For me, there is no trip to Jerusalem without a stroll through the Armenian Quarter. A few weeks ago, I did that walk again, and, as I walked past the Armenian Museum, I remembered touring it several years ago.
I was the only visitor in the ancient building that day. A guide walked me through its corridors, showing me its exhibits, pointing out the photos of the atrocities during World War I. Each of us was barricaded within the walls of our own languages. We could not understand each other. But he used one word that we both understood. Ginoceed, he said. I recall that tears came to my eyes as I nodded.
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