Saint Gregory’s Curse

By Varouj Pogharian, Bogota, 8 January 2025

I wish we had remained pagans, worshiping the goddess Anahid as we once did, with rituals that tied us to the earth, the rivers, and the mountains—timeless sentinels that have stood watch long before any empire rose, and long after they fell. Back then, we did not bow  to  foreign  kings  or  their  alien  gods.  We  were  connected  to  something  real, something ancient and powerful, something ours. Anahid was not a faraway deity who demanded submission through priests and doctrines. She was here, in the fertile soil, in the flowing water, in the air we breathed. We gave her offerings of grain, wine, and livestock, not out of fear but out of gratitude, knowing that she brought life to the land and prosperity to the people. There was purity in that connection, a simplicity that has been smothered by centuries of conquerors rewriting our history, erasing who we were.

Then  came  Gregory  the  Illuminator,  the  so-called  saint  who  “enlightened”  us. Enlightened us? No, he extinguished us. He did not bring light; he brought fire and sword, slaughtering those who refused to abandon the gods of their ancestors. He was not even one of us. He was a Persian. Let that sink in: our so-called “national apostle” was a foreigner forcing a foreign god upon us. He turned our temples into churches and filled them with a  god who  did not belong to  our lands. We traded Anahid’s life-giving presence for a god of guilt, suffering, and obedience.

Hayk is considered Armenians’ forefather. He revolted against the Babylonian tyrant Bel, and killed him at a hilltop near lake Van.

And what did we gain? Did this new god protect us when the Persians marched in, demanding tributes of blood? Did he shield us from the Byzantines who used us as pawns in their endless wars? Did he spare us from the Ottomans, who turned us into second-class subjects in our own homeland? No. Each time we prayed to this foreign god, we were left to fend for ourselves..

And the church? The church that was supposed to stand by the people, to be our fortress? It became another chain. Under the guise of faith, it  wielded power, colluded with invaders, and betrayed its flock. It told us to kneel before Persian shahs and Ottoman sultans. It silenced dissent, kept us ignorant, and served its own interests. It split us apart, too, dividing Armenians into Apostolics, Catholics, Protestants—each faction claiming to hold the “true” faith, while the people bled in the name of their one, holy, foreign god.

Vahakn: Slayer of dragons. symbol of courage and victorious battles.

Had we stayed true to Anahid, to Vahagn, to the pantheon of gods who spoke to the land and our hearts, would we have been stronger? Unified? Would we have resisted the invasions and conversions better if we still worshiped under the open sky, by sacred rivers, and in temples carved from stone instead of cathedrals built with promises of salvation? Perhaps the invaders would have still come, but they would have found a people bound together by gods who were theirs and by a faith rooted in the mountains they climbed and the rivers they crossed.

Instead, we became a people fractured by foreign faiths. Christianity did not save us. It did not stop the Genocide. It did not preserve our lands, our villages, or even our lives. We are left with ruins of temples to Anahid, ruins of churches that claimed to replace them, and ruins of a faith that failed us.

I wonder what Gregory the Illuminator would say if he could see us today. Would he marvel at the ruins of Ani’s cathedrals, the ghostly monasteries scattered across the highlands? Would he kneel by the broken pillars of Zvartnots, where prayers once echoed but now only the wind speaks? Or would he see the futility of what he brought— centuries of bloodshed, betrayal, and loss?

The Garni temple

I wish we had remained pagans because at least then, we would have been our own masters. Anahid would not have abandoned us. She would not have told us to suffer silently, to turn the other cheek while our enemies took everything. She would have reminded us of our strength, of the land beneath our feet and the mountains above our heads.

We lost something when we abandoned her. Something we will never get back. We lost our connection to the earth, our ties to the rivers and mountains that gave us life. We lost the gods who were ours. And now, we cling to a god who never knew our name, praying to empty heavens for salvation that never comes.

We were better off with Anahid. At least she listened. At least she was real.

*****

Photo: Pomegranate Dance, goddess Anahid’s festival. Painter Rubig Kocharian

Varouj Pogharian was born and raised in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. His grandparents were from Van, Arapkir and Urfa. His family moved to Canada when he was 18. He retired from the Canadian federal government following a career that included assignments in South America. He is currently working on a historical novel, which is set in Asia Minor during the tumultuous period that spanned the reign of Sultan Abdulhamid II and the rise of the Young Turks. His narrative is poised to explore the complexities of this historical backdrop.