Latest / The Story of Armenia: Survival Through Empires and Genocide — Fexingo History / 1965 Yerevan Protests: Armenia's Silent Revolution
Transcript
- Lucas: We've talked a lot about the Armenian Genocide on this show — the Hamidian Massacres, the 1918 battles, the aftermath. But there's one chapter that doesn't get enough attention: what happened in Soviet Armenia on the 50th anniversary in 1965. Luna: I didn't realize there was a public commemoration in the Soviet Union. Wasn't that suppressed? Lucas: Exactly — and that's what makes it so remarkable. On April 24, 1965, tens of thousands of Armenians gathered in Yerevan, not at a state-sanctioned event, but in a spontaneous, emotional march. They started at the opera house and walked toward the site where the Tsitsernakaberd memorial would later be built. Luna: Just walking through the streets — chanting? Lucas: Yes, chanting the names of lost provinces — Van, Bitlis, Erzurum — and demanding recognition. For context, the genocide had been a taboo topic in the USSR. Stalin and his successors preferred to downplay national grievances. But here, ordinary people — workers, students, intellectuals — broke that silence. It was the first large-scale public protest in Soviet Armenia since the 1920s. Luna: That must have terrified the authorities. Lucas: It caught them completely off guard. The local Communist party secretary, Yakov Zarobyan, tried to calm the crowd but was drowned out. By the time the protest swelled to an estimated 100,000 people — that's a huge chunk of Yerevan's population — the Kremlin had no choice but to respond. And they did something unexpected: they allowed a memorial to be built. Luna: So the protest actually worked? Lucas: In a way, yes. Within two years, construction began on Tsitsernakaberd — the 'swallow's castle' — a stark, modernist monument overlooking the Hrazdan River gorge. It was completed in 1968 and became the focal point of official commemoration. But the protest itself wasn't fully forgiven. Some organizers were arrested and interrogated. The KGB kept close tabs on the movement. Luna: Who were the organizers? I mean, was there a leader? Lucas: It wasn't a single person — more a convergence. A key figure was a poet named Karin Simonian, who recited verses at the opera house. There were also historians and writers like Zori Balayan, who helped draft petitions. But the protest was largely organic. Young people, university students, even some factory workers spontaneously walked out. It was a moment where the whole city seemed to move together. Luna: What did the Soviet media say about it? Lucas: Officially, almost nothing. The protest was not reported in Pravda or local newspapers. But word spread through the diaspora — via radio and letters. In Beirut, Paris, and Los Angeles, Armenians heard about the Yerevan protests and were electrified. It galvanized the diaspora's own push for recognition. For the first time, the genocide was being referenced in public, even if indirectly. Luna: So it wasn't just a local event — it had global ripple effects. Lucas: Absolutely. The 1965 protest created a template for future activism. It showed that public pressure could force the state to recognize what had been suppressed. And it also emboldened a generation that would later lead the Karabakh movement in the late 1980s. Many of the same people who marched in 1965 were at the forefront of the independence struggle. Luna: I want to come back to that connection. But first, what was the immediate aftermath? Did the Kremlin try to co-opt the narrative? Lucas: They tried, yes. By building the memorial, the Soviet authorities could present themselves as honoring Armenian memory, while still controlling the message. The official line was that the genocide was a crime of the Ottoman Empire, and the Soviet Union was the protector of Armenians. They used Tsitsernakaberd as a backdrop for state ceremonies, carefully scripted. But the protest's raw, unofficial energy never fully dissipated. Luna: It must have been a strange mix of pride and fear. Lucas: For those who participated, it was a catharsis. Many said they felt a weight lift from their shoulders — finally, they were speaking the unspeakable. But there was also fear. The KGB had informants everywhere. Some people lost their jobs or were expelled from universities. Yet the protest also created a sense of solidarity. It became a touchstone for Armenian identity. Luna: That's a powerful legacy. But how did the rest of the Soviet Union react? I mean, was there any sympathy from other nationalities? Lucas: Not much, because it was largely ignored outside Armenia. The Soviet system compartmentalized these things. But interestingly, there was some support from Baltic and Ukrainian dissidents, who saw parallels with their own suppressed histories. A few samizdat publications mentioned the protest. But mostly it was Armenians alone in this fight. Luna: It reminds me of how fragile memory can be — how one generation can almost lose it, and then a moment like this forces it back into the open. Lucas: Exactly. And that's why it's so important to keep telling these stories. If you've been stepping into history with us episode by episode, you know how much effort goes into preserving these overlooked moments. Listener support is what makes that possible. If you find value in what we do, consider contributing at buy me a coffee dot com slash fexingo. Even a small amount helps keep the show ad-free and lets us dig deeper into chapters like this one. Luna: Yeah, it really does make a difference. We're able to spend more time on research thanks to that support. Lucas: So back to the protest — one detail I love is that the march itself had no official route. People just flowed from the opera house up to the hill where the memorial now stands. They carried hand-painted signs and, in the absence of Armenian tricolors — which were banned — they wore red and blue ribbons. It was a quiet, powerful visual defiance. Luna: Red and blue ribbons — that's subtle but brilliant. Lucas: Exactly. And over the following years, the memorial became a pilgrimage site. Every April 24, thousands would gather, and by the late 1970s, it was an annual tradition, unofficially tolerated. The state even began busing in schoolchildren — but the schoolchildren would often break into spontaneous chants anyway. The memorial couldn't be controlled. Luna: It sounds like the protest created a permanent crack in the Soviet facade. Lucas: It did. And it's a direct precursor to the massive demonstrations of 1988, when Armenians demanded the reunification of Nagorno-Karabakh. The organizers of those later protests often cited 1965 as their inspiration. The same spaces — the opera house square, the cascade steps — became stages for history again. So 1965 isn't just a commemoration; it's a pivot point in modern Armenian political consciousness. Luna: I never knew that the genocide recognition movement started so early in the Soviet period. Lucas: A lot of people don't. And the diaspora's role is also crucial. In 1965, there were simultaneous demonstrations in Beirut, Paris, and other cities, coordinated by Armenian political parties. But the Yerevan protest was the most dramatic because it happened under an authoritarian regime. It showed that the longing for recognition wasn't just an émigré sentiment — it was alive at home. Luna: What about the official memorial's design? I've seen pictures — it's very striking. Lucas: Tsitsernakaberd was designed by architects Arthur Tarkhanyan and Gurgen Tamanyan, with sculptor David Sargsyan. It consists of a tall, split stele symbolizing the dividing of the nation, and a circular platform of twelve basalt slabs representing the lost provinces. In the center is an eternal flame. The design is minimalist, almost severe, and it sits on a bluff overlooking Mount Ararat on clear days. It's deeply moving. Luna: I can imagine the first time people saw it. Lucas: For many, it was overwhelming. And it remains the heart of Armenian commemoration. Every April 24, the president, clergy, and thousands of citizens walk from the city center to the memorial. But the spirit of 1965 — that raw, unscripted emotion — still lingers. The protest taught Armenians that they could demand the truth, even from a superpower. And that lesson never really faded. Luna: It's a reminder that history is not just what happens to us, but what we make happen. Lucas: Well said. And that's where we'll leave it today — with the image of tens of thousands of voices rising on a spring evening, refusing to be forgotten. Thanks for listening.