Amidst countless injustices, the kids of HRI reflect exactly what it means to be Armenian. Growing up in Los Angeles, that had always meant speaking a secret language, or having the best parties to me; however, now year 3 into HRI camp, I’m realising that these border villages hold such an inexhaustible, pure, light that it makes me want to pack up and move here forever. These kids showed me that being Armenian is two 6 year old boys fighting one second over who draws the face on their egg for their egg drop project, and then arm in arm comforting each other the next second when their triumphant “Gago” survived the plummet from the second floor, only to break on the stairs on the way back to the classroom. They showed me that Armenian care is barely 12 year old Monte and probably 10 year old Gevork walking me home at night because, “what if you encounter a wolf? We need to be here.” It’s finally meeting my English students in person, and immediately bursting into tears at hearing the words, “Gohar tatik” again because as it turns out, the grandma that always listens in on our lessons and hugs me like one of her own, shares the same name and eyes as my grandma. These kids and these villages house the strongest kindness, perseverance, and warmth. They deserve the world and so much more and I cannot wait to see the beautiful futures they are going to build with their unwavering will and wit.