paul chaderjian

a column by Paul Chaderjian for the Asbarez newspaper Once there was and there was not … … a neighborhood in a suburb of Kolkata, India, where a tall, pristine white stone wall separates the grounds of a sparkling Armenian church from a modern-day slum and its poverty, smells, refuse, rabid dogs, and noisy rickshaws. Security guards kept the native neighbors at bay as our group of tourists entered and exited the church grounds. We were there a year ago today, a group of Armenians from around the world making a pilgrimage to India on the 300th anniversary of the founding of one of the Armenian churches in Kolkata. My stories of the journey and India are on the Internet, so there is no sense in repeating Indian-Armenian history or reality. Why I write this column is to convey abstract premonitions after my nearly-month-long journey to the once-thriving Armenian community there. While the Mother See of Holy Etchmiadzin has done a remarkable job of keeping our Indian-Armenian ch...

a column by Paul Chaderjian for the Asbarez newspaper Once there was and there was not… I am eight. The year is 1976. I am Armenian. I’m mixed up. And I am writing this with candlelight. Because, there is a war in my country – Liban. I am at home. All the windows and drapes are closed in our home. If a bomb explodes the glass blows and hurts people. So we keep all the windows covered. No glass. No blood. I tell my mother I am bored. She says to put away my toys and do art. My father tells me to read. I tell him I read all my books. He says to write a book. And I’m writing my book. My book is about war. It’s about how crazy people are to kill other people. Make them hurt. Make them cry. Destroy their homes and buildings and highways and the airport. And the new 747 MEA airplanes. The war started when I woke up one morning. I looked at my watch. It was only 7:30. I got up and got out of bed. I went to the living room. Everybody was crowded around the radio. They wer...

a column by Paul Chaderjian for the Asbarez newspaper Once there was and there was not… You feel a wave of air rush from the underground tube in front of you. The subway train is fast approaching Bagramian Station, your local friends are talking non-stop about Eurovision, and the invisible pressure of cold air – what you feel before you hear the hum of the tracks – embraces and chills you. This is your Saroyan moment. He had stood in New York City and missed home, and you are standing in the belly of your Homeland, homesick for Fresno. Instead of the cold air from the tunnels underneath Yerevan, you want to feel the fans at your gym in Fresno. You want to feel the giant fans above cooling you down as you jog on the treadmill, listening to Armenian revolutionary songs. You want to hear the songs that gave you goose bumps, that made you feel connected, the songs that had motivated you, your friends, your generation, and the generation that gave you life. These songs were ...