A Longing for Home
I’m Father Tadeos Barseghyan. With other refugees from Van province, my great-grandmother Ankin Hovhannisyan crossed the Turkish-Russian border, fleeing the genocidal violence that had engulfed her village.
Through all the dangers of the long desert road, relatives had protected the orphaned girl. At last they reached the holy city of Etchmiadzin, seat of the 1600-year-old Armenian Apostolic Church.
Surely, she believed, this exile would be temporary. When it was safe to go home, someone would come for her. And Ankin would be ready. After all, she had the house key.
After the years of genocide and world war came a revolution. In Russian—now Soviet—Armenia, Ankin grew up, married a fellow orphan, and raised three children in her new home.
Still she waited.
Another war, even more terrible than the first, enflamed the whole world. Then came a cold war that froze the border she had crossed decades earlier.
Ankin’s children and grandchildren grew up in the only home they had ever known, the holy city of Etchmiadzin, now called by its ancient name of Vagharshapat.
Having endured much, Ankin had learned great patience. Surely it would not be long now. Someone would come for her soon.
The years slipped by, unmooring her mind from the distractions of present time. The faces, the voices, the desert road, her village, all became clearer than ever.
Ankin watched. She waited. And at last, she began to doubt.
They didn’t come today, to take me home, she said one day. And the next day. And the next.
Ankin passed away in the holy city, crossing all borders that separate people from what they love.
She was buried with the house key, its lock, door, home, and neighbors having vanished without a trace.