The Ararat Connection

Apr 26 , 2025. By BEREKET BALCHA ( Fortune Staff Writer )

Sometimes, tragedy seeds new beginnings. In the early 1920s, Crown Prince Teferi Mekonnen, later Emperor Haile Selassie I, encountered forty orphans: survivors of the Armenian genocide. Moved by their plight, he arranged for their royal adoption and brought them to Addis Abeba in 1924. They became known as the Arba Lijoch (40 children), Ethiopia’s first official orchestra. That legacy remains visible across Addis, often tucked into the fabric of daily life, writes BEREKET BALCHA.

You don’t need to travel to Old Jerusalem to know that its quarters are clearly marked: Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and Armenian. The last, while Christian, stands apart: home to the Armenian Apostolic Church and a community that has preserved its distinct heritage for centuries.

It was there, in the early 1920s, that Crown Prince Teferi Mekonnen, later Emperor Haile Selassie I, encountered forty orphans: survivors of the Armenian genocide. Moved by their plight, he arranged for their royal adoption and brought them to Addis Abeba in 1924. They became known as the Arba Lijoch (40 children), and under the guidance of the legendary Kevork Nalbandian, they formed Ethiopia’s first official orchestra.

Nalbandian went on to compose the country’s first national anthem, Ethiopia Hoy Des Yibelish (Ethiopia be Joyous), performed during Haile Selassie’s coronation on November 2, 1930. His legacy endured through his son nephew Nerses, who helped shape modern Ethiopian music.

As musical director of the National Theatre, Nerses Nalbandian mentored icons like Tilahun Gessesse, Alemayehu Eshete, and Bahta Gebrehiwot. His stirring composition Africa, Africa Hagerachin (Africa our country) coincided with the founding of the Organization of African Unity, a cultural crescendo to a political turning point. Today, the Nalbandian name lives on not only in music but in a family-run pharmacy that quietly preserves its heritage.

That legacy remains visible across Addis, often tucked into the fabric of daily life. A few weeks ago, I came across a painting of the St. George Armenian Church near Ras Mekonnen Bridge at an exhibition in the Hilton Addis. The artist, Selam Amsalu, had captured the twilight mood of the cathedral in graceful, expressive strokes. Over coffee with her and a young poet, Rediet Abebe, we discussed the painting and the story behind its subject.

On our way back, we stopped at the church; its twin flags, Ethiopian and Armenian, fluttering above its grey-stone façade. Selam photographed it from the same angle as her painting, and the comparison revealed the magical way an artist's vision reimagines reality.

Just blocks away, near St. Mary’s Church, stands another Armenian institution: the Ararat Club. Nestled in one of the city’s oldest neighbourhoods near Seba Dereja (70 stairs), it’s more than a social club. It houses the Armenian school and a theatre, its facilities modest but resonant with decades of community life.

The area, nostalgic for me, recalls university days: an era of intimate bookstores, student hangouts, and clever anecdotes. One story still makes the rounds: a shopkeeper who’d absorbed so many student conversations that he once counselled a freshman by quoting Maxim Gorky, though he’d never read him. It was just something he overheard and memorised.

The Ararat Club takes its name from the mountain now in Turkish territory, sacred in Armenian lore as the resting place of Noah’s Ark. Though it no longer lies within Armenia’s borders, it remains deeply symbolic: a cultural and spiritual landmark in the Armenian imagination. Likewise, the club itself has become a refuge and meeting point for Addis’s dwindling Armenian community.

On one weekend visit to my favourite Hilton pastry spot, a poster on the Novis Supermarket notice board caught my eye: a Zumba dance class, led by a well-groomed young man with unmistakable Armenian features. His name was Vahe Tilbian.

A fifth-generation Ethiopian Armenian, Vahe is a dancer, instructor, and embodiment of modern Addis. When we spoke on the phone, I wasn’t sure he spoke Amharic. It turns out his fluency rivals mine; he is as Arada as they come, born and raised in the city’s Piassa district.

Attending his Zumba session at the Ararat Club was an unexpected joy. Entering through the cozy restaurant and climbing the creaky wooden stairs, I arrived at a circular hall filled with music and movement. Most of the dancers were women, a mix of expats and locals. Vahe led us with infectious energy, his choreography blending Afro, Latino, and Ethiopian rhythms.

Despite the weight gap between me and my more agile partners, I soon caught on; and danced with joy I hadn’t felt in years. Even more rewarding: my blood pressure, which had stubbornly remained in the hypertensive zone, dropped to normal levels after a few weeks. The exercise, the energy, the fun; it was the medicine I didn’t know I needed. Having so much fun and learning the intricate dance moves and skills was like an icing on the cake.

The Armenian contribution to Ethiopia goes well beyond the arts. In 1972, Dr. Arshavier Terzian, a medical scientist from Armenia, founded the first private medical laboratory in Addis Abeba. Arsho Medical Laboratories revolutionised diagnostics in a country with limited medical infrastructure. I remember, as a child, how my parents trusted only Arsho for reliable lab results. Dr. Terzian, like the Nalbandians, built something that outlived him, something essential.

Sometimes, tragedy seeds new beginnings. A documentary I watched during the European Film Festival, Aurora’s Sunrise, depicted the horrors of the Armenian genocide through the life of Aurora Mardiganian. A survivor turned silent film star; she portrayed her trauma in the 1919 film The Auction of Souls while pursuing the American dream.

Likewise, the Arba Lijoch (40 children), once abandoned orphans, became national pioneers in their new homeland. The Armenian presence in Ethiopia, though numerically small, has always loomed large: quietly shaping music, medicine, art, and even humour.

As our Zumba session wound down, we cooled off to My Love by Soul for Real, a soulful close to an invigorating hour. The dance, somewhere between ballet, Sufi whirling, and tai chi, ended in a hush of gratitude. We clapped, smiled, and thanked Vahe, whose radiant grin warmed the room. It’s the same quiet light passed down from generations of Armenians who made this city their home and left it better for their presence.

My love, do you ever dream of

Candy-coated raindrops?

You're the same, my candy rain

PUBLISHED ON Apr 26,2025 [ VOL 26 , NO 1304]

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