I sit here, pondering these things while copping sweat drops mixed with almond butter to the face as they fly off the jiggling men in front of me.
I’m sitting here in this birchwood banya watching grown, overweight men lined up one behind the other rubbing almond butter violently on each other’s backs. The unpolished discussion about various health myths echo in the small room where one of the most dominant interlocutors insists that drinking refrigerated water is the worst thing one can do for your body. Most of the others agree, not because they think it’s true but because the pseudo health expert’s personality demands it. For those who don’t know, a banya is traditional Russian steam bath made from birchwood, similar to a sauna, or in Armenian a շոգեբաղնիք.
I used to be much more uncomfortable in this room, afraid of somehow defying the ever mystical cultural norms that cloak the society on this side of the world. I didn’t want to stick out or be seen as someone from the outside so I carefully observed what everyone was doing and slowly made my way into the intimate sauna sphere, currently sitting there as part of the group undercover and disguised as a real Armenian.
I look the part: hairy, full beard since I was 14 years old, stocky, and a new one for me, a little overweight. This showed that I was somewhat successful financially and could afford to put copious amounts of cake in mouth. The funny thing was that in this sauna, located within a luxury gym and fitness centre, there was a concentrated 500 pounds of belly fat all in this tiny, tiny room. I was surrounded by ‘successful’ men, young and old, tall and short but all with a robust amount of tummy and very hairy legs.
I didn’t speak, other than the usual good morning and hello upon entering the sauna, which seemed customary to do; my accent would definitely give me away. So I sat and listened to the uninformed health advice being dished out most days. I knew that my fellow saunaians were curious about me as they took every chance to engage and to see who I was, but I kept my cards close to my chest and would only give up a nod when asked a question. I looked just like them but I was different somehow, and that’s intriguing.
I’ve been hiding this whole time. Between a language barrier, extreme differences in world view, growing up in an antagonistic system and feeling like I’m going to set off a booby trap by saying or doing something culturally unacceptable, I always ask myself: why am I even sitting this room? This sauna is supposed to be where I belong, my homeland, my motherland. It’s where my direct ancestors from both sides of my family lived before the Genocide. I understand I’m a sort of hybrid as a Diaspora child, a combination of where I grew up and where I’m from, but why do I feel so out of place, so different, in a room where everyone looks just like me?
I suspect it’s linked to my initial experiences when having moved to the country, and at that time, I had started work almost immediately upon landing. Off the bat, my professional experience taught me, working at a large not-for-profit, was that my views were not welcome here. Any professionally informed, expert understanding always came second to loyalty and sycophancy. What I could offer was not accepted by those who really mattered and as such I wasn’t able to exist within an environment that took lessons from the likes of tyrants and dictators. I’m from Australia for goodness sake, the country which teaches other countries how to be democratic, and which for the most part is on a trajectory to decentralising power all the way down to its roots! So how can I exist in a place where Stalinesque behaviour is not only respected but also rewarded?
While I am hiding, I know there’s something that draws me here too. I do come back to cook in this sauna time and time again.
Well, if I had to guess, living within a society where the people mirror each other as closely as a homologous society allows, does have a very interesting effect: I have learnt more about myself, my hybrid-culture and the world within a year than I did within the last ten. Despite the differences, outside of the professional environment, people generally respect my inclinations which come natural, inclinations which I learnt were unacceptable back in Australia. They respond to me as I would expect, and in a weird way this is the most respectful thing one can show another human being. People acknowledge others’ existence when they walk into a room, when they see someone needs help they’re quick to act, almost jealous of whoever that gets to help first. When it’s clear that I’m angry or agitated, the response isn’t to treat me like a child and tell me I’m wrong to be angry, but to acknowledge and provide what’s needed to serve the emotion and not try block it. There’s an underlying understanding here of what it means to be a human being, developed after centuries of existence through the best and worst times in history.
So now, which is more important? Do I want the refinement of Australian society where I can work to my merits, be respected for my abilities and get better health advice from my friends. This comes at the cost of being denied at times my most fundamental human needs. Or do I want the recognition of what it means to be a human in Armenia, where my intuitive human responses are given space to breath and the respect they need, at the cost of financial viability and potential for moral corruption.
I sit here, pondering these things while copping sweat drops mixed with almond butter to the face as they fly off the jiggling men in front of me.
My experience is that of twice a regular person. I get to pick and choose the good parts of the colliding worlds that I’m from; I can connect to what I am as a human and understand myself through the mirror which is Armenia, but I can also be accepted in Australia where I am rewarded for being virtuous and capable, without the need of becoming a flatterer and sycophant.
And the truth dawns on me, like a diamond bullet through my forehead: I am a goddamn lucky person.
