Involvement and commitment are two words that are sometimes used interchangeably. If you’re involved, that means you’re committed.
BY MARIA TITIZIAN
In the absence of faith and hope and belief living can often be dwindled away, becoming mundane, a chore, destroying the core of what we were meant to do or be to others as human beings.
These past few weeks we have been in a deep winter freeze in Yerevan. Temperatures have plummeted causing [...]
When my Marashtsi grandmother moved to Canada, I was 12 years old. I had only seen pictures of her. She was the typical Armenian grandmother of her generation, the survivor generation…plump, dressed in dark clothes, long, willowy white hair tied in a bun, round face, full lips and tired eyes. When she finally landed in Toronto, I thought my life would be complete. I had felt the absence of grandparents in my life and I was ready to embrace her wholly.
Every Armenian on the planet remembers the moment they heard the news.
On December 7, 1988 at exactly 11:41 AM the ground beneath our homeland shifted. When the earth stopped moving, 25,000 people were dead, tens of thousands were injured, and hundreds of thousands were left homeless as villages, towns and cities were devastated by an earthquake that was felt around the world.
Being sentimental is a way of life for me. I wish I was less temperamental and could place a significant amount of distance between my mental health and my actual life, but I realize this is never going to happen. While it means I wear my heart on my sleeve, I have finally made my peace with this personal characteristic because it also allows me to be open to the splendor of life.
Developing complex models and postulating theories, writing academic papers, organizing high-level conferences and advancing policies to address some of the most pressing issues facing the Armenian nation is typically the method we employ. We discuss and analyze, argue incessantly, lose our composure in the melee of verbal and pseudo-intellectual traffic and usually end up nowhere.
When we were little, our parents used to take us fishing in the summer months. Almost every weekend, we would gather our gear, pack the car and drive two hours north of Toronto to a summer resort area we simply knew as cottage country. We usually stayed at some motel, definitely not five-star but when you’re a kid you don’t notice the less-than-stellar rooms or amenities.