Suzanne Ajamian: The Quiet Power of Creation

I am an Armenian citizen as well and my connection to the Armenian artistic spirit is woven into my bones. It lives in the resilience I inherited, in the stories carried across generations, in the instinct to rebuild from ashes. Even far from Armenian circles, I feel the pulse of a shared memory and a shared creative fire. When I meet Armenian artists, it feels less like an introduction and more like recognition. Yes, I have Armenian citizenship, but I have not yet been able to visit Armenia. In my teenage years, I imagined myself studying and living there—walking the same roads my ancestors once walked, hearing my language carried in the air, feeling that quiet recognition that only a homeland can give. But because of my disability, travel was never simple. The journey I longed for remained just beyond reach, like a place I could see in my heart but not touch with my hands. Still, the longing itself became a companion—an inner Armenia I have carried with me all my life.

My next question is traditional – what can you tell about your ancestors?

My father, Antoin Ajamian, was born in Antakya (Antioch), a major transit point during the Armenian Genocide. After losing his father young, he became responsible for his two younger brothers and his elderly mother. At sixteen, he left for Syria, studied at a French military school, learned seven languages, and served as a translator in the French Foreign Legion, monitoring international broadcasts for coded Nazi messages.

When Armenian refugees were relocated to Lebanon, he helped them rebuild their identity papers. He later refused a translation post in Madagascar to stay with his ill mother, resigning from the French army and working instead in Bourj Hammoud as a multilingual police officer.

My mother, Yeghsabet Djabrayan, arrived in Lebanon as a child after her family fled Belen (Beylan) near Iskenderun during the Genocide. She married my father, though her dream of becoming an opera singer was discouraged. Together they raised three daughters—Dicky, Marlen, and me.

During the Lebanese Civil War, I contracted polio at age three and spent more than five years at Hôpital Monseigneur Cortbawi. My parents sold their property to save my life. When the hospital came under attack, my treatment was cut short, leaving me permanently in a wheelchair.

My ancestors are the quiet guardians of my work, shaping everything I create. Armenia is our matriarch, a living archive of resistance who survived the unspeakable and still stands. I carry her witness and make room for the voiceless. I have not been to Armenia, yet she lives in my heart and imagination. One day I hope to stand where their stories first took root.

For four generations, my family has lived in the shadow of conflict — from my grandparents who survived the Armenian Genocide to my own childhood during the Lebanese Civil War. Becoming disabled during the war changed the course of my life, but surviving at all is what feels truly extraordinary. In a family shaped by displacement and violence, endurance itself became our defining story.

Are there Armenian artists and writers who are dear to you?

Many Armenian artists are deeply dear to me. The painters who shaped my imagination include Arshile Gorky, Jean Carzou, Ivan Aivazovsky, Martiros Sarian, Kevork Mourad, and Sossi Madzounian. Their work carries the colors, wounds, and spirit of our people, and I feel that every time I look at their art.

Among writers, William Saroyan has always held a special place in my heart. His stories celebrate the resilience of ordinary Armenians, and I have always felt seen in his words. I am also deeply connected to the work of the British‑Armenian author Nouritza Matossian who wrote Black Angel: A Life of Arshile Gorky. Her biography captured the pain and brilliance of Gorky with rare honesty. We became friends, and she even attended my exhibition at the Quakers’ Gallery in 1998, just before her book was published. That memory remains precious to me.

 Could you mention some Armenian artists you met and loved?

Some of the Armenian artists who shaped me are the ones I was fortunate enough to know personally. My former art teacher, the sculptor Gulen Torossian Der Boghosian, was one of my earliest inspirations, and I have always admired the work of her husband, Shahe Der Boghossian, as well as their daughters, Maral and Nanor, who are artists in their own right. I also hold deep affection for the paintings of Levon Jamgochian and the unforgettable Paul Guiragossian.

There are many Armenian artists whose work I cherish, but my years living in the Far East kept me far from the Armenian art world. For a long time, I was the only Armenian artist in Hong Kong, carrying my heritage alone but always keeping it alive through my work.

My Armenian inspirations come from the stories and traditions my family carried through war, exile, and survival. I keep my culture alive in the small rituals of daily life — our festivals, our music, our memories. Even when my work doesn’t show obvious Armenian symbols, the spirit is always there. The resilience of my people, the tenderness of our family bonds, and the pride of a nation that refused to disappear shape everything I create and everything I am.