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Problem Solving, Armenian Style - Part 2
November 22, 2013 | 21:09
Click here to read part 1
My phone is still abuzz with the cry to connect. And I don't mean
`connect' in the Facebook kind of way - that's just too easy. That's
like taking a stroll down the white sand of some beach near the Great
Barrier Reef without taking a swim, and saying that you `visited' one
of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. Nonsense! Take a swim, even
if it's a little chilly, get your snorkels out and take a dive. The
deeper you go, the more you meet the weird and wonderful: corals with
more colors than Avetisyan's painting palette, and sharks too, along
with fear, warmth, beauty, and risk. That's what it is like with real
human connection. It requires a surrender of your pride, shame,
prejudice, and fear.
It is said that perfect love casts out all fear and releases us to be
able to connect with others in a sincere way - and perhaps that's
true. But having one mobile phone in Armenia is far quicker than deep
soul change. It treats you like a three year old learning to swim from
his parents: your pajamas are off and you're thrown in the deep end of
the pool (at least, that's how many Australians learn). My mobile
phone reminds me every hour that I don't have a choice: I must connect
with people. I'm forced into a crowd of Armenian friends solving each
other's problems. And more often than not that means visiting people's
home for dinner (I estimate that I could survive several months here
without any cooking. I just need to book a different friend to visit
each evening).
Armenian hospitality is simultaneously heartfelt and embarrassing:
entering an Armenian home means being welcomed in the warmest way
possible. Plates of colorful fruit, candy, and of course, coffee,
incessantly beckons. Image and impression are all-important factors in
this social construct: what ensues is an artfully done pre-meditated
social ritual. When you enter the home as a guest, you give the
impression that says `I won't sit; no coffee or khorovatz for me, but
thank you very much for your kindness'.And then, like following a
predetermined script, the host beckons again to sit, drink a little,
and take some cherries, to which of course you must further decline.
And for the final scene, in what is an end to the verbal tennis, is a
concluding summon to sit and eat, and to sink your teeth into the
fresh peaches the host's relative just brought from Noyemberyan - a
resolution to which you must, of course, finally accept. I have been
told that Armenians avoid complimenting one another, but when sitting
around a table they are somehow released to exchange kind accolades
unreservedly.
Then the next wave of invitations - no, demands - to stay for dinner,
another cognac, and then some, washes over you like a massage that
starts off a little uncomfortable but then begins soothing your nerves
into such a relaxed state, that you can't make yourself leave the
table. Nor does the host allow you to. Although initially arriving
resolute to leave early and have a single coffee, you have once again
succumbed to the warm embrace of Armenian hospitality.
The awkwardness begins when it's your turn to be hospitable - because
you know you can't do it like them. I, for one, am a terrible host on
my best days; but on Armenian (and for that matter, Filipino)
standards, I'm an absolute disgrace. But I'm learning. To borrow from
the New Testament, my vine branches are being pruned.
Filipinos are world-renowned for their warm disposition to guests and
foreigners. Their hospitality is truly the Pearl of the Orient. In the
provinces outside of the major urban hubs, people are tremendously
gracious, with the attitude that they would `kill their last cow for
you' and spill open their very last sachet of American coffee brought
from overseas by a relative, which has been treasured for months (and
possibly years). Even if the cow is a little malnourished and the
coffee a little stale, their attitude in absolute poverty is certainly
something to learn from.
But what, really, is hospitality? Broken down, does it just mean a
collection of little actions to make your guest feel fuller and
merrier? No, it is far more profound: true hospitality knows no
boundaries. An a barekam implies a close relationship with friends,
certain people from the same village, and even business partners, who
are extended the typical favoritism normally accorded to a close
relative.
Unlike in the West (if you permit me to abuse such generalizations), I
find that in Armenia, nothing is ever too much. It can be from the
smallest detail to a large favor - true Armenian friendship knows no
bounds, and once you are `in' the akhperutsyun, there isn't much you
can ask for or say that will exclude you from the group. Forgiveness
abounds, but so does responsibility.
Even with some of my closest of friends, I would think twice about
asking for certain things or bothering them at particular times - one
must always have sensitivity to the boundaries of what is private and
what might be an imposing irritant. Not so in Armenia.
Perhaps written into the DNA of most Armenians is the ability to
(reluctantly?) bind together in order to survive. Armenians excel when
they work together. It is no coincidence that the Armenian chess team
are the reigning chess world champions - a title they have won several
times. As a team, they flourish - their sum is certainly greater than
the individual achievements of their parts. They have a special
ingredient that other teams don't have: the ability to come together
in unison in a sport that is essentially an individual battle.
There is a very strong sense of solidarity here, and it posits a
strong case for the sociological tradition of mending the individual
via fixing social relationships (Durkheim would nod approvingly). For
as much as my phone's high-pitched nagging takes some getting used to,
its frequent, trusty rhythm is the solution of choice by Armenian
society, which declares that there is no challenge, however small and
insignificant, to be met alone. As the great W.B. Yeats once wrote,
`Think where a man's glory most begins and ends, And say my glory was
I had such friends'.
Click here to read part 1
Arianne Caoili
http://news.am/eng/news/182156.html
November 22, 2013 | 21:09
Click here to read part 1
My phone is still abuzz with the cry to connect. And I don't mean
`connect' in the Facebook kind of way - that's just too easy. That's
like taking a stroll down the white sand of some beach near the Great
Barrier Reef without taking a swim, and saying that you `visited' one
of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. Nonsense! Take a swim, even
if it's a little chilly, get your snorkels out and take a dive. The
deeper you go, the more you meet the weird and wonderful: corals with
more colors than Avetisyan's painting palette, and sharks too, along
with fear, warmth, beauty, and risk. That's what it is like with real
human connection. It requires a surrender of your pride, shame,
prejudice, and fear.
It is said that perfect love casts out all fear and releases us to be
able to connect with others in a sincere way - and perhaps that's
true. But having one mobile phone in Armenia is far quicker than deep
soul change. It treats you like a three year old learning to swim from
his parents: your pajamas are off and you're thrown in the deep end of
the pool (at least, that's how many Australians learn). My mobile
phone reminds me every hour that I don't have a choice: I must connect
with people. I'm forced into a crowd of Armenian friends solving each
other's problems. And more often than not that means visiting people's
home for dinner (I estimate that I could survive several months here
without any cooking. I just need to book a different friend to visit
each evening).
Armenian hospitality is simultaneously heartfelt and embarrassing:
entering an Armenian home means being welcomed in the warmest way
possible. Plates of colorful fruit, candy, and of course, coffee,
incessantly beckons. Image and impression are all-important factors in
this social construct: what ensues is an artfully done pre-meditated
social ritual. When you enter the home as a guest, you give the
impression that says `I won't sit; no coffee or khorovatz for me, but
thank you very much for your kindness'.And then, like following a
predetermined script, the host beckons again to sit, drink a little,
and take some cherries, to which of course you must further decline.
And for the final scene, in what is an end to the verbal tennis, is a
concluding summon to sit and eat, and to sink your teeth into the
fresh peaches the host's relative just brought from Noyemberyan - a
resolution to which you must, of course, finally accept. I have been
told that Armenians avoid complimenting one another, but when sitting
around a table they are somehow released to exchange kind accolades
unreservedly.
Then the next wave of invitations - no, demands - to stay for dinner,
another cognac, and then some, washes over you like a massage that
starts off a little uncomfortable but then begins soothing your nerves
into such a relaxed state, that you can't make yourself leave the
table. Nor does the host allow you to. Although initially arriving
resolute to leave early and have a single coffee, you have once again
succumbed to the warm embrace of Armenian hospitality.
The awkwardness begins when it's your turn to be hospitable - because
you know you can't do it like them. I, for one, am a terrible host on
my best days; but on Armenian (and for that matter, Filipino)
standards, I'm an absolute disgrace. But I'm learning. To borrow from
the New Testament, my vine branches are being pruned.
Filipinos are world-renowned for their warm disposition to guests and
foreigners. Their hospitality is truly the Pearl of the Orient. In the
provinces outside of the major urban hubs, people are tremendously
gracious, with the attitude that they would `kill their last cow for
you' and spill open their very last sachet of American coffee brought
from overseas by a relative, which has been treasured for months (and
possibly years). Even if the cow is a little malnourished and the
coffee a little stale, their attitude in absolute poverty is certainly
something to learn from.
But what, really, is hospitality? Broken down, does it just mean a
collection of little actions to make your guest feel fuller and
merrier? No, it is far more profound: true hospitality knows no
boundaries. An a barekam implies a close relationship with friends,
certain people from the same village, and even business partners, who
are extended the typical favoritism normally accorded to a close
relative.
Unlike in the West (if you permit me to abuse such generalizations), I
find that in Armenia, nothing is ever too much. It can be from the
smallest detail to a large favor - true Armenian friendship knows no
bounds, and once you are `in' the akhperutsyun, there isn't much you
can ask for or say that will exclude you from the group. Forgiveness
abounds, but so does responsibility.
Even with some of my closest of friends, I would think twice about
asking for certain things or bothering them at particular times - one
must always have sensitivity to the boundaries of what is private and
what might be an imposing irritant. Not so in Armenia.
Perhaps written into the DNA of most Armenians is the ability to
(reluctantly?) bind together in order to survive. Armenians excel when
they work together. It is no coincidence that the Armenian chess team
are the reigning chess world champions - a title they have won several
times. As a team, they flourish - their sum is certainly greater than
the individual achievements of their parts. They have a special
ingredient that other teams don't have: the ability to come together
in unison in a sport that is essentially an individual battle.
There is a very strong sense of solidarity here, and it posits a
strong case for the sociological tradition of mending the individual
via fixing social relationships (Durkheim would nod approvingly). For
as much as my phone's high-pitched nagging takes some getting used to,
its frequent, trusty rhythm is the solution of choice by Armenian
society, which declares that there is no challenge, however small and
insignificant, to be met alone. As the great W.B. Yeats once wrote,
`Think where a man's glory most begins and ends, And say my glory was
I had such friends'.
Click here to read part 1
Arianne Caoili
http://news.am/eng/news/182156.html