I am the product of a great land,
Of one of the oldest civilizations in the history of the world,
Older than even the Romans.
The land of cities which once equaled, if not surpassed,
The grandeur of Athens,
I am the product of a land which no longer exists.
I am the product of a rich culture,
With a beautiful language
Whose alphabet contained thirty-six letters by the sixth century.
A history filled to the brim with great heroes, and epic battles.
The descendent of the first people to accept Christianity.
I am the product of a culture which is slowly becoming extinct.
They stole it, they stole everything.
They stole the homes of my ancestors,
The childhoods of my great-grandparents.
They forced them to live in orphanages.
They stole my identity,
I now identify with a different land,
I am a part of its culture,
I speak its language.
We all lost our identity, the children of my generation.
We never had the chance to intimately know our culture,
We were taken from Her long before we were born,
We were orphaned and given for adoption before we ever took a breath.
We were raise by Mothers who were not our own,
While the One who gave birth to us was kidnapped by a foreign foe,
And soaked to the bone with the blood of Her own children.
One and a half million children.
They spilled their blood right one Her body,
And they made sure that She never again saw the children who remained.
They made sure that the children who survived the bloodbath,
Were raised by Mothers who were not our own.
And they never apologized for it, never even acknowledged it,
The liars, thieves, and murders who have held my Mother hostage for ninety-five years.
Now, because of them, our history is becoming void,
Because it once told stories of great heroes who fought epic battles,
Grand cities which now lie in ruins on land which we can no longer call our own.
Devout Christians can barely recall Her Bible stories.
Remember Noah’s Ark?
Remember where it landed?
It was Mount Ararat, which holds all the blood and faith of the people from whom it was stolen.
And Armenia’s rich culture,
Her beautiful language,
Are slowly becoming extinct,
Because Her children were adopted by other cultures,
Learned new languages.
America has adopted me, and She has been good to me.
But I now call myself an American without a second thought.
I speak Her language more frequently and fluently than I speak my Maternal one.
I can’t help it.
I am the child of a Mother I have never laid eyes upon.
We all are.
We are Armenia’s deprived children,
Robbed from a cradle we never had the chance to lie in.
No matter how hard we try, we cannot be faithful to our Mother.
We have new ones now,
And we were never given much say in the matter.
We are the impoverished generation,
Armenia’s lost children.
But the fact that I am writing this must count for something…