Someone recently asked me what I miss about Armenia. People must see the nostalgia in my eyes or hear it in my voice, because I’m asked some version of that question on a regular basis. But to ask what I miss, specifically, takes it to another level.

How do you pick one thing about a place that taught you so much? A place where you grew up?

From my hometown in North Dakota, I miss starlit skies, silent drives to and from the farm, student achievements highlighted in the newspaper, friends who knew me at my worst and best, bonfires from dead wood I collected with my niece and nephew, straight-line winds that are almost a match for the mosquitoes.

(Alright, that sounded so sappy that I made myself nauseous.)

Anyway, I had an answer to the question, but not the words to describe it. Intimacy might be one way to put it. Or tactile stimulation.

There are the little things, like women who feel comfortable pinching other women’s butts. (Does that sound homoerotic? That’s not how it’s intended.) Why do American football players slap each other’s rear ends? Google has a lot to say on the matter, but I suspect it’s for the same reasons that Armenian women (you know who you are) squeeze my love handles (Maro, you know I’m talking about you): to express affection, solidarity, familiarity, acceptance, even praise. Maybe I’m making too much of it. Or maybe they’re only grabbing me. But I’m pretty sure that I’m not alone on this one.

Women, in general, are more affectionate. I remember my fourth or fifth day in Armenia, when my host family took me to the shuka (market) to buy whatever foods I liked. Two things stand out in my memory: One, that I was far too polite to request anything in particular (though not too polite to decline certain foods later), and two, that my host mother, just eight or so years my senior, linked her arm in mine so as to avoid any possibility of our separation. It was profoundly awkward—I felt as though I were the man, or maybe she, and I didn’t understand my role. Later, I came to appreciate this kind of closeness.

On another of those early days I was seated in the back of a bus heading to the north of the country. A girl next to me put her arm around my shoulders and started playing with my hair. It was rather out of context, since we’d scarcely exchanged a “Hello, my name is…” Today I’d pay good money for someone to play with my hair, perfect stranger or otherwise.

Human touch is powerful and it should not be taken for granted. When I would visit an orphanage in Armenia, it was clear just how important it is. Boys and girls alike craved a gentle caress on the cheek or gripped my arm to get my attention. They grabbed at me in an enthusiastic mob, eager to be seen and heard. I showed them the dove call my father had taught me as a child. When they couldn’t make the sound on their own—indeed none could on the first try—I formed their hands and blew into them, or I let them blow into mine. It’s hard to imagine such a scene in the U.S. unless the children were relatives. But maybe that’s the point: We’re all relatives.

Intimacy comes of practical circumstances, too. How often in Armenia do we find ourselves in a place with no running water? Well, if you leave Yerevan you may. And then, you may not have running water, but you still want to wash your hands before a meal, so your host will fill a cup with water and slowly pour it over your hands. You’ll have soap, and there will be no hurry, because they will fill the cup over and over until your hands are clean. It starts as purely functional, but it becomes a moment. It doesn’t feel as though you’re at an ordinary faucet. You may not breathe as deeply. Someone is alive next to you. They care about your happiness and wellbeing. You can feel the heat of their body, you accept their hospitality, and you return to the table knowing that you’ve connected with someone.

And so, in the spirit of Armenian grandmothers everywhere, I grab your collective face with both hands, nearly pulling you off balance as I lay an unsolicited kiss somewhere between your cheek and lips. “Tsavt tanem, aziz jan” (I take your pain, my dear), I say, and you walk away feeling a little lighter and a little more loved by the world.

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Kristi Rendahl

Kristi Rendahl is associate professor and director of the nonprofit leadership program at Minnesota State University, Mankato. Prior to starting with MSU in 2017, she worked for over 20 years with nongovernmental organizations on several continents, including living in Armenia from 1997-2002. She speaks Armenian and Spanish.

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