This photo story is about me and my husband, a couple from Armenia, who immigrated to Saudi Arabia in search of new career opportunities. The term "khopan" (arm-խոպան) means the Armenian experience of migrant work, reflecting the challenges and aspirations that come with starting a life abroad. 

Armenian migration has been influenced by various historical, political, and economic factors. The political history of Armenia, marked by the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, has created a backdrop of instability. Economic challenges, political changes, including the transition to independence, civil unrest, and conflicts, have motivated Armenians to seek more stable environments abroad. 

The Nagorno-Karabakh conflict resulted in displacement and migration. Armenians sought refuge in other countries due to the impact of the conflict on their safety, livelihoods, and communities. 

In 2000, my father emigrated to Yekaterinburg, Russia. For an entire year, my sister, mother, and I did not get to see him. It was challenging for my mother to raise us, but our father sent money every month. Eventually in 2001, we were able to reunite in Russia, and each year, we hoped it would be the last year spent away from Armenia. During those years, we faced a recurring dilemma every summer: choosing between a vacation in Europe or visiting our relatives in Armenia. Without fail, we always opted for Armenia. 

Even if you are a citizen of the Russian Federation, it doesn't guarantee a sense of comfort or belonging in the country. We never felt at home. In Russia there was  a prevailing sense of nationalism, and my sister and I endured hurtful name-calling such as 'churka' and 'xachik' (meaning 'black'). We were even teased for being too hairy. As a young girl, it was quite challenging, and I started to dye the hair on my hands white to make it less noticeable. 

My mother, feeling isolated, longed for her own mother, who was ill and eventually passed away in 2002. Throughout those years, she deeply missed her sister, with whom she could have shared the burden of that loss.

Despite my father being fond of the city, he also missed his family. Finally, he listened to our concerns. In 2013, 12 years after our initial move, we decided to return to Armenia.

After returning, I hoped to feel better and more accepted among my own people. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. Throughout high school, I faced teasing due to my Russian background, being labeled as 'Russianized' (arm - ռուսացած). These assumptions stemmed from stereotypes about Armenian girls in Russia, who were perceived as having boyfriends and being spoiled smokers, drinkers, and swearers, unlike Armenian girls in Armenia. Most of this teasing came from boys who used offensive names and vulgar language. Ironically, even in Armenia, I was considered 'hairy'.

This experience left me feeling more isolated and out of place, even in my hometown. After graduating from school, I distanced myself from those kinds of people and deliberately selected social circles where I could feel at ease.

In 2022, my future husband accepted a temporary PostDoc position at King Abdullah University of Science and Technology in Saudi Arabia. We had the option for me to stay and him to leave, but we realized that long-distance relationships would be challenging. Despite knowing each other for only eight months, we took the risk and decided to get married to facilitate my relocation.

Leaving everything behind didn't prove to be particularly difficult. In the first year of our marriage abroad, we confronted the uncertainties that come with choosing to build a future far from our homeland. Much like many Armenians, we found ourselves with the dilemma of balancing a deep yearning for the familiar comforts of our native land and the pursuit of a better life in foreign territories. The prevailing uncertainty becomes a distinct character, a constant companion that influences our decisions and emotions․ 

Leaving our homeland has strained connections with my friends. The once-strong bond we shared seems to have weakened. Online communication, while a lifeline, becomes exhausting, and there's a sense of uncertainty about what to share. Once you reconnect with friends in Armenia, the bond is restored. However, the challenge is that you only see them once a year. The rest of the time, you feel disconnected and isolated from them. 

Building new friendships in a foreign land is challenging — while you have acquaintances, the connection is not as deep, as you need longer time for it. The awareness of our temporary status and the transience of relationships further complicates the effort to form meaningful connections abroad. 

Those who remain in Armenia often perceive us as fortunate and content abroad, given that many are unable to leave the country. However, the reality is different. I won't deny that I find joy in my life here, and I appreciate what it offers. There's a desire to share these moments with my family and be close to each other, but we are separated by 3,162.6 kilometers.

The awareness that our stay is temporary leaves us questioning what lies ahead. Where will we be in a year? Will we eventually return to Armenia? The future remains uncertain. My husband is afraid that in a new place, we might end up alone without friends or anyone close.

Fear shadows me whenever I receive a late-night phone call from my parents or notice multiple missed calls from them. The immediate thought that crosses my mind is that someone must have passed away.

I recall a vivid memory from my childhood in Russia when we were in the living room, and my parents received a late-night call from relatives. It was the news of my mother's aunt passing away. That night has left an indelible mark on my memory, and now, whenever the phone rings, those memories resurface.

At one point, I noticed that every time I called my mother, she seemed to be in a somber mood. Concerned, I asked her about it, but she assured me that everything was fine. It wasn't until after the New Year that she revealed that our grandad had fallen and was very weak during that time. 

Finding out about my granddad's hospitalization afterward left me feeling frustrated. I was upset that they hadn't informed me immediately and chose to keep it from me. 

In early February, I received the devastating news that my father's best friend had been in a car crash and passed away. The shock was overwhelming, and in such moments, the distance between us felt unbearable. The regret of being far away intensifies, and the longing to be close to family becomes all-consuming. All I wanted was to be there and hug my father.

I spent days in tears, feeling utterly helpless. My immediate instinct was to purchase tickets and rush to be with my family, but they intervened, urging me to wait and come later. I eventually bought tickets for April.

Compared with our first years in Russia, when phone connections were unreliable, costly, and prone to abrupt disruptions, everything is easier today. I call my family almost every day, and it's not just for casual conversations; my mom even assists me when I'm attempting to cook something for the first time. 

I used to read the news regularly to stay informed about what was happening in my country. However, I noticed that it often left me feeling distressed and hopeless. Of course, I stay informed, but I try to maintain some distance from the news. 

Even though I really wanted to leave Armenia before we left, I have started feeling a strong desire to be back home. Encounters with fellow Armenians abroad and hearing the Armenian language stirred up feelings of belonging and nostalgia, creating a comforting link to home. 

Despite these challenges, I must emphasize that I feel comfortable living in Saudi Arabia. The people here are kind and supportive, always willing to lend a helping hand whenever needed. It's not just the ordinary citizens; even when dealing with bureaucratic matters, I've found that assistance is readily available. It helps to overcome the feeling that you are an alien here. Sometimes people mistakenly assume that I am Arab as well.

At times, I grapple with impostor syndrome, where I question whether I truly deserve all that I have. This feeling is accompanied by a sense of guilt for leaving everyone behind and being here. 

The future is uncertain, and I'm not sure where we'll be next. I definitely miss Armenia, but I also know that I'm not ready to return just yet. We think about coming back, they think about leaving. It's a challenging and seemingly endless cycle. 

Should we stay? Should we go? Where should we go? Will we come back? When will we come back? What about our family and friends? When will we see them again? Is a good job and a comfortable life more important than relatives? Can I find a job? Am I being selfish in making this decision? Will the war start again? How can we protect and help beloved ones who are left there? What should we do?

Some of the photos are taken by Avetik Karagulyan, my husband․