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Invisible or Abandoned

Gay & Lesbian Armenians Search for Acceptance

 

By HRAIR SARKIS SARKISSIAN

 

It's a banquet at Sportsmen's Lodge in Studio City, California. The hall is

elegantly decorated with, among other things, several tri-color flags. The

attendees are dressed to the nines, enthusiastically dancing the circle dance

as a disc jockey plays Aram Asatrian's popular Hai em yes, Hai es du [i'm

Armenian, you're Armenian.] It's just one more dinner dance in the

Diaspora's largest Armenian community. With one difference. The banner

overhead reads: Armenian Gay & Lesbian Association (AGLA) Second Annual

Banquet.

Those in attendance range in age from 16 to 60. There are about 200

attorneys, teachers, homemakers, insurance agents, architects and students in

the hall. They have two things in common: they're Armenian and they're

homo***ual.

"Gay and lesbian Armenians are often faced with one of two painful

decisions," says Azad, founder of AGLA. "Live your life the way you feel you

were created and stay away from the Armenian community for fear of

persecution, or stay in the Armenian community and deny your ***ual identity

in order to gain acceptance." But for many, these choices have become

unacceptable. As a result, some have started to create their own communities.

AGLA, the first of three Armenian gay and lesbian organizations in the US,

was founded in 1997. "For years, I tried to find other Armenian gays and

lesbians. I knew they had to be around," says Azad. She placed an

advertisement in a Los Angeles gay and lesbian publication announcing the

foundation of AGLA and its first meeting at her home. Within two weeks, she

received over 200 calls. "They were all in disbelief. Some thought it was a

joke, others thought it was a set-up. A group of 15 started to meet and soon

grew to more than 80. I was overwhelmed. These were kids in their 20s who had

given up on ever being accepted by other Armenians. They would sit around and

talk for hours." Ultimately, the discussions always led to how the Armenian

community treats them, how they might tell their parents and what would

happen if they did.

This was a subject with which Azad herself was painfully familiar. Born in

Baghdad to a family of eight children, she knew early on that she was

different from her sisters and identified more with her brothers. "I used to

steal my brothers' shorts and wear them in hiding, away from my mother," she

remembers. Azad's internal battle continued for years even after moving to

Los Angeles with her family. "I used to be very sad and miserable. I felt

like a freak. I was constantly questioning why this was happening to me. But

there was no getting away from it."

After a great deal of pressure from her family to get married, Azad finally

told them that she was a lesbian. "It was a nightmare. All hell broke loose,"

says Azad, haltingly, the pain still evident eight years later. Her older

brother pulled a gun on her. Her mother told her she would go to hell. "My

mom was mostly concerned about what to tell people if they found out," she

recounts tearfully. "I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I asked them if

their concern about what to tell people was more intense than their love for

me. They had no answer." After Azad's oldest sister convinced the brother to

put down the gun, they told her to leave and not to come back. "As far as

they were concerned, I didn't exist. They said they didn't have a sister

named Azad anymore," she adds.

"We used to be so close and now I was alienated, considered dead. I agonized

a lot. I missed them so much," continues Azad, quietly. "This is one of the

reasons I started AGLA. I didn't want others to be alone going through what

my family put me through."

Azad has seen similar behavior in other families as well. "When I try to help

families deal with their gay and lesbian kids, I often hear them say that

they would rather see the child dead than live in shame. The outside pressure

is so strong, it doesn't allow families to take a minute and think about what

they are actually doing to their own children. They are hurting them more

than anyone else can ever hurt them."

Azad currently lives with her partner of seven years, Wendy. The couple has

been the only parents Wendy's now 15-year-old son has ever known. "He is a

wonderful young man, a straight ‘A' student and a gentle soul," she says.

After years of trying, Azad was finally able to educate her family regarding

her ***uality and they have finally come around. "Now, they cannot get enough

of me. Wendy and our son are part of the family. At Christmas and

Thanksgiving, the whole family comes to our house. It means a lot to me. And

it makes all the difference in the world," she says, smiling.

Azad's willingness to speak publicly is rare. Other members of AGLA were less

willing. Indeed, one of the organizations even asked not to be identified by

name for this story. In true Armenian spirit, this second group split off

from AGLA a year and a half ago over some differences in direction. It now

has over 100 members and fears risking the safety and security of its

members, who come "to find comfort and acceptance in a safe and supportive

Armenian environment," says a member.

"We all have heard horror stories about Armenians abusing gay and lesbian

Armenians in the name of God or to protect the community's honor," says

Khachig, the organization's former president, and a successful businessman

who has been involved with these groups for over three years. Azad had

received such calls when she first organized AGLA, "threatening to kill her,

even threatening to burn down her businesses. Others informed her that she

was going to hell," says Khachig.

Khachig, 34, was born in Lebanon and has been living in Los Angeles for 15

years. He has been involved in other community organizations, but this is the

first organization where he is open about his ***uality.

 

Born Into the Enemy Camp

The newest of the three organizations, Armenian Gay and Lesbian Association,

(not related to AGLA in Los Angeles) was founded in New York's East Village

in May 1999.

One of the founders, Arsen, a 26-year-old art student, was watching the Gay

Pride Parade in New York City last year, when he saw two women marching with

an Armenian flag. "I thought I had lost my mind," he says. "I ran into the

crowd, hugged them and asked who they were. We exchanged numbers and later

got in touch with each other. We decided to start a group for people like

ourselves, who are completely cut-off from the Armenian community because of

our ***uality." The organization has already attracted over 50 members, most

of them over the age of 35. "Our members are curious about Armenian culture,

something that has been missing from their lives," says Vartan, one of the

initial founders of the organization. "They miss that. They want to rekindle

their heritage. We provide them with a comfortable environment where their

interests in their heritage will not result in ridicule."

The irony is inescapable. They voluntarily return to the Armenian community,

and there, they face abuse. This is not unusual, explains Jack Drescher, MD,

a psychiatrist who is the American Psychiatric Association's (APA)

spokesperson on homo***uality issues. "Being born gay or lesbian is like

being born into the enemy camp," says Drescher and continues that this is

different from what happens to most minorities. "Most members of minorities

are born into minority families where they have the support of the parents

who will teach them the necessary techniques to survive. But not when it

comes to gay and lesbian children. Not only do strangers hate them, but their

own family may reject them." he adds.

 

The Community Perspective

Although the APA removed homo***uality from its list of mental disorders in

1973, there are many within and outside the Armenian community who do not

accept homo***uality as a legitimate lifestyle and who believe gays and

lesbians should be unconditionally condemned. Reverend Father Shnork

Demirjian, Pastor of Saint Peter Armenian Church in Van Nuys, California, is

not among them.

Demirjian has had the opportunity to interact with gay Armenians. "After

getting to know me, they reveal themselves, they want to find out how

tolerant the church would be regarding their lifestyle," he says.

Demirjian is not hesitant in telling them about the church's negative

position regarding homo***uality, "But that does not mean they are not

welcome in the church. They want an Armenian clergy to greet them, go to

their home and bless them. They don't want to be ignored because of who they

are. Although I don't agree with their lifestyle, it does not mean that I

cannot be their friend," he adds. "If I think that a person has created an

obstacle on his or her way to heaven, I cannot create an obstacle on my way

to heaven. Lack of compassion towards any person, including a homo***ual

person, would be such an obstacle."

Demirjian believes that a homo***ual is in transition, although he doesn't

rule out exceptions. "My personal belief is that any priest, based on God's

unconditional love, should show compassion, love and care towards the

homo***ual members of our community. God did not say ‘I love you if.' There

are no ifs. But, according to the church's canons, ***ual relations between

same *** individuals are not condoned. So, the priest should also pray for

that moment of change. I try to help them understand the difficulties and try

to show them the love of God," he says.

Demirjian is not alone among those who believe that homo***uality is a

lifestyle choice that can be undone. Drescher disagrees. "It is not a matter

of choosing to be gay, lesbian or straight. Rather, a choice of whether to

hide or reveal yourself," he explains.

Drescher believes that Armenians, like many communities in diaspora, have a

particular need not to enter into the mainstream community when it comes to

social change. On the contrary, they demand the retention of the traditional

culture, unchanged. Since no gay and lesbian culture is traditional, it is

automatically considered a betrayal of the traditional culture. "The

community is not deliberately trying to hurt anybody, but it is

unintentionally creating an environment where their gay and lesbian children

are not accepted by the entire community," he says.

 

Alternative to Betrayal

For those children who do not wish to "betray" the expectations placed on

them, the alternative is "constant internal conflict."

Or denial. Saro, 31, was married for nearly a decade, divorced, and finished

professional school before he accepted his homo***uality. He moved to another

state. His mother never suspected. He didn't tell her.

"We would only see each other every few months, but I could tell something

was wrong. He wasn't happy in his marriage. But I never, ever suspected. I'm

still surprised. This was my son, I could read his every thought, every

emotion, and I never knew.

"Finally, I pushed and pushed, and he told me. I was in shock," she says,

still looking stunned years later. Quickly, she adds, "Not that it's a bad

thing, but you know the way we've been raised," and her voice trails off.

Seta was born and raised in Lebanon. She and her husband were active in the

community's cultural life.

"I blamed myself for not having guessed. My son had obviously suffered so

much, trying to do what we expected of him, and later worrying about how to

tell his mother, " Seta continues, teary-eyed. "I thought a lot about it. One

thing convinced me. Saro loves me so much, he's the last person in the world

who would want to see me sad and upset. He wouldn't tell me this and live

this way knowing it's something that's going to upset me, if there was

anything he could do about it. So, it's not something he can overcome, it's

something that's not in his hands to change."

Seta acknowledges that she hasn't told most of her friends. Still, she has

met her son's friends, has invited them for dinner. "Imagine that someone

should suffer so much in society, and then the family should make him or her

suffer even more. I won't do that to my son," she says.

Those interviewed for this story say more parents react like Azad's than

Saro's.

"There is this ridiculous belief in many communities, including ours, that

if you talk about certain things, kids will do it, or become it," argues

Viken Yacoubian, principal of Rose and Alex Pilibos Armenian School in

Hollywood, California. Yacoubian, a Ph.D. candidate in psychology, is also an

adjunct professor at Woodbury University's Behavioral Science Department. "As

illogical as it is, that belief still exists. To say that if we talk about

homo***uality, someone will change from being a hetero***ual to a homo***ual

is completely ridiculous."

Yet, based on that belief, many in leadership positions shun those who are

openly gay. It is the same Armenian culture that some gays and lesbians want

to make a part of their lives that they say is also pushing them away.

"What concerns me most about the Armenian community is that in an effort to

maintain a strong sense of Armenian culture, the community hangs on to old

ways of thinking. That is self-defeating and does not achieve what it

intends," says Arlene Avakian, author of Lion Woman's Legacy, an Armenian-Amer

ican Memoir. Avakian teaches at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst

and does not participate much in the Armenian community. "My adult female

identity is not reflected in the community," she says. "I can barely bring my

feminist self into the community, let alone my lesbian identity."

The Armenian community tends to "push many interesting people out. It allows

only people who believe in the status quo to become leaders and set values

for the community. Many who are interested in looking at new ideas and want

to see change, or don't fit into the status quo are labeled as not a hundred

per cent Armenian. They are forced away," she says.

Arlene, who has been with her partner, Martha, a psychotherapist, for 26

years, receives many messages from Armenian women who are shocked to find

that there is another Armenian lesbian. "It's always something like ‘Oh my

God, I thought I was the only one. I want to get in touch with other Armenian

gays and lesbians,'" she says. "I think it's great that these individuals

are organizing and are able to find others they can identify with as both

Armenian and gay or lesbian. They don't have to split themselves."

The three gay and lesbian organizations explain their raison d'etre in much

the same terms as any other Armenian organization: To expose Armenians to the

Armenian culture. And they try.

Kevork was born in Beirut and has lived in Los Angeles since he was two.

"Logically, I knew I would not be accepted in the Armenian community, being

gay," he says. As Kevork finally accepted his ***uality during his college

days, he felt the need to connect with his Armenian culture as well. But he

wasn't sure how he could be more involved with the community as a gay person.

"I accidentally found out about the group in Los Angeles and it was exactly

what I needed," he says. It's been over a year since that day and Kevork is

now the secretary of the organization and has made many friends there. Four

months ago, he started to learn Armenian for the first time with the help of

some friends from the group. "We get together every week. I have learned most

of the alphabet and hope to speak fluently one day," he says.

Kevork credits the organization for bringing him back to his Armenian roots.

"This has been a great experience," he says. "There is a significant need for

such an organization in our homophobic community." Not too long ago, a

16-year-old girl heard Kevork and his friends studying Armenian at a local

café and came over to talk to them. "When she found out we were gay, she was

incredibly relieved, realizing that she wasn't alone," he says. "She was

suicidal because her parents had found out she was a lesbian and told her to

either kill herself or they would kill themselves." Kevork realized that this

young woman's problems were beyond the reach of their organization, "but we

were able to direct her to the right people and offer her an environment

where she can be with people who understand her and have been through similar

experiences."

 

Choosing an Armenian Partner

There are some who have come out to their immediate families, only to find

that they are expected to stay away from the community. "I came out when I

was 20," says Hagop, a 29-year-old attorney, "and am more or less openly gay

among non-Armenians. My parents are not particularly accepting of my

homo***uality. My father clings to the notion that I will get married

someday, and my mother, though understanding, has requested that I not come

out in the Armenian community." Hagop thinks that's because she does not want

him to be exposed to ridicule. But he can't be completely certain since they

haven't discussed his homo***uality since he first told them almost a decade

ago.

"There is no compelling reason for me to come out at this time in the

community. One powerful reason would be if I were to find an Armenian partner

who would want to be involved in the community. Maybe a nice doctor?" he

says, laughing. "When I have someone in my life whom I love, I hope that my

parents will eventually see it and accept it. But I can't force them.

"Someday, I'd like to have kids. A gay couple probably won't be allowed to

adopt an orphan from Armenia, but the idea is for the child to be brought up

in an Armenian community, go to youth groups, have the same experiences I had

growing up," says Hagop.

Hagop expresses a sentiment shared by many gays and lesbians, "The only thing

bad about being gay is that you have to put up with everyone else's

preconceived, and often uninformed, notions about what it means."

At age 30, Vahan is the director of operations for a major corporation and a

the current president of the Armenian gay and lesbian organization in Los

Angeles. He has also been in a relationship with an Armenian guy for the last

year. They met through the group. "Having an Armenian partner is an amazing

experience," he says. "We understand each other on all levels. Our culture

and religion is so unique. It is great to go to the same church together,

speak the same language, enjoy the same foods."

Although Vahan is not out to his family for fear of disappointing them, as a

couple, they are accepted by his partner's parents. "We travel together and

she calls me ‘son'. She introduces me to their friends as her son's

boyfriend," he says. Vahan enjoys the acceptance from his partner's family

but is pained by what has happened to his relationship with his own family.

"We used to be so close, but I've become so distant from them," he says.

Knowing that they will not accept his homo***uality, "I have created this

barrier between us, which is killing me inside."

 

Having to Choose

But for some, leaving the Armenian community behind was not a choice, rather

a necessary act of survival. "Growing up, my first identity was Armenian. The

first lens I learned to see the world through," says Haig, 28, a recent

Psychology graduate from Columbia University. "When I came to terms with my

***ual identity at age 20, I knew I would not be accepted in the community

which had meant so much to me," he says. After attending several Armenian

Student Association meetings both at USC, during his undergraduate years and

later at Columbia, it was clear to Haig that he was not welcome. "I hated

Armenians for a while because I felt that I was being forced to make a

choice."

Haig recently discovered AGLA in New York. "This is my opportunity to be

within the Armenian community and still be myself," he says.

But things were much different for Haig when he first came out to his family

at the age of 23. He decided to wait until he was no longer dependent on

them, fearing that he might be asked to leave the family's home. Although his

(divorced) parents did not react rashly , Haig has not been in contact with

his father for the last year and a half. "I don't want to talk to him since

he has chosen not to respect my relationship with Peter. I translate that to

mean that he does not have any respect for me."

Peter, 36, and Haig have been living together for over three years. "When

things became serious with Peter, the fact that he was not Armenian was in

the back of my mind. Then I realized that this is it. He is the one I want to

spend my life with," adds Haig. "Peter is great. He is very level headed,

generous and has a kind heart. He is also learning about the Armenian culture

and just read Passage to Ararat."

Haig's mother, who lives in Los Angeles, has been very understanding and

supportive. She has a picture of Haig and Peter in her bedroom and has the

couple over for holidays. When she calls their home, she leaves messages for

both, calling Peter ‘Bedig'.

Sevag, a 23-year-old graduate student, lives with his Mom who has known about

his ***uality for a long time, "but needed to hear it from me," he says.

Things went quite smoothly and she is proud of who he is, even though she has

not fully accepted it. "She came to one of the dances of our group to see who

my friends were," says Sevag. At the dance, she ran into another parent who

was there for the same reason. "They cried together, but she was happy to

have found someone who understood her. She was also shocked by the number of

gay and lesbian Armenians there." he adds.

"All my friends are Armenian and it means a lot being with them," he says.

Sevag finds this organization to be a great opportunity for Armenian gays and

lesbians to find support, make true friendships, have fun and be accepted for

who they are.

Sevag believes society pushes gay and lesbians away and forces them to lie.

"If Armenian society was more open and accepting, gays and lesbians won't be

forced to make wrong choices for themselves by getting into straight

relationships," he says. "It happens all the time and it destroys lives,

families and people. They end up playing roles in society instead of being

themselves and being much happier and productive individuals."

 

Throwing the First Stone

The fear of not being accepted by their families and society in general is

magnified in teenage boys. "Nobody really forces teenage girls to go out

dating. Boys have a lot of pressure to show interest in the opposite *** in

their teenage years. That may be why gay adolescents are three times more

likely to commit suicide than straight adolescents," says Drescher, author of

Psychoanalytic Therapy and the Gay Man.

Sevag continues, "Suicide, which is another taboo subject in Armenian

society, happens but no one hears about it. We hear that this kid died of

heart failure, or in a car accident, or drowned. Some of them commit suicide,

but no one knows," he adds.

"The church should proclaim her teachings about homo***uality," responds

Demirjian. "But this does not mean that the tools of punishment of the

medieval period should be revived and homo***uals be singled out and made

scapegoats of society and thus persecuted," he adds. "When they brought to

Jesus the woman who'd had immoral ***ual acts, according to Mosaic Law, she

was going to be stoned to death. But Jesus' compassionate response was, ‘Let

he among you who has never committed a sin cast the first stone.' Then he

looked at the woman and told her to go and sin no more."

There are plenty willing to throw the first stone, nevertheless. Melineh, 29,

who maintains the website for one of the gay and lesbian organizations, finds

the negative messages posted there not just degrading, but also disturbing

and horrifying. "There is one guy who visits the site two to three times a

week and posts ****ographic images. He says ‘This is normal â€` you are not.'

Another guy suggested that all gay and lesbian Armenians should go to Armenia

so they can be used as coal, for fire," says Melineh, crying as she repeats

the tales.

 

False Sense of Security

"A certain percentage of the general population is homo***ual. You can see

that they have not been converted to homo***uality. This suggests that it is

normal to assume that the Armenian community, being part of society, also has

homo***uals," says Yacoubian.

Obviously, not everyone shares this logic. "A frequently-repeated comment is

that gay and lesbian Armenians bring disgrace to the Armenian community. And

of course, ‘There is no such thing as gay Armenians â€` stop this.'"recounts

Melineh.

"When I see these comments, I can't help but think these people might be our

neighbors," says Melineh, who, together with her partner of five years, Ani,

also 29, lives in one of the most densely-populated Armenian neighborhoods of

Los Angeles. "I walk around wondering what would happen if the person behind

me knew that I am gay," she says. "I realize that by being around gay and

lesbian Armenians, we get this false sense of security, thinking that all

Armenians love us."

Melineh, who was involved in various Armenian social groups during her teens

and early 20s, found herself staying away from the community, knowing she

would not be accepted. "I had to get away from the social constraints that

are put upon an Armenian daughter. I did not want to be a doctor or a lawyer.

I wanted to be an artist and a linguist."

But the minute she got away, Melineh realized she was missing something. "I

realized that I had to bridge the gap between me and the Armenian community."

Being with Ani helps, along with her involvement with the local Armenian gay

and lesbian organization.

"The people who are just starting to come to our meetings are exhausted and

‘starved' from being away from the Armenian community. They are really

enjoying being around Armenians. One person, within two months, came full

circle from being suicidal to feeling complete as an Armenian and a lesbian,"

she says. As a past president of the organization, "It is great to see that

something I helped create goes beyond just the group and actually changes

people's lives," says Melineh.

 

Parents, First and Last

But her biggest accomplishment, Melineh believes, is her family's acceptance

of her and the relationship she has with Ani. "Armenian parents live for

their children," she says. "Now, my parents know that I'm in a safe place and

my life is falling into a good rhythm."

Areg, 22, was born in Yerevan and has lived in Los Angeles since 1991. "I

never felt different, and still don't," says Areg about his homo***uality. It

wasn't until he saw a program on television about gay kids that Areg realized

that he was gay too. "They were describing me, my thoughts, my feelings," he

says, at which time he told his parents. They took him to two therapists who

"worked more towards my parents' acceptance than anything else," he says.

Next, they asked him to date women, which he did but found no physical or

personality attractions towards them. "My dad was frustrated because

logically it made sense to him but emotionally, he couldn't understand or

relate to it. My mom was more angry, more emotional."

Areg feels that he has been luckier than most. "I see some of the ways my gay

and lesbian friends' families treat them. There is so much hate. Families

should be based on love and any problems should be solved with love and

understanding," he says. "Families should offer a safe environment where

their kids can be open about themselves, whoever they may be. Parents and

kids alienate each other for something so insignificant compared to the bonds

that make an Armenian family."

If Areg's parents went from denial to acceptance, this isn't true of most

others. "I really believe that when parents are confronted with their child's

homo***uality, a grieving period is created, which leads the parents into

acceptance or denial," says Demirjian. "Parents mourn the death of the dreams

they have held for that child. Parents should come out of the grieving

situation prayerfully, and although they may not be pleased with the child's

lifestyle, they should have the courage to embrace them with love and

forgiveness."

According to Drescher, "Parents continue to believe that they have done

something wrong, even though the theory that parents cause homo***uality has

never been proven. It is very difficult for parents to accept this." But just

as it has taken years for many gays and lesbians to accept themselves,

Drescher points out that it will take parents some time also to get used to

the idea, unless they choose not to know. "But the future of these gay and

lesbian children lies in being accepted by their families," he adds.

Yacoubian acknowledges this, and the resulting responsibility. "As an

activist, be it a principal, teacher or mentor, if I am trying to encourage

these kids to explore their identities, integrate their cultural identity and

resolve the inherent conflicts in the most constructive way, it would be

hypocritical of me if I don't address the issue of ***ual identity," says

Yacoubian. "You cannot struggle against things like racism and ***ism, and

not engage in trying to eliminate homophobia. This is part of a systemic

approach," he adds. It is within this context that Yacoubian encourages his

colleagues and students to explore these issues both in the larger society

and the Armenian community.

Yacoubian doesn't just talk tolerance. Recently, at a faculty retreat, he

invited a speaker to address and educate teachers on issues of homo***uality

and homophobia. "I thought it was very relevant," says Yacoubian, regarding

the issues discussed. "Regardless of the teachers' own positions on

homo***uality, they will encounter homo***uals in our classes. One of the

paramount roles of an educator is to break all forces of denial. We have the

responsibility of fostering discussion about this."

Demirjian, too, acts out of a feeling of responsibility. "I don't want to be

framed as the priest who is intolerant. If I do, my ministry will be over."

 

A More Perfect Union?

Zabelle and her partner Amy have been together since 1981. They are both

professionals in their 40s and came out in the context of the feminist

movement. "I've always wanted an equal relationship," says Zabelle. "It

could've happened with a man but Amy and I had a spark and knew that it could

happen with each other. We fell in love. The fact that she was a woman was

great," she adds. Zabelle is referring to the ***ism she finds in straight

relationships. "A man, on some deep level, is glad he is not a woman, like

his wife. What kind of a relationship is that? He is also trained from early

on to be in charge, responsible, the boss. Some women like that," she says.

"In the Armenian community, women are expected to be subordinate to men. We

have a relationship where we are truly equal partners. A lot more things are

understood. We don't have to deal with gender roles," says Zabelle.

Being an openly lesbian couple, Zabelle and Amy have come across many who

have not been able to see past the stereotype. "When a straight woman talks

about her husband, she is not making an announcement about what they do in

bed. It frustrates me because when we do the same, all people think about is

what we do in bed," she says.

In 1989, Zabelle and Amy got married at their local Unitarian Universalist

Church, the most progressive of the Christian Churches. Although the marriage

is not binding by law, their city does have a domestic partnership registry

where they are recognized as a couple and enjoy some of the same rights

extended to straight couples.

"I married my best friend," says Zabelle. "We share values, politics and our

personalities are compatible." Zabelle's sister and Amy's mother were the

only family members present at their wedding, but there were many friends.

"We played Armenian classical music and read Armenian poetry," she says.

After the ceremony, a longtime friend offered the Armenian traditional toast,

‘May you grow old on one pillow.'

Zabelle got involved with fundraising within her community after the

earthquake in Armenia. She felt lucky to have been in an Armenian community

that was isolated and small enough not to have formed any traditional

Armenian organizations. "The Armenians here had realized that there were so

few of us that if we wanted to have a community, we had to do it with

everyone's help," she says. "I made sure that whatever I did brought honor to

our community and strengthened it." Eventually, she told them about her

partner. Some distanced themselves, for a while. Later, "they realized that I

was not bringing shame to the community. I kept doing exactly what I was

doing all along. I worked hard, represented the Armenian heritage to anyone

who wanted to know. They realized that I was the same person," she says.

"They got over their fears because they took the time to see the reality."

 

Acceptance Based on Who They Are

For each of the individuals who did speak to AIM for this article, there are

many others who are not "out" and continue to live a traditional lifestyle.

They are married, have children, and are invisible. Some made the choice

consciously, others thought they had no choice at all. But they, together

with those who have ‘come out,' exist, nonetheless.

"We have gays and lesbians in our communities. But they are closeted because

our community is homophobic," explains Yacoubian. "But who do these kids look

up to, for questions, comfort, love, and then empowerment as human beings? It

is our responsibility to create the milieu for that," he adds.

"There has to be room for all Armenians in our community," says Zabelle.

"There aren't many of us around the world. We simply cannot afford to waste

the talents of any Armenian who is motivated and willing to contribute to our

nation. We can't afford to marginalize any of us," she says. "The Armenian

nation needs all of us. In my community, we have demonstrated that it can be

done," she adds, referring to the community's ability to look past the

***uality issue and to accept her based on who she is, her dedication and her

work.

Finally, that's what it comes down to. The other folds in the lives of gay

and lesbian Armenians â€` bi***uality, AIDS, equal rights, willingness to speak

on the record with name and photos â€` all come later. For them, the first

issue is acceptance based on who they are.

[Guest]

The article above is published in AIM - July 2000.

 

Here is a joke circulating in Armenia at present:

 

Spyurkahay 1: Dghas amusnacadz e (tkhur).

Spyurkahay 2: Haba inchu gdkhres?

Spyurkahay 1: Dghu m@ hed amusnacadz e!

Spyurkahay 2: Gone hay e?

 

Traslation:

 

Diasp. Armenian 1: My son has married (sadly).

Diasp. Armenian 2: But, why are you so sad?

Diasp. Armenian 1: He has married a man.

Diasp. Armenian 2: Is he at least an Armenian?