About my life in Armenia, about being a mom and an activist, working for women's rights.
The challenges and benefits of raising a family in a post-soviet republic.
Finding a place, my place and calling it HOME.


Mima is gone, but not entirely

Finally back to Canada, with the entire family.  When we leave a place, we never really leave it completely; we just grab some parts of it and take it with us everywhere, then add some parts to it over time. We collect fragments of life through our journey across borders and lifestyles. Sometimes we let go of some parts, we hold on desperately to others. We rarely let go completely. So each return starts with a feeling of unease.

On the 4th morning after my arrival to Montreal, Mima passed away. The nurse at the elderly home said it was a beautiful death. I am not sure what that meant. Sometimes people need to say those things to comfort the family. I guess she meant that she died peacefully in her sleep without bothering anyone. I am happy for her, since she was looking forward to this day, especially after the death of her husband, my grandfather over 15 years ago. She never managed to find a meaning to her life after that. She was one of those women who devoted all their life to their family. She opened her first bank account at 70, after my grandfather’s death, to receive her pension. I don’t remember her having any kind of hobby or interest in life other than what was going on in the kitchen and in the house. Dado (my grandfather) used to take her everywhere, entertain her and decide for her well-being. When he died, her life collapsed. She relied heavily on my mom afterwards, but it wasn’t the same. After 50 years with my grandfather she never thought that she’d one day be left alone to manage her own life.