One hot summer afternoon, my father asked me to bring back “one kilo of almonds,” (noush in Armenian). I was to try our local grocers first, but if I couldn't find any, I had permission to go to Nor Marash. My wish had finally been granted. That day, I gained the opportunity to cross the avenue that was otherwise off-limits to my nine-year-old self. I entered the first shop with enthusiasm. Noticing that no one was speaking Armenian, I simply said, “Baddi kilo noush” (one kilo of noush in Arabic), not realizing that “noush” was not an Arabic word.
ARAZ KOJAYAN
Due to lack of public spaces, my childhood relationship with the neighborhood (Bourj Hommoud/Arakadz) was woven from small, confined moments: greetings from neighbors, conversations shouted from balcony to balcony, eyes peering down during a commotion on the street, and the side jokes and gossips with shopkeepers. It was a life observed from windows and doorsteps. The neighborhood truly revealed itself as a territory, with an active and imposing presence, only when I had to cross the bustling avenue to Nor Marash. This journey required a careful, anxious crossing, as cars sped by with little regard for pedestrians in the absence of traffic lights or police—which was precisely why my parents forbade me from crossing it alone.
One hot summer afternoon, my father asked me to bring back “one kilo of almonds,” (noush in Armenian). I was to try our local grocers first, but if I couldn't find any, I had permission to go to Nor Marash. My wish had finally been granted. That day, I gained the opportunity to cross the avenue that was otherwise off-limits to my nine-year-old self. I entered the first shop with enthusiasm. Noticing that no one was speaking Armenian, I simply said, “Baddi kilo noush” (one kilo of noush in Arabic), not realizing that “noush” was not an Arabic word. The shopkeeper, without even trying to suppress his smirk, pointed to the wicker bags that occupied half the sidewalk. “Which ones?” he asked. I, who didn’t even know what almonds looked like, could only repeat, “noush, noush,” hoping that saying the word again would suddenly make it understandable. Finally, a female customer who had been listening to our conversation—also not hiding her laughter—said, “Loz, badda loz” (almonds, she wants almonds). Taking an almond from the bag, she split the shell with her almost nonexistent teeth and swallowed the kernel.
As the almond fell down her throat, a part of me fell with it. I was plunged into an environment where the shopkeeper's laughter seemed to shake my very being. After that incident, crossing that avenue lost all its charm. I felt like a stranger in that place, and would hurry past the shop so the shopkeeper would not suddenly remember me. The feeling of shame that the place evoked became a means of controlling my body and my sense of self; the space had imposed its power over me. The simple purchase of a kilo of almonds became a turning point, the first time I understood my identity through the space I occupied. It revealed that identity is not only about who we are, but also about where we are.
Years later, that avenue was replaced by a bridge, a change that caused the demolition or semi-demolition of several buildings. Many families and shopkeepers were displaced from their homes and shops. The face of the district changed, and the Armenian names of the neighborhoods began to fade from memory. For instance, the “Boghos Aris” neighborhood—named for the Catholic priest, Father Boghos Aris, who did the great work of gathering Armenian orphans—was destroyed by the bridge's construction.
And so, while I continue to call my neighborhoods by their Armenian names and speak Armenian in the shops—even if the person in front of me does not understand—the territory continues to impose its power over my body. It forces me into a constant negotiation with those who now share this space with me, a daily reminder of the borders that define us.