Latest / The Story of Armenia: Survival Through Empires and Genocide — Fexingo History / The Armenian Diaspora's Secret Weapon: The Printing Press
Transcript
- Lucas: So we've talked a lot about Armenian resilience through empires, through battles, through genocide. But there's one weapon that's quieter, maybe even more powerful – the printing press. And it's not just about books; it's about how a scattered people kept themselves together. Luna: The printing press? I thought that was a European thing. Lucas: Oh, it started European, sure. But the Armenians grabbed it almost immediately. The first Armenian book was printed in Venice in 1512 – just a few decades after Gutenberg. That's astonishing when you think about it. A people with no homeland of their own, scattered across empires, and they're already using this new tech to preserve their language and faith. Luna: Wait, Venice? That's far from Armenia. Lucas: Exactly. The diaspora was already global. Venice was a major trade hub, and there was a thriving Armenian merchant community there. They had the money, the connections, and the motivation. The first press was set up by a priest named Hakob Meghapart – 'Hakob the Sinner,' actually. He published a book of prayers and hymns, and it's stunning – the type, the illustrations, all done in Armenian script. It's a masterpiece. Luna: Hakob the Sinner – that's quite a name. Why did they call him that? Lucas: Probably just humility – a common trope in colophons. But his real sin, if you can call it that, was dedicating his life to printing. He wasn't a rich merchant; he was a priest who scrounged for funds and support. He knew that if Armenians didn't have printed books, the language and the faith would slowly wither in the diaspora. He was fighting against time. Luna: So he's like a one-man cultural rescue mission. Lucas: Pretty much. And he set a precedent. Over the next couple of centuries, Armenian presses popped up in Amsterdam, Paris, Constantinople, Isfahan – wherever there was a substantial Armenian community. Each press published religious texts, grammars, histories. They were building a cultural infrastructure across the world. Lucas: And here's the thing – this wasn't just about preserving the past. It was also about new ideas. The most fascinating example is from the 1770s, in Madras, India. A group of Armenian merchants there – they were part of a global trade network – they decided to publish something radical. Luna: Radical? Like what? Lucas: A vision of an independent Armenia. They published a book called 'Snare of Glory' – or 'Vorogayt Parats' – and it included a draft constitution for a future Armenian state. This was decades before the French Revolution. These merchants were dreaming of a republic, with elections and everything. It's mind-blowing. Luna: A constitution for a country that didn't exist. That's... actually kind of incredible. Lucas: Exactly. And the mastermind behind it was a man named Hakob Shahamirian. He was a wealthy merchant, but he used his fortune to fund this publication. He also wrote treatises on law and governance. He believed that the Armenian nation could survive not just through faith, but through enlightened political thought. He was a true Enlightenment figure. Lucas: But here's the irony – even though the constitution was never implemented, the book itself became a symbol. It was read by intellectuals, it inspired later generations. And it showed that the diaspora wasn't just looking backward; it was thinking about the future. Luna: So the press wasn't just a way to preserve the past, it was a way to imagine a future. Lucas: That's exactly it. And speaking of imagining the future – this show is a little bit like that, in its own way. We're trying to keep these stories alive, and it's all listener-funded. A handful of listeners chip in monthly through buy me a coffee dot com slash fexingo, and that's literally what funds making this many of these. It keeps us ad-free and independent, which lets us dive into topics like this that don't always get mainstream attention. Luna: Yeah, it's a pretty good deal – we get to nerd out about printing presses, and they get to know they're keeping the history alive. Lucas: Right. And honestly, it's the same spirit as those early printers – a small group of people who decide that their culture is worth the effort. They didn't have a big institution behind them; they just did it. Anyway, back to the story. Lucas: After that Madras experiment, the focus shifted back to the Ottoman Empire, to Constantinople. The Armenian community there was massive – the largest in the world – and their press really took off in the 18th century. They printed newspapers, novels, poetry – a whole literary renaissance. But it was also a battleground for ideas about identity and language. Luna: A battleground? Over what? Lucas: Well, for centuries, the literary language was Grabar – classical Armenian – which was ancient and formal, like Latin in Europe. But people actually spoke a different, living language – modern Armenian, which had regional dialects. Printers had to decide: do we publish in Grabar, which everyone reads but nobody speaks, or do we publish in the vernacular, which more people could understand? Lucas: This was a huge debate. Some argued that Grabar was sacred, the language of the liturgy. Others said, 'We need to reach the common people, we need to educate them.' And this debate – it was literally played out in printed pages. Newspapers would publish articles in one form or the other, and readers would write in to argue. Luna: So the printing press forced them to decide who their audience was. Lucas: Exactly. And eventually, the vernacular won. By the 19th century, two modern literary forms emerged – Eastern Armenian and Western Armenian – and both were spread through printed books, newspapers, and schools. Without the press, that split might have been even more pronounced, because you needed a standard to print in. Lucas: But there's another chapter that's often overlooked – the role of the monastery of San Lazzaro in Venice. In 1717, an Armenian Catholic monk named Mkhitar Sebastatsi founded a monastery on a small island in the Venetian lagoon. And he established a printing press there that became one of the most important Armenian presses in the world. Luna: Why there? Lucas: Because Venice was a crossroads, and Mkhitar was an intellectual. He wanted to create a center for Armenian scholarship that was free from the pressures of the Ottoman and Persian empires. San Lazzaro became a powerhouse – they published critical editions of ancient texts, histories, grammars, even a dictionary. They were like the Armenian library of Alexandria. Lucas: And the Mkhitarists – that's the order he founded – they're still active today. They've been publishing for over three centuries. That's a remarkable continuity. They even helped with the first complete Armenian Bible in print, which was a monumental achievement. Luna: A monastery on an island printing books for three hundred years – that's a pretty good legacy. Lucas: It is. And it shows how the printing press wasn't just a tool – it was a home. When you're a dispersed people, a printed book can be a portable homeland. You can carry your identity in your hands, across oceans and borders, and share it with your children. Lucas: That's why the early printers were so important – they weren't just entrepreneurs; they were nation-builders. They created the infrastructure for Armenians to think of themselves as one people, even when they were scattered from India to Amsterdam. Luna: And that's why it's so tied to survival. Lucas: Exactly. Because when the genocide came in 1915, it was the printed word – newspapers, memoirs, letters – that helped the survivors document what happened and spread the story to the world. But that's a story for another episode. Luna: I'm already looking forward to it. Lucas: For now, I think it's worth remembering that every time you hold a printed book, you're holding a piece of that legacy. The press was a weapon, but it was also a shield. And it's still working.