Holding On, Letting Go

2026-01-25 - 21:06

Listen to the AI generated audio article. Your browser does not support the audio element. New Year’s celebrations have never been something I’ve looked forward to. Every December, I catch myself wondering why I slip into Grinch mode while everyone else counts down with excitement. My last truly warm New Year’s memory is from the year before my grandmother passed away—our final New Year’s Eve together as a family. I can still feel the heat of her kitchen, hear the sound of pots clinking, and smell the familiar blend of spices drifting down the hallway. We gathered around the table just before midnight, lifting our glasses to a new year in Yerevan. Nothing has felt quite the same since. Part of Armenian New Year’s traditions is celebrating family and heritage, and nowhere is this more evident than at the holiday table. My grandmother made sure of that. She would stay in the kitchen until minutes before midnight, emerging just as the televised New Year’s address to the nation began. She would only sit down once every dish had found its place on the table: warm plates of fried blinchiks, delicate crepe-like pancakes filled with minced meat; dolma wrapped tightly in soft grape leaves or pale cabbage; and freshly baked gata. She always tucked a small coin into the gata, a symbol of good fortune for whoever received that slice. There was also boud (pork leg), crisp pastries filled with meat, bowls of nuts and dried fruits, fresh winter fruits, basturma with its unmistakably sharp aroma, and kufta. She made stalichni too, a salad of diced boiled vegetables mixed with tender pieces of meat and creamy mayonnaise. For many families, including ours, the day began with khash, the steam rising from garlicky bowls at dawn as we gathered around the table, half-asleep but happy. Before moving to Armenia, my family and I would welcome the New Year in Kuwait, home to a large, lively Armenian community. Music blasted from speakers, voices layered on top of each other, and the air smelled of dozens of homemade dishes. We sang and danced to Tata Simonyan and Aram Asatryan. We watched “Our Yard” («Մեր բակը»), a musical comedy about life in a typical Yerevan courtyard, and shared a potluck with flavors from every corner of the diaspora. But the table was never complete without rice. My godmother, a Persian-Armenian, always made Iranian-style chelow—steamed long-grain rice. Everyone waited for the tahdig, that golden, crispy bottom layer she broke apart with a spoon, its crackle announcing the best part of the meal. By three in the morning, everyone headed home, the New Year duly welcomed. In Armenia, the holiday season traditionally stretched from January 1 to the Old New Year on January 13. For nearly two weeks, people visited the homes of relatives, neighbors, and friends—13 days of nonstop coffee, conversation and clearing plates. Today, the visits are shorter and the pace much faster. Even our celebrations have adapted to time. Many now prefer to travel and spend New Year’s abroad, escape to the countryside, or celebrate in restaurant halls. New Year’s has never fully returned to its old rhythm. Laughter feels softer. Tables feel heavier. Since the 2020 war, many families begin their new year by visiting cemeteries and paying respect to the fallen soldiers. With Armenia’s shifting political landscape, the uncertainty we live with echoes through our holidays. The past feels distant, the future unclear, and the present suspended somewhere in-between. After returning to Armenia from a year abroad, people kept telling me I had changed. My response was simple: Of course, I changed. I didn’t leave to come back the same person. But their comments made me think about how difficult it is for us, as a society, to accept change; how tightly we cling to versions of the past that no longer exist. Maybe it’s time we make space for something new. Even the weather in Yerevan has changed. Winters once defined by sharp, icy air and heavy snowfall have softened. Streets that once crunched beneath boots now remain mostly bare. It’s as though even the seasons are hesitating alongside us. This year, as the city’s Christmas tree and decorations slowly went up, online criticism spread almost immediately: “Isn’t it too soon? Too early? Too festive?” But really—when is the right time? Perhaps this year, instead of resisting change, we can choose to embrace it. The New Year offers us an opportunity, not a forced celebration, but a reframing. Instead of fighting change, both personal and societal, we can let it guide us toward a better future for our country. New Year’s celebrations have always symbolized renewal, and this year that symbolism feels especially relevant. Change is inevitable; maybe it’s time we make room for it and instead of allowing it to unsettle us, we can let it shape us. Comment Cover photo by Roubina Margossian. LIFESTYLE Charge As SALT marks its first anniversary, we wrap up 2025 by reflecting on tradition while looking ahead. With 2026 shaping up to be a charged election year, SALT will be there to offer a refreshing space for pause, perspective and inspiration beyond the political noise. In this issue, “Charge,” we revisit Armenia’s New Year’s tables and traditions, then charge ahead—gathering energy, intention and momentum for the year to come. New Year in Armenia? No Invitation Required Tamara Khachatryan Dec 30, 2025 From unlocked doors to unspoken rules, Armenians mark the New Year with seven days of relentless hospitality. Tamara Khachatryan explores the rituals, pressures and quiet negotiations behind a tradition where guests are sacred, and routine is everything. Read more Yerevan’s Holiday Season Trinity Maria Gunko Dec 29, 2025 The holidays in Yerevan are a layered season shaped by Armenian Christmas, Soviet New Year, and Western traditions. Maria Gunko explores how these parallel celebrations coexist through food, ritual, nostalgia, and excess revealing a city comfortable with multiplicity and contradiction. Read more Santa Came When the Lights Were Out Sona Martirosian Dec 26, 2025 ​​A childhood New Year’s Eve in Armenia’s “dark and cold years” becomes a tender, humorous meditation on belief and survival. Through the eyes of a six-year-old waiting for Santa, the story captures warmth and unexpected magic amid hardship. Read more The 1990s and Ada’s Gyumri Gata Ella Kanegarian-Berberian Dec 25, 2025 A portrait of Ada, a Gyumri-born baker who turned hardship into resilience during Armenia’s 1990s. Through memories, recipes and one enduring gata, the story traces survival, motherhood and how small acts, like baking, kept life moving forward. 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