Sareen Hairabedian is a documentary film director based between New York, Armenia and Jordan who uses observational intimate cinematic approach to tell stories about people and places that often go unnoticed and unheard of. Her debut feature, My Sweet Land, a coming-of-age story set against a multigenerational war in the post-Soviet Caucasus Mountains, had its world premiere at the Sheffield DocFest in June 2024 and is now playing on the festival circuit. She is the founder of HAI Creative, a production company that collaborates with artists and humanitarian organizations across continents, capturing the untold stories of underrepresented communities. Hairabedian’s directorial debut, We Are Not Done Yet, a 40-minute HBO documentary about U.S. veterans grappling with PTSD who use art and poetry to heal, was nominated for Best Documentary Short at the International Documentary Association 2018 Awards.
On Christmas Eve, 2023, at 7:30 p.m., the contractions hit hard. With your dad and grandmother by my side, we raced from Brooklyn to a hospital in New York City. The streets, usually bustling, were empty, bathed in the warm glow of candlelit windows where families gathered to celebrate Christmas Eve. New York’s extravagant Christmas decorations blurred past one window, while the distant echoes of children singing carols filled the air. It felt like a scene from a movie as our driver navigated through tunnels and narrow alleys, making sure you weren’t born in the car. Meanwhile, the waves of pain came every 45 seconds, each one a reminder of your impending arrival.
16 hours later, on Christmas Day, you were born. Little Jivan.
You’re our light, an extension of generations of Armenians and Palestinians who led their lives with harmony, beauty and hard work, despite the hardships and atrocities they had to live through. One day, I’ll draw you our family tree and share the stories of each family member l was lucky to meet. You’ll be astonished by the mosaic of sensitively stoic people who have come before you. I’m confident that their stories will be patiently passed down to you, in various forms, over many years.
One common thread running through your ancestors’ stories is water. Your great grandmother, Emily, was from Jaffa, Palestine, and became a refugee in Jordan in 1948. Similarly, your great-grandfather Varouj was born in Jaffa after his parents were expelled from their city of Van during the Armenian genocide of 1915. The waves continued with all the great aunts, uncles and their children, scattered across Lebanon, Syria, Jordan and beyond.
Sometimes I think that maybe it was the calmness of Lake Van and the waves of the Mediterranean Sea that made their hearts so large, so vast, to endure the ugly realities of occupation and genocide, and to once again rebuild, relive and create. And now you’re here, a creation of the exiled waters. But the same scenes continue to unfold today, to the same people as your ancestors. Except now, the water is a mere memory of the past, and what remains is a land and its people struggling for dignity and self-determination.
The cycle continues as maps are drawn and redrawn while in the process, tension and trauma are passed down from generation to generation … where the vulnerable suffer the most. That’s why I made My Sweet Land, to tell the story of 11-year-old Vrej, growing up in Artsakh, in a geopolitical web so fragile it can erupt into a war at any moment. I met him in 2018 and started filming him then, capturing his growth in the midst of peaceful days, wars, displacement, return and eventually exile. Yes, exile. Somehow, all our stories have similar endings.
During the course of telling Vrej’s story, I lost your great-grandfather Varouj, your great-grandmother Anna had a brain stroke, I got married to your father, Raffi, and in 2023, Vrej lost his homeland. Three months later, you were born. Everything was so intertwined: my life, the film, the wars, the loss and your birth. It will take me years to process all this, but for now, I can start with this short letter to you. I’m sorry that this is not a brighter one, but let me make it a bit lighter, and tell you about what I learnt from Vrej in the years of filming with him.
I learnt about the rawness of childhood: how you (children) embody the basic universal truths about our world, that we, as adults, spend the rest of our lives trying to analyze and define. Capturing this authenticity required true commitment: countless hours behind the lens, inhabiting Vrej’s classrooms, his home, spending time amongst his friends. Only by blending into the background, becoming a silent observer, could I truly access his truth. Despite the tumultuous backdrop of his reality, I avoided sensationalism, opting instead for subtlety. Amidst the chaos, it was the quiet moments that were the most interesting to me. And through that nuanced observation, I strived to paint a picture of Vrej’s journey — a journey of transformation that speaks about the complex world of childhood in places ravaged by war.
It was important to always stay true to Vrej and his point of view about his life. To take him seriously and try to join him in his way of viewing the world and his future. Sometimes he would ask me to stop filming, and I would stop. Sometimes he’d ask me to explain to him how the film would come together at the end, so I’d explain and show. I once took him to the cinema, to watch an Armenian comedy film on the big screen. We had some popcorn, laughed and then had burgers for dinner, and talked about the film. It was all fresh to him and he had the capacity to take it all in, and process it with me. He trusted me. At its core, making this film relied on nurturing my relationship and trust with Vrej and his family over the many years of filming together.
In the summer of 2022, we decided that it was time to start editing the captured footage – a long and complex journey of its own. I was traveling back and forth to France to work with my French editor for a year and a half. Despite being in Paris, one of the most gorgeous cities in the world, I spent most of my days inside editing rooms, staring at monitors, transporting myself back to Artsakh, while threading the scenes that formed the intricate mosaic of Vrej’s story. Sometimes, I felt I was stuck in the past. One particular day, when our editing session ended, I called Vrej and was struck by the noticeable change in his voice. He was growing and I was still in the edit room … This was in 2023, a year that brought further challenges, as the Azerbaijani blockade prevented my return to Artsakh, and also the year that I became pregnant with you. Despite the physical distance, our bonds remained strong, fueled by the hope of reuniting and introducing you, my unborn child, to the land and the people that had become so close to my heart.
By now, if you can’t already tell, Vrej and his family have become like family. They allowed me in during their toughest times, and that created a bond we will never break. In the Armenian church, as our tradition goes, you will soon be baptized Christian. I am not the biggest believer, in full honesty … but I believe in goodness, and in the energies we give and take from each other, to inspire, to empower, to feel safe, protected and most importantly, to be understood. That’s why, in this letter to you, I will also direct a question to Vrej (who is 15 now, and will be reading this letter soon) and ask him to become your godfather on your baptism day. There is a cycle to this experience, to this film and to our life, and I feel like this is the most natural tie that will conclude the film’s production chapter, and bring forward brighter days of positive impact, light and peace to us all.
Jivan, you are my sweet boy, and Artsakh is our sweet land. I hope one day, I can teach you to love a place, the way Vrej and his family loved their land. The way our ancestors loved their waters … But I hope to be able to teach you all that, with a peaceful sky above you and above all of humanity.
P.S. None of this could have taken shape the way it had to, without the endless support and love of your dad, Raffi.
Love,
Mom
Featured image shows Sareen Hairabedian with her son, Jivan; all images courtesy Sareen Hairabedian.
