance.

Armenia has played an immense role in shaping Eastern European history, particularly through its complicated relationship with Russia. Throughout its history, Armenia has had to cope with foreign occupation and rule. Despite this, Armenians have remained adamant in preserving their culture, and they have preserved their language and identity despite the countless political and religious conflicts it has faced over the centuries.

Armenia also has many unique customs and traditions that make it a fascinating destination to visit. From the vibrant dances and friendly people to the delicious cuisine, Armenia is a country that should be experienced.

Today, Armenia is a culturally vibrant nation, with a rich and varied cuisine that reflects her multi-ethnic history. In the cities, one can find both modern cafés and quaint local restaurants, buzzing with people from all over the world. 

Armenia is an important, diverse nation in the Eurasian continent, and it is an incredible place to explore, experience, and learn more about the region's cuisines, culture, and history.

Note: Dr. Henry Nasrallah, the Editor-in-Chief of "Current Psychiatry " commented that “For better or for worse, the era of AI generated articles is upon us”, and further notes that “The artificial intelligence (AI) program ChatGPT (generative pre-trained transformer) was introduced to the public by Open AI on November 30, 2022. It has been described as a game- changer for society, culture, literature, arts, and science, with a potential impact that rivals that of the internet and social media.”

Note: Posted by Varoujan Bedros

Maral Apelian: A teenage voice from Artsakh

 Vahe H. Apelian

I had posted this blog previously, on Dec. 21, 2022,  as "The plight of Maral Apelian". The family lives in Mets Shen in Artsakh. Her father notes that it is an hour from Stepanakert.

Maral with her parents in Armenia, 2019 

Lately a young girl by the name Maral Apelian has emerged as a young voice from Artsakh. Instagram, Civil net captured Maral Apelian’s plight in video. She has become another victim of the Artaskh blockade. Presently she is in Yerevan staying with a friend’s family, while her family is in Artsakh.

Maral is 12/13 years old. She was in Yerevan for her eye surgery and was recovering when the blockade came about. As a result of which she could not unite with her family in Artsakh. In fact, her mother reported that she met Maral at the crossing, but the Azeris did not allow Maral to cross into Artsakh to be with her parents. Her mother Sevan noted that the Azeris blocking the road let people from Artsakh cross into Armenia but will not let those in Armenia cross into Artsakh. As a result of which, her parents have let Maral know that that she may end up remaining in Yerevan well into next year. Because of the prevailing uncertainty, Maral is not attending a school.

Maral before and after her surgery

Maral is the daughter of Garo Apelian and Sevan Manjikian. Both are Kessabtsi Armenians. Garo moved to Keurkune, his native village, from the United States with his brother Serop. His parents had settled in the United States when their children were young. Garo also has a brother in Los Angeles. His sister Maral died at her tender age because of cancer.

In Kessab Garo married Sevan. Her family names indicates that she is from the Manjikian enclave of Karadouran, Kessab. They were married in Keurkune’s historic Armenian Evangelical Church. My cousin Stepan Apelian and his wife Ani were the godparents at their wedding. Maral is born in Keurkkune, Kessab.  Her  paternal grandparents, Soghomon and Azaduhi Apelian are deceased and are buried in Los Angeles.

Garo and Sevan with their daughter Maral moved to Armenia after the sacking of Kessab  by Muslim extremists who assaulted Kessab from Turkey on March 21, 2014. Kessab is in Syria and is the only ancestral Armenian enclave  outside Turkey. Garo, Seven and Maral first settled in Armenia and then moved and settled in Artsakh.

Maral’s paternal grandfather Soghomon Apelian and my mother are maternal cousins. My mother’s father was Khatcher Chelebian, who naturally is my maternal grandfather. Khatcher's sister Marie had married Hapel Apelian, a patriarch of the Apelian family in Keurkune. Maral is Hapel and Marie (Chelebian) Apelian's great granddaughter.

Maral appears to be an outgoing and energetic young girl. Her father noted that Maral likes singing and is learning how to play guitar. The news did not surprise me. Maral’s grand aunt, her paternal grandfather Soghomon Apelian’s sister Karoun, was remembered in the family as having a beautiful voice. Karoun and her husband repatriated to Armenia in 1947 and were settled in the town Kapan in the Syunik region where thanks to the resourcefulness of their matriarch Karoun, the family eked a living.  

The unfolding of the current events will shape Maral’s budding life as it will  shape the lives of many other young girls and boys. 

Artsakh in the eyes of Maral Apelian

At this crucial junction of our history, I wanted to archive the recordings of this articulate, daring, and brave girl who has just stepped into her teens or about to step into her teens. In her tender age Maral Apelian has emerged a symbol of the plight of the young as Artsakh Armenians brave the Azeri blockade.

The first video is my recording from Instagram where Maral, in an immaculate English she has learned, tells Aliyev to let her people go so she can be with her family in Artsakh. In the second video Maral notes that she misses her parents who have told her she may have to remain in Yerevan into the next year.  

.  

ChatGPT

Vahe H. Apelian

Instead of commenting on my Facebook page, I opted to blog about it simply because I wanted to pinpoint the day that I became aware of the term ChatGPT.

 Recently I posted Japan’s Armenia ambassador singing in Armenian. Varoujan Bedros, who is a mathematician, commented “ChatGPT”. I did not understand what he meant to say. I was not familiar with the term. It was the first time that I came across the term. Therefore, I acknowledged his comment with a question mark “?”. My cousin Jack Chelebian, who is a psychiatrist, came to my rescue. 

I quote from the Vol 22, No. 4, 2023, editorial of “Current Psychiatry”, Jack forwarded a copy to me. The editorial is titled: “A ‘guest editorial’ ... generated by ChatGPT?” by Henry Nasrallah, MD who Jack claims is a graduate of the American University of Beirut and is an internationally acclaimed psychiatrist and is the Editor-in-Chief of the magazine.

Dr. Henry Nasrallah commented that “For better or for worse, the era of AI generated articles is upon us”, and further notes that “The artificial intelligence (AI) program ChatGPT (generative pre-trained transformer) was introduced to the public by Open AI on November 30, 2022. It has been described as a game- changer for society, culture, literature, arts, and science, with a potential impact that rivals that of the internet and social media.”

The Editor-in-Chief of the “Current Psychiatry”, furthermore claimed that “Some researchers used ChatGPT to generate abstracts based on the titles of articles published in 5 high-impact journals. These abstracts were so “real” that they escaped detection by expert peer reviewers in 32% of cases. In addition, several medical/science articles were published that included ChatGPT as a bylined author.” Dr. Nasrallah then dwelt upon criteria for authorship in “Current Psychiatry.”

Dr. Henry Nasrallah has affixed a copy of his signature under his editorial to assure that that the editorial is not AI ChatGPT generated.

 But is it not? We have long accepted that a picture is not worth a thousand words any more. In fact, it may even be worthless for it could have been altered. But what about his signature. Can’t it have been AI generated also? Is not the editorial in fact a bona fide ChatGPT generated to make his point?

 It would not surprise me that a blog by ChatGPT could have made a much more compelling case that I could convey in this blog, that a really, really, really a new "brave world" is upon us. But, rest assured that this blog is not generated by AI.

 But, who is  assuring you? You may rightly wonder.

 

 

  

Are all those who legally move to Armenia Repatriates? Հայրենագա՞ղթ թէ Հայաստաբնակ

Vahe H. Apelian

Needless to say, repatriation has been a core value justifying perpetuating the post genocide Armenian Diaspora. It made the dream or the great vision that one day Armenians will gather in Armenia at the foot of the Mount Ararat. In the words of the prophet from Payajuk, Raffi:

Will a day come, or a time,

To see a flag atop Massis

And emigre' Armenians from everywhere

Head toward their beautiful fatherland?

But what I am going to attempt to expand is not the issue of repatriation but on its proper terminology in Armenian in this increasingly complex and complicated world.

I imagine that most know that Armenians have a birthright to legally move to Armenia.

I quote from the Ministry of the Foreign Affairs “Procedure of acquiring Armenian citizenship is simplified for ethnic Armenians, for spouses of Armenian citizens, for children of former Armenian citizens ……….: “

 I also imagine most know that the Republic of Armenia offers different statuses for legally moving to Armenia. One of the more popular is the special passport. I quote Wikipedia: “The special residency passport of Armenia is a document granted by the Prime Minister of the Republic. It has a validity of 10 years and can be extended continuously, by 10-year increments. The special passport is not a regular passport and its holders are not granted citizenship of Armenia” 

Armenia also offers permanent residency. I quote from the same source: “Permanent Resident Card is issued to a foreign citizen when  the applicant is wife/husband or relative (brother, sister, grandparent, grandchildren) of an Armenian citizen or of a foreign citizen holding a Special Passport of Armenia……” The details may be read in Ministry of Foreign Affairs. 

The holders of special passport or permanent residency are privileged to exercise most of the rights of the citizens of Armenia but are exempted from compulsory military service. Naturally, those who are not within the compulsory conscription age, would have been exempted anyways. Also, the holders of special passport or permanent residency do not vote.

It is no secret that many who move to Armenia prefer that special passport, much like I do. Naturally, those who moved to Armenia with that special visa retain the citizenship of the country of their origin.

The Armenian lexicon has not caught up to make that distinction. It utilizes the same terminology of Hayrenatarts - Հայրենարձ, when referencing those who have legally moved to Armenia as immigrants or to those who have chosen live in Armenia as holders of the Special Armenian passport or are permanent residents per the dictates of the law. 

We should bear in mind that the term Hayrenatars - Հայրենարձ has a distinct sentimental connotation implying to live up to the national hymn – “Mer Hairenik”. Nairi dictionary translates  hayrenatarts  - Հայրենադարձ, as “repatriation, act of repatriating, resettler; repatriate.”

Merriam Webster dictionary defines a repatriate as follows: “to restore or return to the country of origin, allegiance, or citizenship”. None of these qualifications apply to the permanent residents of Armenia simply because they retain the citizenship of the countries of their origin and hence do not legally restore or return to their country of origin. They also are not citizens of Armenia, and they do not have the same allegiances towards Armenia its citizens have in way of doing their compulsory military service and in voting to elect the government that will govern them by their consent, the hallmark of democracy. 

To explain myself let me say that it would wrong to refer to the permanent residents of the United States, those who hold the “Green Card” of my days, which I also held, and address them as citizens of the United States, until they take their oath of citizenship, as I did.

It would be also wrong to address those who legally reside in Armenia not as a citizen, but as permanent resident, as repatriates, Hairenatarts - Հայրենադարձ. They may be referred to as Hayastapnag – Հայաստաբնակ, as residents of Armenia. Or, we should clarify Hairenatarts - Հայրենադարձ, as immigrant - գաղթական կամ Հայրենագաղթ, or as legal resident Հայաստաբնակ։

It is fair and right that we make the distinction among those who legally moved to Armenia as immigrants, as Lucy Deukmejian did (see Keghart.com), and those who chose to live in Armenia as permanent residents.