When Armenians became refugees, this Fresno woman was there to offer aid and comfort

Sometime last fall my life was upended, in circumstances that can only be described as improbable for someone born and raised in Fresno. In a windswept valley where Armenia meets Iran and Azerbaijan, amid desperate refugees, I found myself at home.

Until then, my life had unfolded within the familiar embrace of the United States. I have Armenian roots — but everyone in America has roots. It took a profound experience in Armenia, at a time of personal loss for me back home, for my epiphany to arrive: Armenia is now my home. It seems strange, I know; let me explain.

I am an only child and have no children. My divorce was finalized in March 2023 after eight years of marriage. My father was killed when I was 3. My grandfather passed when I was only 5. I lost my mom, my best friend, in 2013. My 92-year-old grandmother, our matriarch, died in 2020.

Last August, I decided to volunteer with the Armenian Volunteer Corp, an organization dedicated to internships and volunteer placements of all kinds. It was only my second-ever trip to the country, the first being less than a year before; my intention was to spend a month there and return home.

Yet I immediately found myself immersed in meaningful work, stemming from the ongoing conflict over Artsakh (widely known as Nagorno-Karabakh) — a self-governing ethnic Armenian enclave inside Azerbaijan, which had been under blockade at the hands of Azerbaijan since December 2022.

I helped care for disabled children at the Kharberd Specialized Orphanage; helped and participated in an nongovernment organization dedicated to preparing individuals for surviving war; and organized parties for the children of Artsakh. As I did all this, a profound sense of belonging washed over me. I decided to extend my stay, changing my return ticket to Oct. 31st. Little did I know that history was knocking on the door.

Azerbaijan attacked Artsakh on Sept. 19, 2023, at a point at which its 120,000 Armenians were exhausted by the blockade, which made the basic necessities unimaginably scarce. When Artsakh fell under Azerbaijani control, the entire population fled to nearby Armenia proper. Within days, a massive exodus which Armenians see as a modern-day genocide and ethnic cleansing was happening.

In September 2020, during a previous war in which Azerbaijan seized the outer areas of the enclave, including its major towns of Shushi and Hadrut, I had watched helplessly from afar, yearning to contribute. Now I was nearby as the call came for volunteers in Goris, the first border town where Artsakh citizens sought refuge. This time I rushed to the town, in southern Armenia, the crossroads of so many empires and trade routes of the past — and the scene of a modern calamity.

Arriving in the chaotic main square of Goris, I joined forces with All for Armenia, an aid group. The urgency was palpable as we set up tents, the first on the scene. Over the next 36 hours, we worked tirelessly with other groups providing food, coffee, clothes and other support to tens of thousands of displaced refugees. The sheer volume of aid provided over the five days, assisting tens of thousands, was a collective effort unlike what I had ever seen.

I encountered stories of tragic loss and pain, juxtaposed with moments of hope and resilience. Families torn apart during evacuation were reunited. In the face of grave uncertainty, a sense of unity prevailed. Amid chaos I tried to offer solace, through gestures or comforting words.

I met a couple with their nine young children, the oldest 13 years old and the youngest 11 months. Their mom told me they don’t know where they would be going or how they would begin to rebuild their lives. I held her hand and told her “God is with us, and He will find a way”; she nodded hesitantly and said “ayo balles” (which means “Yes, my sweet child“). Rosa, the oldest, took my hand and just held on. I brushed her hair back from her eyes and said, “Vonces, im sirun axjik” (How are you, my sweet girl); her response was a single nod, and she would not leave my side. Some of her siblings approached, and I handed them all a Snickers bar and we laughed and played a little.

One young lady sat alone with her sweet 2-month-old son, Alexander. She told me she was waiting for her husband who was a soldier and was still in Stepanakert, the capital of Artsakh. She said he stayed behind and refused to leave until the last person had left Artsakh safely.

Over five days, I heard countless stories of loss and pain, but also hope and resilience. Returning to Yerevan, the magnitude of the experience hit me. In the darkest times, strangers became neighbors, and neighbors became family. I began to sob, overwhelmed.

I was reminded of a cliché: “Everything happens for a reason.” There’s a reason this phrase exists as well. My journey, marked by loss and challenges, had led me to this point. I realized with amazement that what had been a void came to become my profound love for Armenia. In those weeks it had become my anchor. I knew for certain I was home.

I thought back to my childhood, to stories shared by my grandmother about her own hardship, hope, and survival, fueled by a connection to the land, mountains, and people of Armenia. The writer William Saroyan, born in Fresno like me, had felt it once as well. “Go ahead, destroy this race,” he wrote. “See if they will not live again. See if they will not laugh again.”

For centuries, Armenians have been fighting Turkey and Azerbaijan for the right to live peacefully in their ancestral land. A picturesque land, rich in both beauty and history. Armenians know despair; they know resilience as well. My journey embodies that spirit.

Armenia, my love, with its mountains and history and people, now truly has become my home. I will help it find resilience, and I too will laugh again.