The first time I ever confronted cultural dogmatism was at school. I learned a poem that my teacher didn't like it because it was written when Armenia was part of the Soviet Union. Anything connected to Soviet culture was often neglected in Armenian schools and literature written during that period was considered inferior. I remember my teacher criticized me for choosing the “worst poem” by one of the “Gods of Armenian literature.” 

I was 10 and, as was my habit at the time, I responded with a quote from a favorite film, The Messenger: The Story of Joan of Arc, asking my teacher if she had the right to criticize gods. 

I thought that was a strong argument. And it was. A strong argument for the teacher to call my mom and complain about my “intolerable behavior.” 

That later became a tradition, which is ironic, as it started with me honestly trying to get answers—not trying to rebel. 

Eventually, I learned to avoid those types of debates because they never led to answers. I even stopped expecting that I would ever find a real explanation why I couldn’t do certain things a different way or perceive similar values differently. 

But my recent travel to Turkey (territories which are known in Armenia as Western Armenia) made me realize that maybe the reasons our cultural heritage is so untouchable are just laying somewhere there, deep in the ashes of the past. 

I realized that we are genetically survivalists with a hyper-nostalgic gaze toward the past. Our culture is filled with it. Our capital Yerevan faces a biblical mountain, which we say we`ve lost, even though it still towers over us. Somewhere near Bingyol, Turkey (Armenian: Ճապաղջուր, romanized: Chapaghjur) I clearly felt that I represent a culture that is fully centered around loss.  

Lost territory, lives, and cultural heritage; disturbances that can be traced all over the world and cannot yet be processed by our country.

Maybe that is one of the reasons we fear changing anything perceived as part of our heritage; one of the reasons our free spirits clash with a wall of standards and traditions, which, once upon a time, were just experiments.

My friend, Amsterdam-based designer and typographic artist Gayane Yerkanyan, started experimenting with the Armenian alphabet and urban slang words. 

She transformed the letters—considered a vital part of Armenian heritage—and gave them a modern take; I cannot even dare to change the recipes my mother inherited from her grandma. 

When I asked her about her experience, she said that first she was afraid that she might do something “that disrespects Armenia’s letter-writing tradition, proportions, etc.”

“The first time I visited Switzerland, I got a chance to observe and learn its rich typographic tradition,” Gayane said.

“I studied their history, but also I was checking what the young people are doing. I was very intrigued and jealous of how they could be so free working with letters and just have fun with their designs. Why couldn’t I also just have fun?”

After Gayane exhibited her modern take on Armenian alphabet, she started experimenting with jargon and popular expressions like  “քաքլան” or “Օքեյ ֆաք իթ” (okay fuck it)

“I am also intrigued by visualizing things that are inappropriate. Perhaps it is also the tendency to break away from the stigma. Like the saying «ամօթա» (It’s a shame) is used in our society so much. And it’s attached to so many ridiculous things, that you already lose the distinction between what is ‘shameful’ and ‘okay.’ And I play with those distinctions,” Gayane said. 

 She added that these distinctions—or borders—between words and ideas are not a restriction or lack of freedom, but rather an opportunity to view things differently. 

A lack in alternative points of view can create a type of cultural dialogue, where one party speaks and the other one stays silent. That creates a gap, and can lead to conflict once the one who has been silent decides to speak. 

This is what probably happened on November 4, 2019, during  “Huzanq U zang” (Excitement and Call),  a public performance of contemporary dance and poetry. Co-authors choreographer Hasmik Tangyan and writer Lilit Petrosyan,  along with their team of performers, were attacked by a group of nationalist activists fighting against the Istanbul Convention.   

The performance was based on an experimental reading of the futuristic poetry of the 1920s (Kara Darvish, Gevorg Abov, Azat Vshtuni). 

 “100 years ago Armenian poets were already concerned with rhythm, were in search of synchronization with their present, which 100 years later we are still searching for,” Lilit said.

“We still seek ways of adapting our language to our lives, making it shorter, making it match our current lives and rhythms. The reaction that many viewers see as a ‘revolt,’ to me now was just a dialogue between two experiments: ours on futurism and theirs on nationalism.”

Lilit added that today she does not consider the national activists as attackers but rather as a “counter-performance.” 

“During our confrontational dialogue, the public space became a space where taboos met each other. It clearly showed the undigested gaps in our culture. It's like when a person eats different sorts of food without giving himself time to digest and eventually vomits,” she said. 

“This is what I think has happened. The undigested conflict concerning language, its transformation, and gender issues got spit out. I think the event we viewed as a conflict could become a base for spotlighting and acknowledging undigested conflicts.”

Hasmik noted that many different people have asked her why they did not predict the public response. 

“I never understood when people ask me why didn`t we expect anything like that, or why didn`t we prevent it, or try to organize better, or even to foresee any extreme reaction and counter-react in a more organized way. But I see some kind of a trap in that logic,” she said.

“If you predict or try to predict the reaction and simultaneously use those for your work, then you might step into the manipulation zone. But I don't like it that way. I feel that I need as a performer, to stay as reflective and natural as I can afford to, to not foresee things, but to reflect them.” 

Artists, as reflectors, can use different forms and techniques. The Armenian-Ukrainian art rap collective  SAMUUM (type of sandstorm (an Arabic word), used a mixture of cultural influences in its debut single Maria, an ironically dark groovy song about Respect. The song was a hit in July, when a British magazine published a review about it. 

Andranik Berberian from the SAMUUM project said they weren't expecting anything when they released the song. He said that the band members were more concerned about expressing their anger about several issues, including what they sensed as a twisted definition of “respect.”

“The video has more symbols or relatable signs, adding layers to the song. We wanted to show the surrealistic aspect of respect, make it catchier.  If you want to say something serious, try to make it fun, though for me it is partially scary, especially the fact that the heroine, who has been kidnapped and wrapped in a rug, never even tried to escape. She is not rebelling; she is not even trying to break free, fight back,” he said.

“The carpet here is a metaphor of the restricted mind, a mind, which is caved in a box. How we limit our relation to others and the world and how we use traditions to trap us in a box and avoid experiences. We develop, and our relationship to the world develops, as does the narrative of communication, relationship,” he said.

“Love axjik” (a play on the  Armenian expression “lav axjik” meaning “Good girl”) a song released in 2016 December by Melineh, a sound artist and performer residing in Yerevan, touches nearly the same topics, but in a sharper manner.

“There is a part where I say ‘she has seven kids and all of them are boys” (ունի յոթ երեխա՝ յոթն էլ Տղա). But for me, it’s weird and contradictory that a society that vilifies women who have abortions at the same time there are many cases of “justified” sex selective abortions. I try to not take anyone`s side, but rather show the illogic of taboos.” 

Using her sharp sarcasm and playful lyrics, Melineh asks us to look deeper into what we take as “normal” and question our acceptance of it. Is how we live matching our ideas and goals?

“I was surprised to hear from a lot of women, that they could relate to my lyrics or they at least found it funny and daring. Even some, whom I thought of as ‘conservative,’ were pretty positive about the song,” she said. 

“I was really surprised but then understood that I communicate with filtered layers of people and have no idea of what others think or how do they really live because my perceptions about them usually consist of numerous clichés, just as they might have the same perceptions about me. It is weird to have this gap and miscommunication between layers of society in a small city like Yerevan.”

Many of the artists I talked to said that our society does not like change or is not ready to change. But others, like SAMUUM, Gayane, and Melineh, proved the opposite: society can digest anything, but it depends on the approach and intention of the change makers. Free spirits can never be restricted; they will always find a way of sneaking past the strongest and toughest walls of cultural dogmatism. .

I started thinking that maybe the fear I have about experimenting more freely with my language, the fear, which Gayane had before she started her work based on our alphabet, is tied to a desire to improve on our heritage, not belittle or reduce it. But we will never know unless we try.

Collectively, our society is scared to change anything that we consider our legacy: we rarely experiment with the food like Basturma; we just keep producing Basturma the same way with the same attitude. But once we own our traditions and use them to inspire, not limit, us, perhaps they can stop being chains and start becoming the nexus for a new, better understanding of who we are as a society. We can bring them into the present by adapting to the present rhythm and needs because all traditions were once just experiments. Andranik Berberian from the SAMUUM group said it best: “We are here because our ancestors were ready for a change.”