OUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE

 GARO  GHAZARIAN

Two days ago, I read a post on a friend’s Facebook page. It was a piece authored by him which by the time it caught my attention, it had already generated 100-yes 100-comments.

After reading the piece and all of the comments under it, I came away concluding the following:

Our house is on fire.

For years we have prided ourselves for working to be a part of the solution to crisis in our homeland. We never thought of ourselves as a denier of its harsh climate endured by its citizens on the ground. But it’s in moments like this that we see how denial plays out, subtly or not so-subtly. I go back only a dozen years in my own thinking: how we recoiled after March 1, 2008; how I couldn’t fully stomach as most did not take seriously the stolen 2013 presidential election, or the ones which came before it; how we brushed aside summer protests in Yerevan decrying one injustice upon another; the many struggles for preservation of nature and improvement of quality of life; the attacks by Azerbaijan on our people in Artsakh again and again, and the four day war of April in 2016; the rise of the masses in 2018; and now the pandemic.

Even as we work to highlight the urgency of the pandemic crisis among ourselves in the diaspora, some Armenians have distanced themselves emotionally to avoid having to confront our worst fears. Perhaps I equivocate. Perhaps we avoid bringing up the global pandemic in polite company, because there is a part of us which knows that if we only let ourselves see how bad it really is, we would all come undone.

In the last few days since the pandemic has gained more steam in Armenia, I have been reading many calls to action, of setting aside differences, of politics and posturing. I have been watching the collective health of our people on the ground deteriorate. I also have been experiencing headaches and chest aches, reading the bickering, the blaming, and the finger pointing. My boundless energy may be dampened, but I admire how some continue to do their level best to continue to engage and strive to make a dire situation better.

It was only two months ago that I, along with colleagues and friends from the Armenian Bar Association were gearing up to be outbound for our trip to Armenia and Artsakh; to join our local brothers and sisters there; and, to have our annual conference, true to our pledge made during our last such conference in Arstakh—to be there often, to meet and confer, to be part of the landscape.

These days, while we in the diaspora concern ourselves with the many unanticipated matters brought upon by the pandemic, for so many in our homeland it is becoming increasingly difficult to escape the fire’s carnage—the inferno brought by the pandemic, literally and metaphorically.

As we lay awake restless on many a dark-despite moonlit-nights, there is a pandemic fire, which is raging seemingly not contained, and burning throughout our homeland.

Armenia and Artsakh, our “two feet on the ground,” stand together as one special place on earth for us. We have been making annual visits there for years. We have been welcomed by those who live there year-around, be our visits short or long.

Our homeland and its people, our people, have provided us—diasporan Armenians—with a place for personal renewal and healing. The threat to such a place by a pandemic seems unthinkable. It has brought undeniable tension to many a person’s psyche. I confess, I’m on the list.

Yelling “fire” in a burning home, whether you’re inside the house or outside looking in, does nothing to put out the fire. Firefighters come and go, and those who sit on the “backyard” of “the house” wearing surgical masks, do not suffice to put out the fire.

Our trip to the homeland was called off two months ago. And if it was to protect the public there, and if it was for our safety, what about the protection of our “house” and of its occupants?

Our house is “on fire” set by a pandemic. What should we do?

Many in diaspora and our homeland seem to portray each human loss as a one-off, something horrible, but quick to surmise that life will return as normal. Many refuse to acknowledge that “normal” is itself a thing of the past. A pandemic of this size, scope and frequency is not normal. Death on this scale and of this type is not normal, even if the world has seen many a pandemic in the past.

To challenge our tendency to compartmentalize and therefore not respond to a pandemic disaster in the making in Armenia, I invite Armenians everywhere to a thought experiment:

“Our house” is on fire, what should we do? Do we ignore the flames and say, “it is not happening?” Do we debate whether it was caused by a person or persons in charge, by our neighbors, by a political party, or by the entirety of a government in power? Do we study the temperature of “the house“ throughout the years under a different political party at the helm of government? Do we study how quickly the fire is advancing and call for the appointment of a commission to examine how to adapt to life in the burnt-out rubble of our house that was once inexpressibly our sacred home?

When applied to a “house on fire,” these are not sane options. Yet, these types of responses have been the response to the pandemic. For the third month in a row, we are watching “our house”—“our home“—our homeland burn.

Over the years, crisis after crisis, while many have blindly hoped that someone will save our homeland, those who have saved it and our people, have been none other than us. Who will save us from the pandemic now? Didn’t the decades and centuries of facing life or death challenges bring us to the painful recognition that existing institutions alone are not equipped or able to make the changes needed to stop the horror of the pandemic we are witnessing with ever-increasing frequency. Do we not know that we cannot cope with the ravages of a global pandemic without mobilizing a social movement of unprecedented power. Yet denial, bickering, blaming and finger-pointing, a climate of us versus them, and a rejection of the time tested adage of “our strength is in our collective unity,” today once again prevent us from getting involved, staying involved, being connected, informed, and active.

We as a people with diverse skills and knowledge sets must work together in our fierce spirit of survival as people, as a worldwide community and as “one nation,” to co-create an equitable and safe environment for our homeland, with a living economy that is just. But it will be for naught if, first and foremost, we do not serve our level best to restore our people to a state of health.

But inside the countless bubbles which we live, each with their own ideas, each with disdain for the other, those solutions feel far. And while some Armenians in the diaspora view Armenia as a summer vacation destination and curse the pandemic for ruining their plans for summer of 2020, others lie awake at nights sick with worry about the future: when will the devastating loss of lives come to a halt in Armenia? Will September bring with it celebration of our independence of 1991, or by then, it be a day of mourning for catastrophic loss of life?

I don’t know what the future holds. I do know one thing: it’s our house; it’s our home that is burning, and we must do something to stop it. Coming together for “common cause” is a good place to start.