Home is Not Where the Heart is: A Story about Diaspora Armenians in Lebanon.

(Photograph: P. Papalov’s photographic studio:http://www.photomuseum.org.ge/photographers/papalov/papalov_en.htm)

The year was 1946, and Diaspora Armenians from the Middle East were invited to repatriate Soviet Armenia.

My father was around 22 years of age, and he owned a building in Burj Hammoud, the Beirut suburb that was founded by the survivors of the 1915 Armenian Genocide. He did not live in Burj Hammoud but visited once every few months to collect rent from tenants. He was living in Niha, al-Chouf, his hometown, and the trip back then consumed an entire day given the nature of the roads and unavailability of affordable methods of transportation.

Only Adam Ate the Apple

Sometimes I doubt that knowledge has been bestowed upon women. When faced with situations with some men, I doubt that I have ever existed on this planet. I ask other women about their experience in handling such situations, and I discover that they are far better misinformed than I am.

When a man spots a woman he likes, he sets her as his target. He calculates her movement, speed, direction, and when he should fire to kill. Sometimes she surprises him by an occasional stop at a kiosk, a display window, or a nail parlor, but he has scenarios for every move, every step, and every word she utters in self-defense. Men are prepared for war, while us women are still domesticated. We did not start out on the battlefield, and we have no experience in hunting. Our experience lies in luring the hunter indoors, but we have to cope with the consequences as a result: