What does it mean to write fantasy fiction in Western Armenian? |

By Tamar Marie Boyadjian
armenian weekly

They say flying is only for birds and fairy tales.
Is this true? At least that’s what they keep telling us.
Because there is no room for things that seem impossible
What is possible? Therefore, illusion still exists
The fantasy world, as part of the hidden truth, only
Live within your heart.

—Tamar Marie Boyadjian, Ph.D. Mape and the Dragon (Arpi Publishing, 2024)

I made up a lot of stories when I was a kid. Many of them were influenced by the fantasy novels I read – and even more by my loneliness. The characters in the books were so nice to be around. They didn’t make fun of me and were great friends. Plus, there were dragons and mythical creatures – I still love dragons. Every book was a new world, a new adventure. You’ll never be bored when your best friends are books – especially when they’re fantastic books.

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I read all the considered “great” works: Tolkien, Lewis, the Icelandic sagas, Homer, Virgil, Beowulfmedieval romances, stories of King Arthur and Robin Hood, Malory, Celtic folklore and Dante. I was surrounded by books. Then, there were Victorian books, like Ruskin’s King of the Golden River and McDonald’s The Princess and the FairyHow could I forget Morris, Wilde, and Lovecraft! The Middle Ages appealed to me the most; TH White made up my mind. Until I realized that fantasy could be fun Sword in the Stone — Merlin would definitely teach me how to learn from Walter, and we both hate Kai equally. In my world, young girls can also be trained as knights. They can also pull swords from stones.

I always try to imagine myself in the fictional world created by every fantasy series I read. I don’t know whether to feel comforted or annoyed when I realize I don’t really belong there. Maybe that’s the point of the genre—to be apart of anything imaginable. But I always wonder: What would these worlds be like if the characters were anything like me and my extended family? Would I identify more with these otherworldly realms if they were based on pre-modern Armenian and Mediterranean stories rather than British or Western European ones? What would a mythical Armenian world look like—especially if women were at the forefront?

Perspective (illustrator Arpi Krikorian, inspired by The Mepe & the Dragon)

I began this quest: my treasure was not the Holy Grail, but a book. I worked on this question while doing my PhD in medieval Mediterranean literature, focusing on the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia. I thought I was Tolkien or Lewis, and so did others. Then I realized why, as medievalists, they not only taught fantasy, but also wrote it. As a teacher, I had the same desire, because while I was learning about the wonders of the medieval world, I was also creating my own. my own The medieval world. The entire time I was reading the hegemonic narratives of medieval Europe, I was rethinking their depictions of “the East” and “the Armenians.” As I studied the manuscripts and their pre-modern stories, I looked for those that included my own. Then, I looked for those written from the Armenian perspective: what did they think of dragons, mythical creatures, and knights? Bologir?

Early fantasy novels were mostly centered on the European realities of the Crusades and colonization, imagining how kingdoms and national empires expanded themselves under the guise of the “evil and barbaric Other.” Chanson Redemption—I knew my world wasn’t built that way. While medieval European romances used their narratives to reflect on the great feats of God-given European conquest of the Christian and Arab Islamic East, I knew my world didn’t support those realities. While the heroic adventures of pre-modern epics and romances lacked fully formed female characters, I knew the women of my world existed for more than just supporting—and sometimes deceiving or inhibiting—the men’s journeys. They deserved characterizations, too.

I searched for these women. But I found very little. I discovered Sahagtukht and Khosrovitukht. I read the words they left behind; I drew inspiration from their courage. And so, I began to bring my world to life, letter by letter, in Armenian. My world was not only Armenian; it was built on Hittite, Urartu, Mesopotamian, Persian, Arabic, Georgian, Greek, and other traditions and nuances. In my world, autonomous leaders were called OpenThere are also mythical trees and legendary creatures, such as Ararez. I began to translate this world, to have a conversation with my characters. Like a method actor, I identified with each character’s emotions and motivations. I already knew their stories; they were written in palimpsests, inspired by a deliberate exploration of Armenian poetry that was once inscribed on ancient and medieval vellum.

Every book I read contributed to my worldview. Of course, I was determined to read every fantasy novel written in Armenian. I found myself returning to the pre-modern era. I read Grapal. I reread Armenian epics. I reread the histories of Movses Xorenatsi, Pavstos Puzant, Ghazar Parbetsi, Agathangełos, and many other writers. I read and searched for Armenian folk tales and legends. I was exposed to these writers and stories when I was in Armenian school; I revisited them in graduate school. How could I have forgotten that Armenians had dragons, too? That they even rode them? Xorenatsi tells us that Aztahag’s children were born of dragons? That supernatural figures populate these pages, too? It was as if time had erased the possibility of modern fantasy in Armenia.

Why haven’t Western Armenians experienced fantasy literature yet? What does it mean to create fantasy literature and build worlds in a language that is considered “endangered” and “dying”?

I thought about the way I was taught pre-modern knowledge in Armenian schools. I remember studying Movses Xorenatsi, the father of Armenian history. I remember reading some chapters from his works. history in modern Armenian translation. I never considered his history Like anything else – like an imagination. I remember reading the story of King Arshag and Shab, King of Persia. history Pafstos Puzant. When Arshag was tested by Shab and asked to set foot on Armenian soil, he confidently told the truth: “This is the territory of the Arshaguni dynasty, and if I return to my world, I will take great revenge on you” (my translation). What is Arshag’s “territory” and “world”? Yes, it is Armenian. Yes, it is Arshaguni. But why, as children, we cannot imagine it?

These texts are written in Classical Armenian. We know we are reading history originally written in our ancient language. But when we read them in Western Armenian, they feel so far away from us. It is not difficult to imagine mythological worlds in English. We have many examples to draw on. It feels effortless to immerse ourselves in created geography, backstories, and invented languages ​​in English. We cannot do this in our own language because when we read ancient books, we never think of them as creative endeavors—they are history. They are taught to us as facts. They are taught to us simply to validate our past.

So our teachers focused our attention on the long-standing existence of the Armenian people. We studied our historical kingdoms to affirm our place in the ancient world. Our teachers focused our attention on our perseverance. We studied our history as a way of demonstrating our steadfast existence—even beyond the traumas of war, the Hamid pogroms, and the Armenian genocide. All of this left us with little room for imagination, no fictional worlds—especially in Western Armenian.

Secret Entrance (illustration by Arpi Krikorian, inspired by Mepe and the Dragon)

It can be said that the evolution of the fantasy genre is futurism. Going beyond the conventions of early fantasy means creating an imagination that is not based on colonial histories and world models. Contemporary futurist movements – such as Armenian FuturismAfrofuturism, Indigenous futurism, Arab futurism, etc. – use fiction, history, and fantasy as part of their worldview. They aim to connect the diaspora with forgotten and pre-modern ancestors; they rewrite a past that is not based on repressive realities. Futurism liberates the way we think and helps us move beyond generational trauma and toward spaces of healing. Futurism reclaims the past and empowers the present. Futurism allows us to create possibilities that were once unimaginable. Futurism allows us to manifest worlds that heal. I consider my fantasy series to be part of the Armenian Futurist movement because it strives to do all of this.

I believe that writing fictional fantasy in Western Armenian is only possible if we embark on a journey of healing generational trauma. This does not mean that we forget, but it means that we allow ourselves to imagine other worlds without feeling that they are a betrayal of the memory of our ancestors. Writing fantasy in Western Armenian means having a different understanding of our ancient and modern Armenian history. We allow ourselves space to think of books as having mythological and folkloric elements; again, this does not mean that we are saying that our history is a myth. Writing fantasy in Western Armenian means having a different relationship with our language. It means seeing Western Armenian as more than just a vehicle for cultural preservation. It means that we can create, play and imagine in Western Armenian – and we agree to do so. Instead of focusing on the “death” of the language, why not bring it to life by building worlds with it? Instead of focusing only on the tragedies of our past, why not tell our history in a way that allows for visual connections – like Roger Kupelian exist East of Byzantium I: God of War and Byzantine East: Holy Warriors Sergey Parajanov Pomegranate color?

I want to break free (illustration by Arpi Krikorian, inspired by The Mepe & the Dragon)

But how can we begin to imagine a world where the language we protect is constantly being debated? If we let go of our fear of losing Western Armenian, we can also think about what we have gained through this language. If we begin to see speaking and writing in Western Armenian as acts of community building, as efforts rooted in love—rather than efforts that divide us and are rooted in fear—we can also begin to imagine a living language; we can begin to imagine parallel universes where we not only belong, but can thrive. We can confront our intergenerational traumas, heal together, and dream together. Through building together, the impossible can make room for the possible.

Does unreality exist only in the realm of fantasy? It only becomes so when we lose faith. Sometimes we are lucky enough to win the trust of others along our journey. I was lucky enough to win the support of many people on this journey, including my friends and family. Most importantly, I was able to win the support of Arpi Publishing. When I got the call from pioneering visual artist and publishing house founder Arpi Krikorian, I knew the world I was creating transcended the mere genre of “fantasy.” When she told me that my Western Armenian series was accepted by the publishing house, I knew that others could get involved. Then, I was honored to learn that it was the first of its kind. With so few publishing houses in the world publishing Western Armenian books, I knew writing this book would not be enough. I wonder how many books would have been lost or even never written without Krikorian’s vision and support for the creation of original Western Armenian works for children and young adults. Krikorian and Arpi Publishing have made it possible for my book to soar into the sky—and no longer be some kind of long-lost fairy tale.