Absolutely. In a heartbeat. No question. I’ll be better prepared, knowing what to expect and how to better handle certain situations.

On the twenty-fifth of May, I attended the joint funeral of Allen Yekikian and Sosé Thomassian. Their loved ones shared passionate words of anger and admiration after the burial, and the day was finished with a fitting song from the revolutionary past of our homeland.

95 years of questioning the reality of planned, brutal mass executions, the ethnic cleansing of a people from their place is far too long. Up against a looming deadline, a threat of losing their history and identity, a new generation of Armenians is waking up to an economic collapse, disappearing Diasporas, and questionable leadership.

It is definitely not enough. One week in Proshyan is just too short. It’s too short for “Jampar” (camp). It’s too short to understand the value of the village, its people, the fallen heroes that lived there and their families that continue to do so.

As our final days in Arstakh came to an end, I began to look back at what my group and I have accomplished and experienced in just these two weeks of Jampar (Camp).

Our last day of camp in Gyumri has already arrived. These last two weeks have flown by, but it feels as if we’ve been here for months.

As our third week in Armenia and our second week of Gyumri Jampar begins, I reminisce about all of the things we have experienced in Armenia thus far.

Today was an interesting day. First, waking up to the breathtaking mornings of Gyumri’s clear skies and to the soft chirping of birds flying. Opening my eyes to something like this was more like a dream.

Our quick weekend spent in Javakhk was without a doubt one to remember. From waking up cramped in a small room with 12 people and getting ready in 10 minutes, I was anxious to see how this day would go.

I’ve been to Armenia once before, but as a tourist. I never thought that I would have the opportunity to experience my homeland in such a unique and memorable way.

I love Armenia. I love everything about it. The cute old women selling apricots at the corner of the street, the Soviet style buildings that managed to survive despite all of the development around it, the fact that it is so beautiful that no picture I take will do it any justice, and especially the fact that I am staring at Mt. Ararat as I write this blog.

The AYF Youth Corps program has a long and distinguished story that began in 1994, following the Bishkek protocol that set up a ceasefire in Artsakh.

I have waited for years until the day I would be old enough to participate in AYF youth corps, and finally the day is here.

I am a mother of two young children and although my son is not named Allen and my daughter is not named Sosé I have spent the last month grieving: consumed by anger, disbelief and sadness.