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Armenia.

A small country
of nearly 3 million people,

located north of Iran
and south of Georgia.

Its history goes back millennia.

Armenia was the first nation
to adopt Christianity

as the official state religion
in the early 4th century.

The Armenians
have their own language

and rich cultural
and intellectual traditions.

In the 1500s,
the Armenians were absorbed

into the Islamic Ottoman Empire,
where they lived under a system

that allowed them to live
side by side with the Ottomans

but often relegated them
to a lower status.

In the early 20th century,

the Ottomans
turned on the Armenians

and committed genocide,

slaughtering as many as
1.5 million Armenians

in the most violent ways
imaginable.

To this day,
the Ottomans' successor,

the Turkish government, denies
the genocide ever happened.

Ultimately, a small part of
the historic Armenian homeland

was absorbed
into the Soviet Union,

where Armenians lived
under communist rule.

This land became free in 1991.

This is the land
that today we call Armenia.

To a certain extent,
Armenia is a state of mind.

Certainly when I was a child,
that was the case

because when I would go
to Armenia,

I wasn't going
to a Soviet republic.

I was going to my grandparents'
house in Tuckahoe, New York,

where the vinyl record albums
were Armenian,

where a lot of the books
were Armenian,

where my grandmother tried to
teach me the Armenian alphabet.

The notion that there's
a piece of earth called Armenia

that's part of the Soviet Union

wasn't something
that was top of mind

to an Armenian diasporic kid
in Westchester

in the 1960s and the 1970s.

I remember when I was a kid,

one day, my father
brought a globe of the world.

You know, like a globe.

And it was a small globe
like this.

And like every Armenian,

the first thing you do
is look for Armenia, you know?

And we were kids. There were,
like, three, four of us.

We got together,
and we're looking for Armenia,

and it's not there.

And it was so disappointing.
I literally started crying.

"There is no Armenia. You've
been lying all this time."

It was like, "No. It's there.
It's too small. You can't see."

Although it was one of the
republics of the Soviet Union,

we grew up with Armenia
as part of our lives.

In those days,
they had shortwave radios

and Armenia had programs.

And every night, we would
listen on shortwave radio,

Armenian programs,

recitations, things like that.

We knew we had a country
not free, not independent,

but at the same time,
it was Armenia.

My father was a survivor
of the genocide.

And my mother was born
and raised in Beirut.

And for them,
Armenia was the only thing

that was supposed to
keep us alive.

We idealized
the Armenia in our minds.

And you think in Armenia
there are no pickpockets,

there is no theft,
there is no crime.

You know, it's this ideal place.

The first time I went
to Armenia was 1964.

Coming there,
I suddenly realized, "Whoa,

These people are accepting me
as some kind of relative."

But it was very easy
to get used to it.

The food was familiar,
the language I was studying.

And they accepted me
as if I was,

you know, a barekam--
a friend, a relative.

That word, by the way,
barekam,

is used both for "friend"
and "relative" in Armenian.

So I fell in love
with the place.

I remember packing a suitcase,

and my friend helped me,

and I had all kinds of things
in it

because we knew when you went,

you would take things
like gum, jeans.

And she said to me, "How come
you're taking all this?

You know, who--
Do you have relatives?"

I said,
"No. When you're Armenian,

like, everybody's
your relative."

I had the opportunity
to actually go to Armenia

as a senior in high school.

It was 1981.

Now, Armenia at that time
was Soviet.

It was Soviet Armenia.

None of the food was the food

that I had had
at my grandparents'.

Um, really, none of the music,
except the church music,

was familiar at all.

There was no pineapple
or banana.

We had mulberries.

It was just a very,
very different place,

but incredibly special.

Driving by bus

from Moscow south in 1987.

I was with my family.

Watching the landscape change

as you got to
the Northern Caucasus

was extraordinary.

A transformative journey.

You start seeing
Armenian architecture,

medieval churches,

this beautiful, lush
and sometimes dry

and mountainous landscape
moving through it.

Getting to Yerevan,

uh, on a late summer
evening in 1987,

was entering a new zone.

Soviet. Armenian.

Put those two together.

It was one of the great journeys
of my life.

One thing that--
It was a kind of a custom,

especially New Year's,
like, 12:00 when time changes.

And there was one song
that the community would sing.

Everybody would stand up
and say,

"I hope next year
Armenia will be free."

That was the community attitude.

Everybody would sing that song.

"Hopefully next year
Armenia will be free.

And Armenia will be free.
Armenia will be free."

This concept of Armenia
was this dream

that we were working towards.

So that was infused for me
from a very young age,

just this idea of this,
like, magical Camelot.

We named my daughter Yeraz
because that means "dream."

And that was for Armenia
to be independent again one day.

And which was.

1990, '91,
it became independent.

So our dream came true.

Whoever thought that
Soviet Union would fall,

whoever thought that Armenia
was going to become

an independent nation again,
it was-- No.

It was completely unreal.

And, yes, we were elated.

It's kind of a miraculous thing
if you're an Armenian.

All of a sudden, there's
an Armenian state on the map.

This becomes a new
center of gravity

for Armenians worldwide.

They have a nation.
They have a place.

Yerevan is its capital.

Today, the little republic
of Armenia

is a fraction
of what was historic Armenia.

The idea of Armenia
was almost easy.

This is a people who came out of

a desperate, miserable situation

at the beginning of the
20th century, post-genocide,

just looking for safety, refuge.

And they found it
in different places.

And then eventually
they found it

in the concept of an Armenia,

a place that would be
something to aspire to

that is better
than what came before.

We didn't realize that--

that also means
that you're now a landlord.

You own this place.

And that means
the doors need to be fixed

and the windows need to be fixed
and the roof is often leaking.

This is a serious
long-term commitment,

and that's hard because
you're switching from dream

with no responsibilities

to a real place

with huge opportunity
and responsibilities.

The first time I visited
Armenia was in 1999.

And to sum up the experience,

I would say it took
the concept of Armenia

from abstraction into reality.

The moment I set foot
on that ground,

I said, "Okay. So they
weren't lying. It exists."

I love it
when I get on the plane

and everybody's
speaking Armenian.

I get off the plane, and
everybody's speaking Armenian.

When I get off the plane
in Armenia,

I feel a sense of relief.

I feel a sense of peace.
I feel a sense of family.

The policeman looked
like my Uncle Johnny.

And they had the same color eyes
and just looked the same.

And I don't know
what I was expecting,

but everybody was Armenian, naturally.

It was pretty exciting.

I had never been
to Armenia before,

but when I got to Armenia,

it really just felt like
I came home.

Each country or nation
has a cultural identity,

and we have one
that goes far back

before the genocide
into ancient history.

And that culture is full of
all kinds of pride and poetry,

like, a sense of who we are
as a beautiful people.

The thing was,
when we entered the space,

uh, for Armenia,

that's what everything was--
kind of became real.

This is a real thing
with people...

with their struggles,
with their understanding,

with their issues.

Some things,
I can't put into words.

We have something called
in Armenian hogi and vogi.

It's your Armenian
soul and spirit.

And that means a lot
to Armenians.

The hogi.

You-- You just have
this love of Armenia.

It's a love that you don't know
until you see it.

We come from a past
that is thousands of years.

I cannot ignore that.

Whatever I do, it is part of--

You know,
there's something in me,

in my psyche, in my brain.

Uh, I carry that.

And when I went to Armenia,

I mean,
those things became alive.

I remember the first night
I went to bed,

and there was howling,
uh, all night.

You know,
dogs were fighting outside.

And so I was like,
"Where did I come?

Where is this place?"

You know,
there wasn't much electricity.

Water, uh, was a problem.

And the next morning,
I got up, and here I was,

walking down the street,
smiling to everyone.

And, of course,
no one smiled back.

They were like, "Who is this guy
with two braids?"

There were a lot of Armenians
flying with us to Armenia.

And when we just about entered

the kind of airspace of Armenia,

someone said, "Mount Ararat!
Mount Ararat! Mount Ararat!"

I kind of collapsed.

I had not seen Mount Ararat,
you know, from--

Then when we landed,
I mean, it was--

It was a sacred, you know--

As if you were
visiting a sacred land,

a sacred something
that was within you

but you had missed.

You didn't know.
Here's the reality.

Armenia, Armenia, Armenia.
But it's here. It is real.

I think everyone remembers
their first moment

of seeing Ararat,
you know, remembers that.

You see the mountain.

This is something
that's so exhilarating.

My daughter is only
one fourth Armenian,

and I was unprepared...

to be standing with her...

looking at Mount Ararat...

across the border
where it sits in Turkey--

not where it belongs,
but where it is.

And my daughter was crying.

And suddenly I had
all the feelings, too.

There was the geography
of the Armenian soul.

Mount Ararat.

Ararat.

The two majestic peaks
of Sis and Masis.

Ararat is central
to the Armenian story

because, according to tradition,

Noah's Ark landed on Ararat
after the flood.

As the story goes,

Noah and his wife were
the great-grandparents of Hayk,

who is known as the father
of the Armenian people.

So, every time when I watch
the Mount Ararat,

I see the resilience,

Noah's resilience, salvation,

and also the survival
of humankind.

My grandfather was very, um--

He was very Armenio-centric.

And so he had
all these theories.

He had the theory
about Noah's Ark

making everybody
in the world Armenian.

And he believed that there were
many secret Armenians

in the world.

Specifically for him,
Cary Grant was Armenian,

which, um-- I don't know
if that's true or not.

Indeed, my grandmother
used to tell me

that all of
the world's population

originally spoke Armenian.

My grandmother also told me
that you had to speak Armenian

because Armenian was
the language of heaven.

Apparently there's
an entrance exam to get in,

and you better know
your Armenian.

I don't know what.

It's ingrained in our blood,
I guess.

When you look at it,
whether it's a picture

or, of course,
when you see it in real life,

it's like--

I'm getting goosebumps thinking,
"How do I explain that?"

I mean, I have no idea.

It just means so much to us.

I was completely speechless.

The weather was beautiful,

and it was just quiet
and peaceful and serene

and completely untouched.

Um, and I think that
that's one of the moments

where I think
my jaw was just open,

just looking at where I was.

It's a famous line
from an Armenian poem.

"Ararat, you were ours,
and then you were not ours."

So Ararat was part of Armenia.

And when the boundaries
were drawn,

Ararat was no longer
a part of Armenia.

When you see Mount Ararat,
it's right there,

the huge contradiction,
the historical schism

that we must experience
as Armenians.

And, yet, it's not in Armenia.
It's in Turkey.

And that right there,

I felt it
when I was looking at it--

sort of an exhilaration
and sadness at the same time.

The whole issue of Ararat
as Armenia's cultural symbol

haunts the nation,

because, of course,
it's situated

a mile on the other side
of the border

of the country
that committed genocide

against the Armenian people.

You can't find
a more ironic, tragic,

and inspiring natural symbol

than Ararat for Armenians.

I live in Vermont,
and my car has a vanity plate.

"ARARAT." A-R-A-R-A-T.

Twice-- Twice,

I've met other cars that have
the ARARAT license plate.

I met the new Jersey one,
and I met the Massachusetts one.

Because it's a small
Armenian community,

and, obviously,
at certain Armenian events,

there's going to be
multiple ARARAT cars

if there are people
from multiple states.

Ararat is so embedded
in our culture,

in our, uh, mentality,
the way we're brought up.

This is why everywhere you go,
all over the world--

all over the world--
you see Ararat football team,

Ararat barber shop,
Ararat old-age home,

Ararat restaurant.

Everywhere. Everywhere.

Yerevan.

It is the capital
of the modern Armenian state

and one of the oldest
continually inhabited cities

in the world.

When the Soviets came
in December of 1920,

this Yerevan,
now a city of a million people,

was a dusty little place,

and it then organized itself.

And under Soviet rule,

under an architect
named Tamanian,

it became a modern city
and a modern country.

This was going to be a town
of about 100,000-- 150,000.

It was like a wheel with spokes.

But the legend is

that if you looked at Yerevan
from the air,

it was supposed to look like
the hammer and sickle.

I think what I love
about Yerevan,

which I think is
very interesting

is there's still so much
Soviet influence that's there.

And the Soviet era

has a very specific
architectural look.

And then next to it,
you'll see something

that is quintessentially
Armenian.

But Armenians are warm,

and we're warmer
than that architecture.

So our architecture contrasted
with that architecture

is almost a sign
of how far we've come.

Some of my favorite memories
as an adult

are visiting Yerevan.

I mean, when I think
of the places on this planet

that are ground zero
for my soul,

among them is the corner

of Abovyan and Aram Streets
in Yerevan.

Because Aram
was my father's name.

It is my middle name.

And Abovyan was the first
modern Armenian novelist.

Yerevan is kind of
like a bustling city now.

If you're in Yerevan
in the summer,

you're gonna bump into
someone you know.

It's like a reunion.

I like the fact that I can
get off the plane at 8:30,

drop off my suitcases,
go sit at my favorite café,

and meet people
and talk until 12:00.

Plan a schedule. Get work done.

Find long-lost cousins
from Brazil,

which is what's happened
to me in Yerevan.

It's a real place.

One of the reasons
why it's such a gorgeous city

is because it was built
largely by an architect

who had a great vision
for what he wanted to do.

I mean, a city where the streets
are named after poets...

...where there's sculptures
everywhere...

where there are fountains...

and literally--
literally museums

and places like the Cascades

that feels like falling water
made of marble.

One of the days,
we went to The Cascade,

which is very striking.

I think if you're looking at it
and you look up,

I mean, there are these white
steps and they're gigantic.

That monument is near
my grandparents' home,

and I have this one
particular awesome memory

of just--

It was New Year's Day,
and my uncle took me,

and it was-- I don't know
why I remember this so well,

but we went up there.

I've been there so many times,

but that moment of us
going together...

I went to an outdoor market
in Yerevan,

and I bought some earrings

and then I also
bought a painting.

It was nice to bring--
I kind of brought

a little bit of Armenia
back with me.

When we were
first driving around,

I remember my face
was just pressed up

against the glass,
just looking at everything.

And you just see people
just enjoying their life,

just living life
in this beautiful city.

And the people there
are so welcoming.

I was with a very tall Irishman

and a group of people
who aren't Armenian,

and people were so welcoming
towards us.

I first went to Armenia
in 2012,

and I flew on an airline
called Armavia.

May it rest in peace.

But I land, and I was met
by a friend of a friend

I had never met.

A guy named Moses Babian.

And Moses gives me a whirlwind
four-day tour of Armenia,

completely ignoring
his business,

completely ignoring his friends.

And we're standing
in front of the statue

of Pulitzer Prize-winning
Armenian-American

playwright and screenwriter

and short-story writer
William Saroyan.

And Moses says,
"Chris, you need coat."

And he immediately
takes his own coat off

and puts the coat on me,
so it looks like the coat

that Saroyan is wearing
in the statue.

And it's one of
my favorite photos ever.

My last trip to Armenia
was with my husband

and our twin boy and girl,

which was amazing
because, for us,

it was a way to introduce them
to their heritage

and really show them
the beauty of Armenia.

For me, seeing Armenia
through their eyes

was-- was really special.

And for them to understand that,
you know, you're Armenian,

you know, your family,
your ancestors came from here,

and what that meant,
was astonishing.

One of the most incredible
sights in Armenia

is the pre-Christian
temple of Garni.

Though its exact history
is unknown,

some believe it was built
in the first century

by an Armenian king
to honor a sun god.

Garni is singular
in its part of the world.

The only Hellenic temple
in all of the Soviet Union

was at Garni in Armenia.

This beautifully proportioned

Greek-style temple

with columns

pitched at the precipice
of a ravine.

Armenian architects
really love drama.

When the sun is setting,

it's very, very, very pretty.

There's so much history
to it, too,

the fact that it's existed
for so long

and you're standing
or sitting there

and you're like, "Wow.
You know. This is incredible."

You know, it was just
an incredible construction

from ancient times.

I really loved Garni.

I loved the feeling
of the region,

the cherry trees
that were up there.

It was the end of the summer.

And I thought if I ever
were to want to retire

to some place, this is the area

that I would come to,
up in these mountains.

One of the most amazing things
about Armenia

is that you can go
from summer to winter

in just a few hours of driving.

Here at the top of Mount Aragat,

the snow falls
in the middle of June.

And also located here

is the famed Aragats
Cosmic Ray Research Station,

where countless
scientific breakthroughs

were made by Armenian and other
scientists over the decades.

In the middle of Armenia

is one of the most beautiful
bodies of water in the world.

Lake Sevan.

The famed Russian writer
Maxim Gorky said

it was a piece of heaven
that had fallen to the earth.

My favorite place to go to
in Armenia

is probably Lake Sevan.

It's so beautiful
and so peaceful,

and it feels almost out of place
to where it is.

I went to Lake Sevan
a couple of times.

That was pretty incredible.

And that little church
up on the hill.

I named my daughter Sevan
after Lake Sevan.

Even though everyone
mispronounces it.

And I make a point to tell her,

"Make sure you tell people
how to say it."

They say "suh-VON" or "seven,"
which is nuts.

So I make sure
she corrects people.

Armenia is also home
to the Jermuk Waterfall.

As some say, it flows down
the side of the mountain

like the hair of a princess.

Jermuk Waterfall
is absolutely stunning.

It's breathtaking.

There's almost
a sense of peace to it.

Armenia is in many ways

inseparable from
its Christianity.

Its Christian story begins

with a man named Krikor,
or Gregory,

in the late third century.

According to tradition,
Gregory preached Christianity

to the king of Armenia,
Tiridates,

but rather than accept
Christianity,

the king threw him
into a deep pit.

Centuries later, a church
was built over the pit.

It is a pilgrimage site for
thousands of people every year.

Back then, it was a prison.

It wasn't this beautiful
monastery that we have today.

It was a prison filled
with snakes and scorpions.

And the legend says
that Saint Gregory survived

because one of the ladies
from a village

would bring bread
to help the saint.

But, of course, 13 years
living in that small pit,

it's only through
and thanks to the faith

and the trust in God
that someone can live

and can survive
that kind of imprisonment,

that kind of hardship.

You go down there,
and you look around,

and it's like--
I mean, it's prison, right?

So it can be really powerful.

I never went to church
when I was growing up.

Um, and then we--
we went to Khor Virap.

And listening
the beautiful music,

the centuries-old hymns,

and smelling the khunk,
the incense,

and witnessing people's worship,
people's presence,

prayerful presence
in the church,

that took my breath away.

And that day,
I told to myself,

"I want to be here.

I want to live here."

Because I felt something,

uh, a presence in the church.

When you go to Khor Virap,

there are two kinds of people--

people who go down into the pit

and people who don't go
into the pit.

I went into the pit.

I unfortunately was not
brave enough to go down.

But back to the story
of King Tiridates and Krikor.

God's wrath came down
on that king,

and the king was
turned into a wild boar.

And only when his daughter
convinced the king,

somehow, in wild boar form,

to convert Armenia
and liberate Gregory,

by the way, who then preached
to him for a very long time,

was the king
restored to his human form.

And he decided, "Yes, of course,
we'll convert to Christianity."

And the Armenians created
their own Christian church.

It's not Orthodox.
It's not Catholic.

It's its own national church.

And it's that national church
that has kept Armenians unified.

And that tradition is the core

of how they maintained their
existence through genocide,

through the attempt
of the Ottoman Turks

to eliminate them as a people
from their historic homeland

into the present day.

While the Church
unified Armenia's religion,

making Armenia
the first Christian nation

in the year 301,

it was the brilliance
of a fifth-century man

named Mesrop Mashtots

who strengthened that unity

with the creation
of the Armenian alphabet.

Mesrop Mashtots
was the inventor

of the Armenian alphabet,

and therefore Armenians
have a written literature

from that time.

At the time that he was born,
Armenia was kind of divided.

Mesrop Mashtots
was that man who invented,

unifying the Armenian
alphabet through language,

through the alphabet
that he invented.

And this is something
that you cannot see.

It is not--
It is not a weapon.

You cannot shoot, you cannot
kill, but you can survive.

I love the Armenian language.
I do.

And I love reading Armenian.

I can feel other wheels
spinning in my brain

and the realness of Armenian.

I don't know how to
describe this, but, you know,

when you're actually using a
language every day to function,

it's very different
from knowing it

as a heritage language,
you know, living at home.

It's not kitchen Armenian
anymore.

It's real. And I love it.

Not far from Yerevan,

an artist so loved
the Armenian alphabet

that he created a field

filled with giant
Armenian letters

to decorate the countryside.

You know,
here's all these big letters.

And, of course, you stand
in front of the one--

Like, I stood
in front of the tyun...

When I drive out of Yerevan,

I find myself driving
into moors, highlands,

grassy plateaus...

canyons, ravines.

And the grassy highlands
are very dramatic landscapes.

The great monasteries
and churches

built in some
of these locations.

When I'm on the outskirts,
when I'm in the villages,

when I'm in the mountains,

kind of going
outside of the city,

I can't recommend that enough.

Leaving Yerevan
and going out to the outskirts,

that's where I feel--

Well, that's where
I feel at home.

So, as we were driving,

all of a sudden,
there was a blockade of sheep.

Just white
fluffy coats stopping us.

And, you know,
they're just not in a rush.

They're taking their time,
these sheep.

The landscape is so incredible,

and so you never know
what you're gonna see.

The historic buildings,
the ancient churches,

they're absolutely beautiful.

You feel the history
when you walk into these places.

And that's why when I went
into this one church

and it was still being used,

that it wasn't just
a relic of the past.

It was representing
the future also.

What I love about Geghard

is that it's this church
that's carved into a mountain.

And there's parts of the church

where you see the trickles
of water across the floor,

and you really get the sense
that you're in this mountain.

Geghard was mind-blowing
the first time I saw it.

Remains mind-blowing
every time I go.

Uh...

Medieval church
built into rocky,

mountainous highlands

with monastery appendices

rolling into the rocky
mountainside behind it.

Ornately decorated caves.

Uh, khachkars
carved into walls.

There's this coldness,
dampness, this--

And you smell that dampness
in the air.

But it's almost like
you're smelling how old it is,

which in and of itself
is pretty amazing.

And then you'll hear, you know,
one of the priests singing,

and the acoustics
in that building

in that mountain
are unbelievable.

I mean, it gives me goosebumps

even just imagining the sounds
that I've heard in that church

or seeing the rows and rows
of beeswax candles

just all burning down
into the sand.

There's something--
I don't know-- so mystical,

truly mystical about that place.

Anytime I go, I'm always
lighting one for each person.

So there are lots of candles.
I take over.

Um, but-- but it's, uh--

it's very moving--
to watch people do it

and for you to do it yourself,
as well.

Monastery at Tatev
is really a dramatic,

one-of-a-kind environment.

You glide off
this extraordinary cable car

into a medieval monastery

that's a gorgeous
formation church.

And you feel that you're
in some mythical place.

You're transported into
medieval Armenian culture

in this incredible
mountain environment.

And yet, you know,
it's 2020, it's 2023.

And it's alive and well.

The word "Tatev"
means "giving wings."

And every time when you go
to Tatev Monastery,

you feel that presence,
that breathtaking--

It gives me wings to see
that beautiful monastery,

beautiful nature,
and feeling the history

and the presence of
countless of faithful and monks

who lived there
and who created that center

as not only as a monastery,
but also as a university,

as a center of cultural
and intellectual development.

When I go to these churches,
I wish I was a believer.

Maybe, you know, this--
this is the closest thing

that comes to believing
in something.

Because I love the fact
that some things have lasted,

endured a couple of thousand
years and they're still there.

And it's a reminder that you--
you have existed all this time.

And it gives you hope that if we
have existed all these years,

you know, maybe we'll--
we will continue existing.

In general, they're just,
like, meditative spaces.

There's, like, this austere,
calm, spiritual--

I don't know what
the right words are.

They're buildings
that are centuries-old.

To look at the architecture
and see how it was built

and think about all the hands
that were involved.

They didn't have machines.
That we know of, right?

Modern machines.

So, how many hundreds
of people did it take?

How many lives were lost?

I'm walking in the monastery.

And I notice as I'm walking--

I look down,
and there are sort of big tiles.

They're, like,
big rectangular tiles,

essentially, in the floor.

The guy's giving us a tour,

and I see sort of shapes
carved into these tiles,

and I'm realizing
they're sort of

stick figures or human figures.

And some are smaller
and some are larger.

And I'm like, "What is this?"

And the guy says,
"Oh, these are the graves

of the townspeople who died."

And then he said
the cultural tradition

is if you walk on the graves,

their souls are not forgotten.

Etchmiadzin, of course,
is a great cultural center.

It is Armenia's Vatican.

It is a source of learning,
a place of training.

Priests and clergy
for centuries,

for more, for millennia.
It's essential.

Anybody that wants
to understand Armenia

needs to spend time
at Etchmiadzin.

I visit there every time
that I go,

not only the church,
but the church people

who are buried on that site.

Everyone goes to Etchmiadzin.
It's a special place.

I mean, it's enough
of a special place for me

to want to take my kids there
to be baptized.

There's meaning to it.

I went to Etchmiadzin,

and we sat inside the church
at the very front.

I was there on Easter.

And I'm not really religious,

but to be there
and hear the hymns

and to see the people.

And after, you know, they're
kind of carrying a cross.

And all these people

were raising their hands
and reaching for it.

And it was a spiritual
experience for me

to be there around
all these people doing that.

One of the things
that my grandpa told me

was that I needed
to go to Etchmiadzin,

and I needed to light
a candle there.

So I went to Etchmiadzin.

But when I went
into that church specifically,

I felt this very sort of
strong sense

of, like, just spirituality
just overwhelm me.

And I felt it when I walked in.

And I did
what my grandpa wanted.

I went and I lit a few candles
for, you know, my family,

for everybody back home.

I said a few prayers,

and it was a really
kind of beautiful moment

that I had to myself,

and I was just really happy
that I got a chance to do that.

A painful chapter for Armenians

is that of Nagorno-Karabakh,
also known as Artsakh.

Located outside
the formal borders

of the current state of Armenia
in neighboring Azerbaijan,

it has been home
to an ethnic majority

of hundreds of thousands
of Armenians

going back millennia.

My family has been
in Artsakh for generations.

Our father's lineage
can be traced back.

The house that we had in Artsakh

was built
by my great-grandfather,

and we visited
almost every summer as kids,

as did my dad growing up.

Artsakh for me is motherland

because my mother's side
is from Artsakh.

And Armenia and Artsakh,
for me, they are one.

Since the fall
of the Soviet Union,

there have been repeated
violent conflicts over the land,

with both countries
viewing it as their own.

The region has been governed
by ethnic Armenians

since the early 1990s

when they defeated
Azerbaijan's armies

after several years of war.

In September of 2023, however,

Azerbaijan attacked
and captured Artsakh completely.

Many Armenians were killed,

and virtually
the entire Armenian population,

as many as 120,000 people,

were forced to leave
their historic homeland

to resettle in Armenia
and other lands.

I was at work
when I got the news

that the war had started,

that the escalation
has gone forward, um,

and it almost felt,
like, unreal.

It felt as if the ground
was pulled from under me

or the carpet
was pulled from under me.

Tears. Pain.

This is what ethnic
cleansing looks like.

Over 100,000 ethnic
Armenians fleeing.

This is the first time
in thousands of years

that the indigenous
Armenian population

has not been in Artsakh.

I was very sad about the--

the loss of life in Artsakh

and the terrific hardships

on the people who had to leave.

Because of the shift
in the politics over there,

they were able to do what they'd
wanted to do for a long time,

which was, you know,
hurt Armenia deeply.

I was thinking how...
I cannot really feel.

What is that like

to leave your home

and get in a caravan of cars

leaving your home land, really?

And starting all over again.

Our churches
are always raising money

and trying to do what we can
to help them.

It's just incomprehensible to me
how it could have happened.

And how-- how could
the whole world be silent?

The Armenian Genocide
Memorial in Yerevan

is an extraordinary place.

It's a monument
set in a plateau,

looking out at hills and sky.

And the designers of it

orchestrated
the museum and monument

so that you had to
walk down a long path,

a kind of mourning path,

with poplar trees
flanking the sides.

It's a large environment.

There are these gorgeous,

powerful twin obelisks

that define the space.

And then there's
the center of the memorial,

with 12 basalt slabs to signify

the 12 provinces
of historic Armenia.

And you really brood
on the meaning

of the Armenian genocide
when you're there.

It's a unique space, and
everyone should encounter it.

The Genocide Memorial
was one of our last stops,

and I don't know if anything
has hit me as hard as that has.

I think that was one of the
most sort of profound moments

of my life.

There is a wall of all these
cities and towns and villages

that were directly hit
by the genocide

that had the most casualties.

And my dad is from a town
called Sebastia, or Sivas.

Sivas is, I think,
the American translation for it.

And the moment I saw that,
I just remember

just being very overwhelmed
with emotion.

I hope people who visit
the Tsitsernakaberd memorial,

it reminds them
about preventing,

about taking a stand
against any genocides

and preventing that
kind of calamity and tragedy

to happen again.

There are times when I think

I have the emotional depth
of a rock.

The first time I went to
the Armenian Genocide Memorial,

the facade was gone.

I was a mess.

You stand at the memorial
with the flame,

and you realize that you are
a part of a historical continuum

that somebody
once tried to obliterate.

I went on April 24th,

and I walked with--

I don't know how many people
were around me,

but I just--
surrounded by people.

It felt like a pilgrimage for me
to walk toward this monument.

In the middle,
there's this flame

that's burning
that won't go out.

And that's what you think of.

You just never want to forget.

You never want to forget.
You never want to forget.

I want everyone to know
what happened to the Armenians.

We're walking there,
and we get up to the top,

and there are flowers

like 2 to 3 feet high

off of the bottom
of the memorial.

Everyone's just putting
the flowers around the flame.

And a little girl
says to her dad,

"Papa, are there as many flowers
as people died?"

And he says, "No.

They're-- No, not at all.
Don't worry. No.

Way more flowers
than people died."

And I lost it because the answer
was, "Yes and more." Right?

Way more people died
than the flowers.

I grew up with a grandmother

who was a survivor
of the genocide,

a child survivor,
who only knew her name

because she was grabbed off
her mother's lap as a child,

and her mother
screamed her name.

And she lived her whole life

knowing that she didn't know
if she had anybody in the world

except her daughter,
my mother, and us.

There was nothing I could do

to make her pain
lighter or better.

My solution has been

that I need to make a corner
of the world better.

Why not my corner?

Armenia is important for us
for so many reasons.

Because the diaspora outside

can't survive without
a connection to the homeland.

Um, the language
is being lost already.

Our connection to heritage
through assimilation

is happening already.

So we need the land

because that's the original land
that we had,

but we also need the land
because of a connection to it.

To see Armenia as a country
grow and prosper

makes all Armenians happy.

It's not just something
that we grew up dreaming about.

It's actually a place that we go
and populate and visit.

It's very hard
to hold the Armenians down

because we are stubborn

and we work very hard
and we're very smart.

I mean, it's been said
many times by Armenians,

and I am an Armenian chauvinist.

I can't really do anything about
it, 'cause facts are facts.

But given what
an incredibly small percentage

of the world's population
we are,

uh, those of us
with Armenian ancestry,

it's incredible
the mark we've made

on the world between music,

inventions, art,
all these things.

We have a big footprint
in the world.

And that's something
to be proud of!

And I am proud of it!

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