“I must enter our life like a comet,
I must sing, preach, struggle, weep and burn…” — Avetik Isahakyan
It is rare for the poet of a small nation to stay alive in the hearts of his people for 150 years — to become part of their daily existence, a song they sing, an alarm in moments of decay, a comfort to grieving mothers and an echo of victory in times of downfall.
Armenia is among the fortunate nations, blessed with exceptional talents whose legacies endure across centuries: Narekatsi, Kuchak, Sayat-Nova, Tumanyan, Komitas, Terian, Isahakyan, Varoujan, Siamanto and many others. Their works remain present and resonant.
By a remarkable coincidence, and with a certain inner meaning, the 150th anniversary of Avetik Isahakyan — poet, philosopher, national figure, translator and academician — falls during a difficult period in our nation’s history. His life was intertwined with the trials of his country and his people and, today, the celebration of his jubilee reaffirms his enduring bond with his nation and homeland.
Under different circumstances, with true national statehood, this jubilee would have been celebrated with great solemnity. Yet today, I consider it my duty to convey, through this brief writing, profound gratitude and love for our great poet, whose patriotism nourished and inspired us, whose foresight continues to unfold.
Throughout his life, from the late 19th century into the 20th, Isahakyan lived in various countries and witnessed different political eras, often times of crisis for his people. Always restless, he remained deeply concerned for his nation and homeland until his final days. Unable to endure the longing for his native land, he returned home during a difficult period, becoming a stronghold of Armenian spiritual life and a guardian of the Armenian language, guiding his people both in the homeland and abroad.
Isahakyan became a symbol of patriotism. One might have assumed that, with hundreds of commentaries and praises from Armenian and foreign luminaries, interest in his legacy would eventually fade. Yet, in the 21st century, his 150th anniversary, along with the prophetic power of his words, “I tell you, the famine of the soul will come” — reflecting today’s world, reaffirms his wisdom, unique talent, profound philosophy and the boundless love his people hold for him.
Avetik Isahakyan was born on October 30, 1875, on the banks of the Akhuryan River in Ghazarapat (near Alexandropol, now Gyumri), the seventh child of Sahak and Almast Isahakyan. He enjoyed a carefree childhood, surrounded by the beauty of Mount Aragats (Alagyaz) and the vast fields surrounding it. “Beloved Shirak has been the center of the universe for me, for it is here that my heart first began to beat,” he wrote.
Avetik Isahakyan
His father owned a watermill inherited from his own father, which provided the family with a comfortable living. Isahakyan received primary education at the local parish school until 1885, when Armenian schools were closed by Tsarist order. He was forced to continue his studies at a city school, where lessons were taught in Russian, except for religion, which was in Armenian.
At 11 or 12, he began writing poetry and developed a deep love for learning. At 15, he entered the Gevorkian Theological Seminary in Etchmiadzin, where he received the news of his father’s sudden death. Responsibility for the large family fell to his mother, Almast, affectionately called Apla, a capable, wise and deeply kind woman. Isahakyan’s devotion to her was almost worshipful and the pain of separation deeply influenced his poetry, where the images of his mother and homeland often merge.
“It was worth coming into this world just to have a mother,” he wrote.
And in his poem “Abu-Lala Mahari,” the poet who rejects all else, exalts only his mother:
“You, my immortal mother, motherly embrace,
You, the one pure, the one holy, holy.”
From an early age, the pain of separation became both a source of meaning and understanding in his poetry — a way to process grief while cultivating forgiveness. For Isahakyan, the images of mother and homeland merge into one:
“Dear mother, I left you,
Burdened with sorrow, I went away,
The voice of my holy homeland,
Of my people, called me and I went.”
At the Gevorkian Seminary, Isahakyan and several classmates were expelled for protesting poor student living conditions. Only 15, he returned home with a heavy heart.
A year later, he fell in love with Shushanik Matakyan, a young relative of striking beauty.
“Shushan girl, I am your captive,
Bound and chained without chains.
My heart burns with the flame of your love,
I have become parched with longing.”
Their affection inspired countless poems and exchanged letters, though their love ultimately ended when Shushanik married another. This unrequited love became a defining wellspring for his verse:
“I loved, they took my beloved away,
They wounded me and took her away.
What a cruel world this is,
They tore my heart and took it away.”
Driven by a passion for learning, Isahakyan returned to the seminary briefly but soon left for Tiflis (modern Tbilisi), seeking broader intellectual horizons. There, he encountered the vibrant Armenian cultural and political scene, including publishing houses, revolutionary activities and prominent intellectuals such as Hovhannes Tumanyan. Tiflis became a crucible for his literary and political awakening.
Armenian intellectuals (Left to right): Gevorg Bashinjaghian, Komitas Vardapet, Ghazaros Aghayan, Vrtanes Papazian, Hovhannes Tumanyan, Arshag Chobanian and Avedik Isahakyan (Photo: Wikimedia Commons)
During this period, he wrote “The Songs of Haiduks,” the first reflection of the Armenian fedayi (freedom fighter) movement in poetry. His literary success and involvement in political activity brought him considerable fame. Yet, he was not content with what he had achieved. He understood that higher education was essential to the national liberation struggle. In 1893, he left for Vienna, and later to Leipzig, where he studied literature, philosophy and ethnography despite severe financial hardships.
His brothers, who opposed his higher education, failed to send him his rightful share of income from the family mill. As a result, the 19-year-old student endured severe material hardships abroad. We learn about this from an entry in his “Memoirs”:
“What an unbearable situation I am in. I have come to a foreign place, no one pays attention to me, my clothes are worn out, I am in debt, no letters from home…”
In Leipzig, he joined the university’s “Union of Armenian Students,” forming lifelong friendships with future luminaries of Armenian life, including Karapet Melik-Ohanjanyan, Gevorg Chorekchyan, Levon Shant and Manuk Abeghyan.
In the green meadows of Leipzig, he dreamed and lived in memory of daily life in his native land. During this time, he wrote the poem “You are weary, the plowman” (Majkal es bezaraz es).
There, his longing for home inspired works such as “A Gift to My Mother.”
“I have left my homeland,
Poor wanderer, I have no home.
Parted from my dear mother,
Sad and sorrowful, cannot sleep.”
His exposure to German masters — Goethe, Heine, Nietzsche, Wagner and Beethoven — shaped his intellectual confidence and inspired poems like “I Stand Firm as a Rock,” a declaration of inner strength and resilience.
In the most difficult moments of his nation’s history, he himself became that steadfast, unshakable rock for his people.
“Hold on to me, you sinking souls,
I stand firm as a rock.
Cast your anchors beneath my feet,
I stand firm as a rock.”
News of massacres in Sassoun in 1894 stirred outrage and grief. In his journal, Isahakyan denounced Europe’s indifference:
“The German newspapers take the side of the Turk. The Germans are unbearable people, without feeling, greedy, money-loving… Beasts, savage humanity. And Europe rejoices, seeing only its own interests, applauding the tyrant. Tch, I spit on Europe and its so-called selfish culture.”
Later, during the final massacres of his people, he would direct even more furious words towards Europe and the so-called civilized humanity.
“Tell us, Europe, where are you rushing
With your hands stained in Armenian blood?
You have torn apart Holy Armenia,
Now, where do you flee with your bloody hands?”
The Leipzig period was a time of searching and self-discovery in both his thoughts and poetry. In his works, he expressed his aspiration:
“I want to erase lies and ugliness, I want to create a whole world where boundless love blossoms.”
His longing for his homeland recurs in poems such as “Night has fallen, coolness descends,” and “Amid the emotions of the sea of life,” alongside his never-fading love for Shushanik.
Two years later, in 1895, Isahakyan returned to his homeland. In his “Memoirs,” he wrote the following:
“Tomorrow, I am going to my Homeland, beloved Caucasus, Aragats, mother, friends and Shushanik… For two years, I lived through hunger and fullness, learned much and forgot much, yet suffered greatly in spirit. I have cast off Europe’s shell and embraced my homeland — free and unbound. My content is universal. In the past, I was another person; that was not Avetik Isahakyan. Now, I am master of my own mind; now, I am Avetik Isahakyan.”
With insatiable longing, he returned to his native landscape, frequently visiting Ani, near his birthplace. He marveled at its handcrafted architecture, evaluating its beauty through the eyes of one educated and well-traveled — eager to fill in what he had missed in his youth. Yet, Western Armenia was in turmoil, shaken by ongoing massacres and liberation movements.
Back in Tiflis, Isahakyan had joined the Hunchakian Party alongside Tumanyan and Aghayan, since it was a recognized revolutionary organization. As a result, he came under Tsarist persecution. In 1896, he was arrested for his revolutionary views and imprisoned on the banks of the Zangu River (now Hrazdan River) in Yerevan.
Imprisonment did not crush the young man’s spirit. Even behind bars, he continued to create. After a year, he was released and wrote: “New life, after a year of death.”
Soon after, he published the small poetry collection “Songs and Wounds,” which became a voice for the people and brought him immediate recognition. Among its poems were “Cry for my inner pain” (Dards latsek), “Be afraid from Black Eyes” and “Songs to Alagyaz.”
“Dark-black clouds crown your brow,
You are wrapped in mist, Alagyaz,
No sun blooms in my heart,
My heart itself is the mist, Alagyaz…”
Returning once more to Tiflis, he continued his literary and public activities, but the Tsarist secret police continued to pursue him. He was imprisoned again — this time, in Metekhi Prison. By paying a large bail, he was granted the right to choose his place of exile. He was released under the following verdict: “Convicted in the Armenian-Turkish affair, Isahakyan is exiled for one year to Odessa.”
In Odessa, he remained undeterred, continuing to create. As always, he wrote about his beloved Mount Aragats, his eternal love Shushanik and the injustices of the world:
“Ah, our hearts are full of sorrow and pain,
We have seen neither day nor sun.
Alas, our lives have passed in darkness,
We have learned nothing from the world.”
After exile, he returned to Tiflis, where his poems found a home in the Armenian literary journal, Murj (The Hammer) — the very publication where he had longed to see his work appear. The Armenian Revolutionary Federation (ARF), now the leading Armenian political party in the country, called for armed resistance, the liberation of Western Armenia and the unification of Eastern and Western Armenia.
This call spoke directly to Isahakyan. Alongside many others, including Tumanyan, he joined the ranks. He forged close friendships with party leaders Christapor Mikaelian and Simon Zavarian, contributed poems and articles to their Geneva-based periodical Droshak (Flag), attended secret meetings in Alexandropol and Constantinople and secretly transported weapons and funds to Western Armenia — all while under constant Tsarist threat.
To avoid persecution, for a time, he published under the pen name Hay Gusan (The Armenian minstrel). Among these works was a poem dedicated to Aghbiur Serob, from the series “Songs of the Hayduk”:
“Burn, wear crimson, You! Armenian people,
And raise your sword, clear your path.
In this world, only the sword cuts deep,
Strike and conquer, be strong, invincible!
And firmly stamp your foot upon the earth,
Be master of your soil and your home.
At the dawn of the century, in 1900, Isahakyan left for Switzerland to complete his studies at the University of Zurich. Yet, after a year and a half, homesickness called him back. In a letter he wrote:
“I am tired of Europe, and I miss our people dearly…Although I am studying well now, it does not inspire me. The purpose that brought me to Europe is not as strong as the longing to ride from one village to another, to hear dogs bark at me, to ask for cold water and to have an Armenian girl bring it to me…My soul is suffocating…Whatever happens, I cannot live far from my Armenian people, and that is final.”
He reflected these same feelings in his poetry:
“I would die for our soil, my priceless homeland,
Ah, one life is not enough to die for you.
If I only had a thousand and more,
I would offer them all, from the depths of my heart.”
His devotion to his homeland was a defining force throughout his life. It was not mere words but a force that guided him throughout his life.
It is no wonder he wrote: “I emigrated from my homeland in body, but in soul I remained in my homeland.”
It is surprising that in Geneva, instead of enjoying European life like his friends, he thought of Armenian fedayis, who sacrificed their lives for the freedom of Armenians:
“In the Salno gorges, in the gorges of battle,
The hayduk falls with a deep wound in his heart.
The open wound like a rose,
And his hand rests upon broken rifle.”
Leaving his studies unfinished, Ishakayan returned to Alexandropol in 1902. He created in solitude, frequently traveling to Tiflis to recharge his energy through contact with prominent Armenian literary and political figures. Together with Hovhannes Tumanyan, Ghazaros Aghayan, Derenik Demirchian and Nikol Aghbalian, he helped establish Vernatun, the first modern Armenian writers’ association.
By the beginning of the century, Isahakyan was already renowned. Many of his poems became work chants, often sung without anyone knowing the author’s name. Isahakyan himself recalled one such encounter:
“One day, while passing through a field, I heard a villager singing my poem, ‘You are a cripple, you are worn out’ (Majkal es, bezaraz es), with mistakes. I approached and tried to correct him, but the villager rudely shouted at me, saying: ‘What do you know? You’ve come from the city to teach us folk songs?’”
During these years, he continued to publish widely and carry out patriotic activities, inspiring those fighting for their homeland. It was also during this period that he met Sofia Kocharyants, the eldest daughter of a family recently relocated from Shushi, Artsakh. The unexpected death of the family’s father, Manas, had compelled his widow, Zhenya, to move her large family of eight children, five boys and three girls, in pursuit of a better future.
From the very first acquaintance, an inner bond formed between the eldest daughter, Sofia, and the 33-year-old Avetik, a connection that would completely change their destiny.
Despite frequent interrogations by the Tsarist police about his time abroad, Isahakyan, who had stammered since childhood, claimed that he had gone abroad for medical treatment of his speech impediment. Nevertheless, he was imprisoned again in Metekhi Prison with over 100 progressive Armenian intellectuals, including Tumanyan, and released on a 5,000-ruble bail.
Gendarme card for Avetik Isahakyan, compiled by the Tiflis Provincial Gendarme Department and issued in 1909 (Photo: Wikimedia Commons)
During this temporary “freedom,” he wrote the novel “Master Karo,” the poem “Masma Manouk” about the massacre of Western Armenians and his masterpiece “Abu-Lala Mahari.” At the same time, he contemplated his personal life. His choice of Sofia was final. On June 27, 1910, with his mother’s blessing, he married her at the “Seven Wounds” (Yot Verk) Church in Gyumri, where he had been baptized. The wedding procession set out in carriages toward the Cathedral of Ani — the dream of his childhood to be married there. Guests included Tumanyan, Aghbalian and many others.
Blessed under the magnificent arches of the Cathedral, the vow they made to each other would be kept for 47 years, as they endured unspeakable hardships and weathered many geopolitical storms across different lands.
By the end of that year, the trial of Armenian intellectuals, known as the “Dashnak Case,” was approaching. According to Isahakyan’s grandson and scholar, Professor Avik Isahakyan, before the trial, Sofia met with her husband’s lawyer, Alexander Kerensky — later head of the Russian Provisional Government. She told him that the charges were fabricated and pleaded for her husband’s release, having just begun a new family with a newborn child.
Kerensky told her that the accusations were extremely serious: Isahakyan was charged with supplying arms and funds to liberation groups operating in (what is now) Turkey and engaging in subversive activities within the empire. It was impossible to save him from a death sentence or exile to Siberia. His only recourse, Kerensky said, was to leave the country.
With no other choice, Isahakyan parted from his family and infant son, Vigen, setting out for an uncertain destiny. In 1911, he crossed the Russian-Turkish border via secret routes, entering Karin (now Erzurum) and Constantinople. There, he continued political work, writing, “The muse does not let me become a brave man; the sword does not let me become a minstrel.” Torn between these two paths and avoiding Turkish intelligence, he made his way to Vienna and then to Zurich.
A year later, Sofia and two-year-old Vigen joined him in Zurich. In his memoir “Sofia: Avetik’s Good Angel,” Avik Isahakyan describes his grandmother’s courage. When Isahakyan welcomed his family at the Zurich train station, he noticed that his wife had brought along many hat boxes. Surprised, he asked her where she planned to wear all those hats.
Avik Isahakyan, Avetik Isahakyan’s grandson in 2010 (Photo: Wikimedia Commons)
When they reached home, Sofia opened the boxes, revealing not hats but the manuscripts of Isahakyan’s novel “Master Karo,” the epic “Abu-Lala Mahari” and his poems and writings left behind in Tiflis. Sofia had cleverly hidden and smuggled her husband’s works out of the country, saving what Isahakyan himself had been unable to take when fleeing.
Thus began 25 years of exile for the family, spanning Germany, Switzerland, Italy, France, Vienna, Geneva and Collonges. Reflecting on this period, Isahakyan wrote in “On a Foreign Winter Road” (“Odar amayi jampeqi vra”):
“On foreign, desolate roads
My caravan softly rings.
Halt, caravan, it seems to me
That someone from my homeland calls”
Though fluent in five languages, he wrote exclusively in Armenian, which caused severe financial hardship in Europe. In his memoir “My Father,” Vigen recalls his father’s anguish upon hearing news of the 1915 Armenian massacres. That same year, Isahakyan also learned of the death of his beloved mother, Apla, a blow that threw him into despair.
His mother had been the lifeblood of his existence, while his homeland was the vital force that nourished that lifeblood.
Losing both at once broke him. He wrote, “Unfortunate those who die on foreign soil,” and in his will, he left this wish:
“When I die, bury me on the slopes of Alagyaz,
That the winds from Mantash may come,
Breathe upon me and pass.”
In 1926, the Isahakyan family was living in Venice, where they hosted writer Yegishe Charents and painter Martiros Saryan from Soviet Armenia. Interacting with them, once again, plunged the writer into intense emotional turmoil — a deep longing for his homeland. Of the Soviet regime, he wrote, “It is hard, even impossible, to deal with those dogs. There is no law, no justice, only terror.” Nevertheless, he decided to travel alone to Soviet Armenia.
15 years had passed since his last departure. Much had changed in Armenia. The country was in severe poverty, and upon his long-awaited arrival in his native land, a massive earthquake had reduced his birthplace to ruins. The Ghazarapat mill, their family home and the traces of his childhood were all destroyed.
Yet, his love and bond with that soil were so deep that he paid no attention. “It is a happiness to live in the homeland,” he wrote to his son.
Although Isahakyan was officially permitted to stay in Soviet Armenia for only six months, it took four years before he was allowed to leave. It was clear that the author of “Songs of the Haiduks,” a political exile and Dashnak activist, could not enjoy real freedom of movement. In fact, it was fortunate that he had not been arrested.
Remarkably, these hardships did not discourage him. He returned to the homeland with a final decision: his future would be in Armenia. “I am tired of the life of a European exile,” he wrote. He went to Paris with the intention of gathering his belongings and moving his family permanently to Armenia.
That same year, 1930, Isahakyan penned a letter to his close friend and leading ARF member, Vahan Navasardian:
“I don’t know what to do. Before leaving Armenia, Soviet authorities made me promise to return. I gave my word. I want to go back, and I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to break my word, as well. This will weigh heavily on the local intelligentsia. But to go and fall again under oppression, to grow furious, to devour each other and remain silent, that I also do not want. Yet, to stay in this loathsome Paris is just as unbearable.”
Isahakyan was no naïve man; his decision to live in his homeland was informed by a lifetime of immense struggle and hardship — imprisonments, police pursuit and the knowledge that life in Armenia would not be easy. He was uncertain how the authorities would treat him this time, especially since rumors of arrests had already begun to spread.
Yet, simply being on his native soil brought him a profound mental and emotional peace. In 1936, during the hardest years of Stalin’s rule, he returned to Soviet Armenia with Sofia, while their son Vigen had arrived a year earlier.
Surprisingly, the Soviet authorities did not disturb Isahakyan during those bloody years. His immense popularity, both within Armenia and abroad, shielded him from persecution behind the “Iron Curtain.” His presence alone, during the harshest Stalinist years, became a source of strength and comfort for the Armenian people. He was not only revered by the population, but became a moral anchor, a preserver of the Armenian language and a living embodiment of cultural endurance.
Though he traveled and lived in some of Europe’s most beautiful cities, he chose his small, humble, oppressed homeland — a country scarred by genocide, the victory at Sardarapat, the creation and loss of the First Republic and, now, subjected to new tyranny. He placed the suffering people of his homeland above the comforts of Europe. Through his poetry, presence and personal sacrifices, Isahakyan became the living memory of the nation. With profound respect, people came to call him the Master (Varbed).
Admiration for the Master grew daily, not only through his publications but through his actions. In 1949, at the First All-Union Peace Conference held in Moscow, where he was Armenia’s sole representative, he displayed remarkable courage. Delivering his speech in Armenian, he openly addressed the Armenian people’s greatest tragedy:
“During the First Imperialist War, with Germany’s encouragement and the consent of the Triple Entente, Sultanate Turkey massacred one quarter of the Armenian people, one million Armenians.”
For the first time, such a bold declaration was made in a country that had political ties with Turkey. His words were translated and circulated across the world, further cementing his authority among Armenians at home and across the Soviet republics.
Until the very end of his life, Isahakyan lived among his people, concerned with the fate of Artsakh, Sevan and the preservation of Armenian identity. He constantly appealed to both local and higher authorities and worked tirelessly to instill in younger generations a sense of patriotism, love for the homeland and reverence for the Armenian language and traditions:
“If there is one sacred thing for which I live, it is the Armenian orphan, the suffering Armenian people, the self-sacrificing Armenian soldier. I spit on all the rest, whether they are comrades, politicians or diplomats.”
With this conviction, he endured every trial alongside his people, becoming through his poetry their song, solace and balm.
On October 17, 1957, the great Isahakyan was forever united with the soil he so loved. His restless spirit found the peace he had long dreamed of in the homeland he had worshiped. To his people, he left this immortal testament:
“Kissing these three words; Nation, Language, Homeland, I entrust them to the Armenian people, to preserve, fulfill, strengthen, develop and eternalize.”
Who could have imagined that on the 150th anniversary of his birth, his wise testament would resound once again as an urgent call, awakening and uniting the Armenian nation to stand firm in defense of its identity? Indeed, the march of the wise giants is eternal.
Avetik Isahakyan entered the life of the Armenian people like a comet — he sang, preached, struggled, wept, burned and became eternal.
