The figure of David of Sassoun looms large in the Armenian imagination. In Yerevan, Armenia’s capital, the statue in honor of this hero of the Armenian national epic poem Daredevils of Sassoun stands as testament. Transmitted orally through generations since the eighth century, the story of David of Sassoun continues to hold a significant place in Armenian culture; it’s been fixed in my own imagination since childhood. For me, the story is more than lore.
Sasuntsi Davit. The name echoed frequently in the school and cultural gatherings of the Armenian community of Washington, D.C., in which I grew up. I recall our local Armenian church adorning its gathering hall with a huge banner image of the renowned statue of David. Curiously, the perspective showed David from the back, which, for me, added to the statue’s mystique. Inside our church, the display echoed the epic’s Christian origins. Despite the passing of time, that image has lingered as an important part of my conception of Armenian Christian identity.
Naturally, it was high on my must-see list when I visited Armenia for the first time in 2010.
Lore Can’t Quite Describe It
I’m inclined to view David of Sassoun’s story as a picture of Christian ethics in action. An Armenian icon, his story seamlessly draws the threads of history into the present, and speaks to the collective identity of Armenians everywhere. As an artifact, it is rooted in a historically sacred land: that of the first nation to adopt Christianity as a state religion and the land of Mount Ararat, where Noah’s ark came to rest.
A variant of Daredevils of Sassoun was not written down formally until 1873, but it was recited for a thousand years. What began as a local tale gradually spread across the region near Lake Van, and eventually to all of Armenia, where it became an expression of national pride. Its oral narration wasn’t disrupted until the 1915 Armenian Genocide in the Ottoman Empire where up to 1.2 million Armenian Christians were killed. The epic is one of the most important works of Armenian folklore, signifying Armenian cultural endurance. Its continuity forms a strong link for my own understanding of my Armenian and Christian identities.
Daredevils of Sassoun consists of four cycles, and at the center of the story is the house of Sassoun. David’s cycle is the most well known, a story of how he drives Arab-Egyptian invaders out of Armenia. Born under extraordinary circumstances, he faces challenges to reclaim his throne and secure the independence of his people. The story arrived at a time when, for approximately two hundred years, Armenians lived under the rule of surrounding empires. David’s epic portrays an Armenian will and spirit of self-determination, sentiments that ultimately have given the story its longevity, preserving the Armenian language and safeguarding that Christian identity.
That I share this cultural heritage with so many other Armenians, in some ways, mirrors the way I understand what is shared among believers in the Christian faith: the continuity of the past and present. Christianity, in many ways, calls us to reorient our thinking about space, time, and eternity. And the communion of saints is a radical conception and an indispensable tradition. Although the communion of saints may be a familiar phrase for many Christians, I can’t help but wonder how many truly grasp the magnitude of what this oneness in Christ implies.
The communion of saints connects today’s faithful with the saints who have come before us. It means those of the past remain present to us now; it is the spiritual connectedness of the body of Christ, which extends beyond time and space.
A tradition defined by cultural and historical continuity, a great tale, told well, can collapse the past and present into a shared, transcendent experience. William Butler Yeats wrote in his collection of essays The Celtic Twilight:
Folk art is, indeed, the oldest of the aristocracies of thought, and because it refuses what is passing and trivial, the merely clever and pretty, as certainly as the vulgar and insincere, and because it has gathered into itself the simplest and most unforgettable thoughts of the generations, it is the soil where all great art is rooted. Wherever it is spoken by the fireside, or sung by the roadside, or carved into the lintel, appreciation of the arts that a single mind gives unity and design to, spreads quickly when its hour is come.
When we embrace cultural traditions, the past speaks to the present. This is the power of art like the epic tale of David of Sassoun. David’s statue captured my young imagination, serving as a conduit for my awakening to the rich history and distinctive identity of my people. Now I see it as something larger than itself: a symbol for the collective struggles of the oppressed, a locus for endurance and the common good.
Finding David of Sassoun
Disembarking at the Sasuntsi Davit Metro station, I found the statue unobstructed, standing prominently in a large square before the central Yerevan Railway Station in the middle of a reflecting pool. In the heat of a midsummer day this part of the city, grungy and disconnected from the energy of the central district, didn’t get much foot traffic. I was alone. On this bright afternoon with minimal distraction, the atmosphere was ideal. Having traveled over 7,000 miles to be in the presence of the iconic statue, I intended to focus my attention completely.
Yerevan’s David is not necessarily the kind of art that’s progressive, avant-garde, or groundbreaking. It’s an equestrian statue made in a Soviet context by an artist who is virtually unknown in the West. It does possess an expressive flair that sets it apart from the typical civic monument, but since it’s laden with personal and national significance, I find it nearly impossible to evaluate using the standard aesthetic criteria. It would be just as difficult to critique a deeply personal gift. I knew I could only see it with wide-eyed wonder, and I was thrilled at the opportunity to witness its full scale.
The statue, sculpted in 1959 by the Armenian artist Yervand Kochar, surges with energy, depicting the hero astride his rearing horse Kurkik Jalali. Over forty feet tall, the statue is made of wrought copper and stands on a basalt pedestal meant to recall the rocky landscape of the Armenian Highlands. David is modeled on the dancer Vanush Khanamirian, who once portrayed the hero in a ballet based on the epic. His expression is one of fierce determination. Unyielding, they leap, or perhaps ready themselves to fly, into battle.
On the edge of the pedestal under the horse’s raised hooves is a bowl from which water gently flows. It’s positioned as if ready to tip over and is said to symbolize the Armenian peoples’ enduring patience and resilience, despite the suffering inflicted by their oppressors.
What Monuments Do We Keep?
Los Angeles County, where I live, boasts the largest population of Armenians in the world outside Armenia. The city of Glendale is its epicenter. Glendale is also home to The Americana, a large shopping and entertainment complex. It’s a vivid example of one face of the many-headed corporate empire. It represents the latest iteration of the shopping mall—the simulation of civic space. This sprawling retail destination, meticulously designed to emulate a picturesque town center, epitomizes the influence of corporate entities in shaping space. Its carefully planned environment comes complete with faux architecture, a simulated park, and synchronized water fountains.
To me, it’s a stand-in for the unseen enemy towards whom David charges. The self-determination of Americans is also threatened, though not by invading armies. More often we find ourselves estranged amidst the noise of material pursuits and transient desires. In a society focused on rapid consumption and constant novelty, the sense of being connected to something bigger than ourselves is often lost.
Situated at the edge of the complex’s large pool, the “Spirit of American Youth Rising from the Waves,” is a recreation of a 1949 memorial sculpture in France, commemorating the American soldiers who died on Normandy Beach. Fittingly spectacularized, it’s devoid of historical context, larger than the original and covered in 22-carat gold leaf. Surrounded by a separate set of fountains and raised on a short pedestal, the statue depicts an anonymous, classically styled, and muscle-bound youth in a loincloth soaring over a wave. It’s safe to assume that Rick Caruso, The Americana’s developer, intended it to add class to the complex. But this choice of decor only magnifies the vacuous nature of consumerism.
The original sculpture stands in a cemetery before the graves of over 9,000 soldiers who died in World War II. Caruso’s recreation overlooks trendy restaurants and expensive clothing stores.
I imagine David’s statue standing here as well, inspiring collective resilience that rests on a meaningful foundation.
