I’m wrapping up my last few days in Armenia, I thought I would take a moment to share a few short stories about my time here. I don’t speak Armenian, I’ve never taken Crim Pro and for the first time ever, I was in a citywide water fight.
Language.
It has taken me the better part of 10 years to become OK at the German language. I know learning a language is not easy, but I’m lousy at it. I’ve always been in awe of those that can rattle off the half dozen languages they just “picked up” and some how speak fluently. I’m not that person, and I’ve known for some time that I will never be that person.
All that being said, I remain a glutton for punishment. I came to Armenia idealistically armed with a phonetic dictionary and a few online printouts with Armenian phrases hoping to learn this unique language. This was not enough for me to overcome the challenges of Armenian.
First, their alphabet looks like a series of Us with tails and deformed Fs. An example:
Սիելի աշավականնե նեկայացնում եմ Շաբաթ և Կիակի օեի աշավային ծագեը
The closest I came to reading Armenian was anglo-saxonizing the letters that looked like Roman letters. For example, the word meaning “open” in Armenian looks like and in my head sounds like “Fust.” This is not correct, and attempts like these are nothing but insults to the Armenian language and I apologize.
My spoken Armenian is also atrocious, but at least less offensive. When I got here I got the basics: hello, goodbye, how much, some numbers and a few other choice words to keep me alive like water and “edible?”. At first, my office was impressed by my dozen-word vocabulary. But as the summer wore on, they became less impressed as I only added a few words a week.
There came a point where I acknowledged my shortcomings and made the executive decision that I was not going to be able to learn Armenian in three months. I tabled my serious approach at the language and adopted a more body-language based vocabulary when it came to conversing in Armenian.
However, that did not stop me from trying to learn Russian. Being that Armenia is an ex-USSR state, Russian is everywhere and almost a native language. I decided Russian would more useful in more places down the road. So, I roped in one of my students, a linguist, and started a few hours of Russian a week.
In retrospect, it was not the best idea to have a student of mine see me flounder with the vocabulary of a child, but that is what happened. Initially, she asked me what I knew in Russian, I said a couple of words and told her I also knew the alphabet. At the time I didn’t realize this, but the alphabet thing was a partial truth.
A few years ago living in Austria, I tried to teach myself the Serbian Alphabet in preparation for a trip. Being that Serbian and Russian are fairly similar, I thought I could be confident in saying that I “knew” the alphabet. That trip to Serbia never happened, but I had been reading signs around Yerevan in Cyrillic and was more or less confident that I knew my letters.
Well, I didn’t. Come to find out when your knowledge of a spoken language is limited to non-spoken memorization of letters, you do not in fact know that alphabet. My first class, to say the least, was embarrassing as I struggled to pronounce the letters I said I “knew.” To add insult to injury, I was failing to read at a first grade level.
The rest of my classes were much of the same. Learning phrases, key words, counting and pronunciation were all apart of my two months of Russian. I wouldn’t say I know Russian at all or even claim that I tried to learn it in mixed company. However, last night I went out for a beer with a friend and the waiter asked in Russian how we were doing, and I responded, to my own surprise and awe, in Russian like I knew what I doing. I proceeded to ask for two beers, in Russian, and that is where my luck ran out. He asked a third question that I didn’t understand.
Instinctively, I answered in German.
Crim Pro.
I’m not sure why, but my students thought that I was a criminal law expert. I’ve never claimed to be any kind of expert on any subject ever. In regards to criminal law, I took one compulsory criminal law course, worked for a criminal law judge and wrote some criminal law reforms here in Yerevan. None of these things make me an expert in any sense of the word. All the same, my class wanted a survey on criminal procedure from warrant to interrogation, and I felt the need to oblige.
Surprisingly, the class was one of the better ones I taught. I put together a four-page primer from warrants through Miranda and finally interrogation. The class was quite active and more interested in the topic than I expected. I counted it as one of my teaching successes.
Excited to share this story, when I got home I talked to my state prosecutor girlfriend on Skype. This is a woman who has actually written memos and briefs on criminal law and put criminals in jail. She’s way more an expert than I could ever feign to claim. I was telling her about the class and the success, and amongst her excitement for me she stopped and asked, “Have you ever taken a criminal procedure course?”
The clear and honest answer is no. But for every crim pro class I haven’t taken, I have taught my own. So, perhaps there is something to be said for that. However, with this trend of working with and talking about criminal law reform in Armenia I’ve gotten myself into other trouble. I met with the law faculty of Yerevan State University the other week and they looked at me and asked, “So, you are the American who lectures on criminal law at the University of Oregon?” Shocked and knowing all my professors at home would cringe at the very thought, I quickly tried to right this misconception.
Even with all this honesty amongst my students and the faculty at YSU, I was asked to lecture at the University on criminal law.
I politely declined the offer.
Vartavar.
Originally a pagan tradition, when Armenia went Christian a few thousand years ago they kept this sacred rite. And thank whichever god they did. Back in the day, Vartavar had to do with Astghik, the goddess of water amongst other things. Legend has it that before Christianity and super soakers, Vartavar was more about releasing doves, giving roses—“vart” is rose in Armenian—and sprinkling a little water for good measure.
Today, there are few doves and roses involved, and sprinkling is a verb best reserved for another day. Vartavar is now a no holds barred, citywide water fight. I’d been told that there were no rules relating to who was a target, everyone and everything was fair game. Honestly, when we put together our first few buckets of water balloons I was hesitant to just nail a stranger from the balcony. It was one thing if they themselves were armed with water, but it was another to just wail the random couple walking down the street.
As the day progressed, however, it became evident that I was correctly informed: everyone is a valid target. And so the water balloons started flying. Whoever crossed our “kill zone” off the balcony, except the old, babies and the indigent, were fair game.
Amped from sniping unsuspecting Yerevanis, we went to the artificial Swan Lake in the middle of downtown Yerevan. It was the Mad Max of water fights. Everyone was dousing everyone. There was not a dry soul insight. This was Thunderdome without the need to escape.
This was all out war and I needed more support. Over time I began to convince children who spoke basic English to join me in my valiant acts against the dry. Quickly, I realized why the Children’s Crusade was so successful: these kids were on point and ruthless. I’d communicate, “blue shirt, black pants. Go!” And that was that; mission accomplished. Even after my child army and I parted ways and moved to another part of the lake, these kids would appear from time to time and avenge me against my most recent douser or attempt to throw me into the lake. The latter had me chasing numerous children around this park to retributively throw them into the lake. I was amazed at the lack of parental intervention as a 26-year-old American chased 10-year-old children around a public park. It must have been the magic of Vartavar.
After a few hours of more or less harmless fun, we headed back home to rest, rehydrate our insides and to continue our tyranny off of the balcony. This time, however, on an adjacent balcony were two young, Armenian women and they looked guilty. A few moments later there was only one woman on the balcony and her eyes were trained on the floor above us. Her friend had quietly positioned herself above us and like protecting a castle with a hot caldron of tar, she let loose an avalanche of water—also known as a waterfall.
This is quite possibly the best holiday I have ever experienced. The closest relative I have known is the Krampuslauf in rural Austria. However, that is more of a schnapps soaked terror fest where young men dressed in animal skins and devils masks chase you down and whack you with switches and fistfuls of flour all in the name of Saint Nicolas. Both fun, both Christian, both I want to do again.
A few days after Vartavar, I was at the office cleaning out my belongings when one of the women asked me how I spent the holiday. Brimming with childish glee, I told her. She laughed and asked if I got drenched. “Head to toe,” I told her. As it turns out, to be drenched on Vartavar is to be blessed with a prosperous and lucky coming year.
Here’s to believing in the power of Vartavar.
Language.
It has taken me the better part of 10 years to become OK at the German language. I know learning a language is not easy, but I’m lousy at it. I’ve always been in awe of those that can rattle off the half dozen languages they just “picked up” and some how speak fluently. I’m not that person, and I’ve known for some time that I will never be that person.
All that being said, I remain a glutton for punishment. I came to Armenia idealistically armed with a phonetic dictionary and a few online printouts with Armenian phrases hoping to learn this unique language. This was not enough for me to overcome the challenges of Armenian.
First, their alphabet looks like a series of Us with tails and deformed Fs. An example:
Սիելի աշավականնե նեկայացնում եմ Շաբաթ և Կիակի օեի աշավային ծագեը
The closest I came to reading Armenian was anglo-saxonizing the letters that looked like Roman letters. For example, the word meaning “open” in Armenian looks like and in my head sounds like “Fust.” This is not correct, and attempts like these are nothing but insults to the Armenian language and I apologize.
My spoken Armenian is also atrocious, but at least less offensive. When I got here I got the basics: hello, goodbye, how much, some numbers and a few other choice words to keep me alive like water and “edible?”. At first, my office was impressed by my dozen-word vocabulary. But as the summer wore on, they became less impressed as I only added a few words a week.
There came a point where I acknowledged my shortcomings and made the executive decision that I was not going to be able to learn Armenian in three months. I tabled my serious approach at the language and adopted a more body-language based vocabulary when it came to conversing in Armenian.
However, that did not stop me from trying to learn Russian. Being that Armenia is an ex-USSR state, Russian is everywhere and almost a native language. I decided Russian would more useful in more places down the road. So, I roped in one of my students, a linguist, and started a few hours of Russian a week.
In retrospect, it was not the best idea to have a student of mine see me flounder with the vocabulary of a child, but that is what happened. Initially, she asked me what I knew in Russian, I said a couple of words and told her I also knew the alphabet. At the time I didn’t realize this, but the alphabet thing was a partial truth.
A few years ago living in Austria, I tried to teach myself the Serbian Alphabet in preparation for a trip. Being that Serbian and Russian are fairly similar, I thought I could be confident in saying that I “knew” the alphabet. That trip to Serbia never happened, but I had been reading signs around Yerevan in Cyrillic and was more or less confident that I knew my letters.
Well, I didn’t. Come to find out when your knowledge of a spoken language is limited to non-spoken memorization of letters, you do not in fact know that alphabet. My first class, to say the least, was embarrassing as I struggled to pronounce the letters I said I “knew.” To add insult to injury, I was failing to read at a first grade level.
The rest of my classes were much of the same. Learning phrases, key words, counting and pronunciation were all apart of my two months of Russian. I wouldn’t say I know Russian at all or even claim that I tried to learn it in mixed company. However, last night I went out for a beer with a friend and the waiter asked in Russian how we were doing, and I responded, to my own surprise and awe, in Russian like I knew what I doing. I proceeded to ask for two beers, in Russian, and that is where my luck ran out. He asked a third question that I didn’t understand.
Instinctively, I answered in German.
Crim Pro.
I’m not sure why, but my students thought that I was a criminal law expert. I’ve never claimed to be any kind of expert on any subject ever. In regards to criminal law, I took one compulsory criminal law course, worked for a criminal law judge and wrote some criminal law reforms here in Yerevan. None of these things make me an expert in any sense of the word. All the same, my class wanted a survey on criminal procedure from warrant to interrogation, and I felt the need to oblige.
Surprisingly, the class was one of the better ones I taught. I put together a four-page primer from warrants through Miranda and finally interrogation. The class was quite active and more interested in the topic than I expected. I counted it as one of my teaching successes.
Excited to share this story, when I got home I talked to my state prosecutor girlfriend on Skype. This is a woman who has actually written memos and briefs on criminal law and put criminals in jail. She’s way more an expert than I could ever feign to claim. I was telling her about the class and the success, and amongst her excitement for me she stopped and asked, “Have you ever taken a criminal procedure course?”
The clear and honest answer is no. But for every crim pro class I haven’t taken, I have taught my own. So, perhaps there is something to be said for that. However, with this trend of working with and talking about criminal law reform in Armenia I’ve gotten myself into other trouble. I met with the law faculty of Yerevan State University the other week and they looked at me and asked, “So, you are the American who lectures on criminal law at the University of Oregon?” Shocked and knowing all my professors at home would cringe at the very thought, I quickly tried to right this misconception.
Even with all this honesty amongst my students and the faculty at YSU, I was asked to lecture at the University on criminal law.
I politely declined the offer.
Vartavar.
Originally a pagan tradition, when Armenia went Christian a few thousand years ago they kept this sacred rite. And thank whichever god they did. Back in the day, Vartavar had to do with Astghik, the goddess of water amongst other things. Legend has it that before Christianity and super soakers, Vartavar was more about releasing doves, giving roses—“vart” is rose in Armenian—and sprinkling a little water for good measure.
Today, there are few doves and roses involved, and sprinkling is a verb best reserved for another day. Vartavar is now a no holds barred, citywide water fight. I’d been told that there were no rules relating to who was a target, everyone and everything was fair game. Honestly, when we put together our first few buckets of water balloons I was hesitant to just nail a stranger from the balcony. It was one thing if they themselves were armed with water, but it was another to just wail the random couple walking down the street.
As the day progressed, however, it became evident that I was correctly informed: everyone is a valid target. And so the water balloons started flying. Whoever crossed our “kill zone” off the balcony, except the old, babies and the indigent, were fair game.
Amped from sniping unsuspecting Yerevanis, we went to the artificial Swan Lake in the middle of downtown Yerevan. It was the Mad Max of water fights. Everyone was dousing everyone. There was not a dry soul insight. This was Thunderdome without the need to escape.
This was all out war and I needed more support. Over time I began to convince children who spoke basic English to join me in my valiant acts against the dry. Quickly, I realized why the Children’s Crusade was so successful: these kids were on point and ruthless. I’d communicate, “blue shirt, black pants. Go!” And that was that; mission accomplished. Even after my child army and I parted ways and moved to another part of the lake, these kids would appear from time to time and avenge me against my most recent douser or attempt to throw me into the lake. The latter had me chasing numerous children around this park to retributively throw them into the lake. I was amazed at the lack of parental intervention as a 26-year-old American chased 10-year-old children around a public park. It must have been the magic of Vartavar.
After a few hours of more or less harmless fun, we headed back home to rest, rehydrate our insides and to continue our tyranny off of the balcony. This time, however, on an adjacent balcony were two young, Armenian women and they looked guilty. A few moments later there was only one woman on the balcony and her eyes were trained on the floor above us. Her friend had quietly positioned herself above us and like protecting a castle with a hot caldron of tar, she let loose an avalanche of water—also known as a waterfall.
This is quite possibly the best holiday I have ever experienced. The closest relative I have known is the Krampuslauf in rural Austria. However, that is more of a schnapps soaked terror fest where young men dressed in animal skins and devils masks chase you down and whack you with switches and fistfuls of flour all in the name of Saint Nicolas. Both fun, both Christian, both I want to do again.
A few days after Vartavar, I was at the office cleaning out my belongings when one of the women asked me how I spent the holiday. Brimming with childish glee, I told her. She laughed and asked if I got drenched. “Head to toe,” I told her. As it turns out, to be drenched on Vartavar is to be blessed with a prosperous and lucky coming year.
Here’s to believing in the power of Vartavar.
