Laura D. Minasyan: Bridging Cultures — Armenian, Khmer, Swedish, Russian

And yet you were drawn to distant, unexplored horizons. To go to Leningrad and study such a rare language as Khmer! What did knowledge of Khmer give a young Armenian woman?

Yes, I went to apply to Leningrad University — but not for journalism, for the Faculty of Oriental Studies. The Chinese Department had just opened a new section for Southeast Asian languages. The Khmer section was recruiting students for the next course. The only thing I managed to learn before submitting my application was that Khmer was spoken in the Kingdom of Cambodia — somewhere in Asia. I missed the passing grade by one point, but they accepted me as an auditor in the Khmer group. My friends found me a job as a stoker at a boiler house, which automatically gave me a residence permit in Leningrad. That first year of study was very hard: night shifts at the boiler house, where sleeping was dangerous, and I tried to study whenever I could.

There were six of us in our group — two men and four women. One of the men was an Uyghur, I was Armenian, and the rest were Russians. After a year, one of the girls was expelled for poor performance, and I was officially enrolled as a student, which provided a residence permit for the duration of my studies, a stipend and a dormitory closer to the university. It turned out there were several Armenians on the faculty. The well-known historian Karen Yuzbashyan looked after all Armenian students, and we all attended his lessons in Grabar (Classical Armenian). Interestingly, it was Uldis Bērziņš, a Latvian poet and polyglot from the Turkish section, who initiated the study of Classical Armenian. He was independently learning Armenian and urged us Armenians born outside Armenia to study our native language.

Studying Khmer was fascinating. I had developed an interest in Cambodian folklore, and I chose fairy tales as the topic of my first term paper. At the beginning of my third year, Dmitry Elovkov, our main instructor and the only Khmer specialist in the department, announced to me and the Uyghur student, Erik Uteev, that we should gather the necessary documents for a trip to Cambodia to study at Phnom Penh University. It was an unexpected decision by the department to send us — non-Russian students. Unfortunately, the practice in Phnom Penh never happened. In March 1970 there was a military coup in Cambodia, Prince Norodom Sihanouk was deposed, and Cambodia was proclaimed a republic. My interest in Cambodian folklore did not fade — on the contrary, it deepened. My term papers focused on Khmer fairy tales and the poem Tum Teav, while my diploma thesis was a comparative analysis of the Khmer version of the Indian national epic Rāmāyana  — the Reamker — with the versions of other Southeast Asian countries. The Khmer literary scholar Long Siem helped me navigate these complex texts. My coursework and diploma on Khmer folklore were among the first attempts in Russian to analyze and classify this fascinating material. Many years later, Dmitry Elovkov told me that generations of students after us studied Cambodian folklore using my papers and thesis. So, my work was not in vain.

After graduating from university, I was offered a place in graduate school in Leningrad, but after receiving my diploma, I began preparing to return to Armenia. Karen Yuzbashyan tried to dissuade me, reasonably asking, “Akhchi jan (dear girl), what will you do in Yerevan with your Khmer language?” When he realized I could not be persuaded, he used his connections in Yerevan’s academic circles and found me a position at the Academy of Sciences of Armenian SSR. Officially, I was hired as a senior lab assistant at the Institute of Oriental Studies, but I was to work as an assistant to a very respected academician. The academic historian, a specialist in the “friendship of the Transcaucasian peoples,” gradually pulled me into writing his next volume — first asking me to retype materials and select quotes, and later demanding that I write the texts myself. It was burdensome and unpleasant for me, but using his power and position, he turned me into his ghostwriter, and I had no way out. Besides, there were many everyday difficulties. My small salary didn’t last long after paying for a rented room. My only consolation was my wonderful friends.

To conclude the Cambodian part of my biography, I should say, that after moving to Sweden I tried to find something related to Cambodia and the Khmer language. Apart from translating an old Cambodian documentary for Swedish television, I found no other work. In April 1978, I participated in a hearing on the situation in Cambodia in Oslo as a correspondent for the Russian Service of Swedish Radio. News from Cambodia was rare, and rumors circulated about the Khmer Rouge’s atrocities and the mass killings of civilians. Three young Khmers, who had miraculously escaped the Pol Pot regime, described the horrific situation in Cambodia — the brutal torture and murders in the concentration camps. Their testimony was disputed by Pol Pot’s representatives in the West, who defended the actions of the new authorities, calling them reforms. Most shocking was that they were supported by Swedish leftists, communists, and Maoists, who argued that the Khmer Rouge had made a revolution and were building a new country with a new system. I reacted very emotionally to everything I heard. By then, Cambodia had long become a dear and familiar country to me. Even as a student studying its history, I had been struck by how similar the histories of Cambodia and Armenia were: two ancient and advanced civilizations with rich traditions and architectural masterpieces — Greater Armenia and the Khmer Empire. Both had experienced a Golden Age, leaving behind a heritage that still astonishes. Both, because of their geopolitical positions and external pressures, had suffered wars, invasions, and the loss of independence, leading to outside interference in their governance. And finally, both nations endured genocide and mass tragedies — entire generations in Armenia and Cambodia were wiped out physically, with all the consequences of destroying most of the population.

The intense events in my family and professional life pushed Khmer somewhat into the background, but I continued to translate Khmer fairy tales into Swedish in my free time. Some of them were published in various Swedish magazines. 

So, the next stage of your life was a completely different world: Sweden! In Soviet times, marrying a citizen of a capitalist country was anything but simple. How did the authorities and your family react?

I never met my Armenian prince, but quite unexpectedly a Swedish one appeared. Our chance encounter turned out to be fateful, and this young man spent about a year convincing me. I hadn’t planned to leave Armenia, so I couldn’t make a final decision for a long time. When we finally decided to marry, all my relatives reacted negatively. My Baku relatives branded me a “traitor to the homeland,” and my mother was simply horrified by such a bold step. In Armenia, departures abroad — or arrivals from abroad — were more common, and people were more tolerant. It was harder with my father. He had been so happy that, after studying at Leningrad University, his daughter returned to Armenia; he didn’t even want to hear about a marriage to a foreigner and refused for a time to meet or speak with me. But when I eventually brought my fiancé (illegally) to Sevan, my father, too, couldn’t resist the charms of this cheerful and kind young man.

Marrying a foreigner in the mid-1970s was difficult. Officially, the authorities did not forbid our marriage, but they created petty obstacles, humiliations, and delays. At the registry office, a stern, henna-dyed woman registered us. She was clearly irritated by the unusual appearance of the bride and groom — we both came in jeans and sweaters. She scrutinized every document, then asked me angrily: “Why are you marrying a Swede? Couldn’t you find an Armenian man?” “Unfortunately, not,” I replied.

I arrived in Sweden in the summer of 1975. I knew no one in the country except my husband, so I was very surprised when, not long after, our phone rang and my husband handed me the receiver: “Someone’s asking for you…” A male voice said in Armenian: “Daughter, you’re my namesake, and I couldn’t not call you to say: Welcome to Sweden!” It was the kind-hearted Emil Minasyan, one of the founders of the Armenian community established a year earlier in Stockholm. It turned out that my mother-in-law had placed an announcement in Sweden’s largest newspaper about her son marrying an Armenian girl, including our names. So, finding me wasn’t hard.

At that time, there were very few Armenians in Sweden — at most about a thousand — mostly from Lebanon, Syria, Iran, Turkey. For comparison, today 5,002 people are registered with the Armenian Church of Sweden, but they estimate the actual number of Armenians living in the country to be at least twice as high.

You conducted interviews with famous Russians for Swedish Radio.

Since my report from Oslo was received with interest by the Russian Service of Swedish Radio, they offered me further collaboration. This partnership lasted 13 years during the Soviet era, and I managed to produce many programs on a wide variety of topics about Sweden and Scandinavia that could interest Soviet listeners. During that time, our guests were mostly dissidents or non-returnees. One of my interviews was with Joseph Brodsky. I was able to contact him through his translator. He himself called my studio, and we recorded a wonderful interview.

A curious incident involved Rudolf Nureyev. My colleague and I went to a ballet rehearsal in which he was performing. My older, more experienced colleague flirtatiously approached Nureyev and asked him a question. He sharply cut her off: “I do not speak Russian with Russian journalists!” Then he turned his haughty gaze on me: “And you… you are not Russian?” “No, I am Armenian,” I replied. The gruff man even brightened: “Well, I will talk with you gladly!”

In the diaries of famous Russian filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky, in connection with Sergei Parajanov, the name L. Mikasyan appears — that is, yours (even if with a typo). Could you briefly tell this episode of your life?

In April 1981, Andrei Tarkovsky came to Sweden at the invitation of Swedish filmmakers. My Swedish colleague from television asked me to assist him with Russian translation during the interview with Tarkovsky. While we were walking to the filming location, I asked Tarkovsky what he knew about Sergey Parajanov’s situation, who lived without work after imprisonment. After recording the interview, Tarkovsky asked whether I was Armenian and passionately tried to convince me that Parajanov needed to be saved, that he was being slowly destroyed by being denied work. He asked, even insisted, that something be done to help Parajanov leave the country, perhaps with the help of Armenian organizations. I promised to do everything in my power. He asked me to call him at the hotel so he could dictate the contact details of his Lithuanian friend, with whom I could coordinate and perhaps cooperate on this matter. This is what Tarkovsky recorded in his diary.

From an international organization for the protection of artists’ rights in Paris, I was told that, according to their reliable information, Sergei Parajanov did not wish to leave the USSR. In the end, I decided that the only right thing to do was to go to Tbilisi, meet Parajanov in person, and clarify the situation on the spot. In August of the same year, I traveled with my five-year-old son, David, to Armenia. We took an intercity bus from Yerevan to Tbilisi. This was dangerous at the time with our foreign passports and without visas. Everything went smoothly; we arrived at Parajanov’s home, I explained the purpose of my visit, and he confirmed that he would leave immediately, without anything, if only he were allowed to exit the country. When I was ready to leave, Parajanov declared that he would not let us go anywhere and that we were now his guests. He provided us with his room and even his bed. Thus, we spent two amazing days full of adventures and meetings with numerous interesting guests of Parajanov’s house.

Before meeting Parajanov, I had heard various things about him: eccentric, flamboyant, sometimes harsh and unpredictable. But we met an endlessly kind, attentive, cheerful man with sad eyes. Perhaps he was gentler because of the child. He and David immediately bonded. My son and I were left with the warmest memories of this remarkable, festive man, whom David called a magician.

For more than 35 years, you were the wife of the renowned Swedish ethnologist Åke Daun. Thanks to you, he engaged with the Armenian cause, worked toward the recognition of the Armenian Genocide in Sweden, wrote articles dedicated to Armenians and the Genocide, for which both of you deserve the highest respect.

Åke Daun indeed made a significant contribution to the development of modern ethnology in Sweden. But he also studied Armenian history, especially the Armenian Genocide, and worked toward its recognition in Sweden. He wrote articles about it in the Swedish press and participated in debates. He even formed a working group of Swedish Armenians for this purpose. On March 11, 2010, the Swedish Parliament (Riksdag) adopted a resolution recognizing the mass killings of Armenians in the Ottoman Empire in 1915 as genocide. It was a very dramatic vote. We were there and witnessed the entire process. The decision was made by a margin of just one vote: 131 deputies voted “for,” 130 “against,” and 88 did not participate. The decision provoked a sharp reaction from Turkey: Ankara recalled its ambassador from Stockholm and canceled the planned visit of Prime Minister Erdoğan to Sweden. The timid Swedish government, fearing complications in relations with Turkey, refused to officially recognize its own parliament’s decision at the governmental level — to call the genocide by its name.

Although you have lived abroad for half a century and are fully integrated into European society, unlike many Armenians living in various countries, you became a citizen of Armenia, return almost every year, and follow daily events happening in the country.

Despite an interesting and full life, all this time I lived with a longing for Armenia. My eldest son, who accompanied me on our annual trips to Armenia since childhood, once said: “Mom, you are like a little tree transplanted into foreign soil — you can never really take root.” Perhaps that is true.

From the very beginning in Sweden, I devoted myself primarily to work related to Armenia. I led tours for Swedish tourists in the USSR when Armenia was on the itinerary. I came to Armenia with a Swedish Red Cross film crew after the earthquake in December 1988. For several years I worked with a team of Swedish sociologists training social workers in Lori region.

At one point, I read a note about the Swedish missionary Alma Johansson, who worked with Armenian children in an orphanage in Mush during the Armenian Genocide in the Ottoman Empire. I began collecting information about her and translated her memoirs of the horrors of the genocide into Russian. After that, I started exploring Swedish archives and libraries in search of other materials on the Armenian Genocide. I found many other documents from that time, memoirs of other missionaries, and Armenian refugees, which I have also translated into Russian.

I have always been deeply concerned about events in Armenia. I love coming to Armenia and living an Armenian life, even for a few months a year. I feel different in Armenia. I enjoy observing how Armenian society changes, especially the youth, particularly the girls.

I have no connection to the city where I was born and raised. Since leaving it after finishing school, I have never felt nostalgia. And after those barbarians destroyed the Armenian cemetery, including my mother’s grave, Baku has become a cursed city for me. I am ashamed that my passport lists it as my birthplace — a lifelong stigma…