Thanks to my boys, I recently had the incredible opportunity to see one of my all-time favorite bands—if not the favorite—System of a Down (SOAD), perform in front of a sold-out crowd at MetLife Stadium. It was surreal. The last time the band was in town was nearly 20 years ago, and we weren’t able to catch them then. My sons have grown up with their music—literally hearing it their entire lives.
As Armenians, we’re incredibly proud of anyone from our community who breaks into the mainstream, but SOAD is something else. A full rock band made up entirely of four Armenian members, with multiple No. 1 albums? That’s not just pride—that’s representation at a level we rarely see.
As a long-time fan, I knew the basics about the band, but I hadn’t really dug into any in-depth interviews. That was mostly because some of their political views—at least what I knew of Serj Tankian’s—didn’t quite align with mine. Still, regardless of political leanings, it’s always fascinating to learn about someone’s origin story, especially when it shares threads with your own.
So, I dove into YouTube—something I’ve been doing more of over the past couple of years (more on that another time). Thanks to the concert hype, my feed was flooded with SOAD and related content, and I started watching.
In more than one interview, Serj talked about his early childhood memories in Beirut. He recalled vivid flashes of the Lebanese Civil War in the mid-70s—bombs dropping, chaos erupting. Not exactly something you forget.
It got me thinking about how different life could have turned out for us if it weren’t for my father’s decision to move to London to pursue a college degree. He worked for Middle East Airlines (MEA) to save up and eventually attended London Polytechnic Institute. Around that time, he had started dating my mother back in Beirut, where they met. She also worked for MEA and would frequently try to get on the London flights to visit him.
As the family story goes, during one of those visits, my father playfully hid the hat from my mom’s MEA uniform. The women wore a distinctive headdress that looked like something out of I Dream of Jeannie. Because of that prank, my mom missed her return flight, stayed in London—and they ended up getting married.
That twist of fate meant I was born in London instead of Beirut, just a few years before the Lebanese Civil War fully erupted.
By the time my father completed his studies in 1974, his parents had already moved to the United States and settled in Irvington, New Jersey, following my aunt, who had moved to the U.S. in the late ’60s. The fighting in Beirut was a constant backdrop to family conversations, especially since most of my mom’s family was still there.
By the late ’70s, my mom’s sister had also moved to New Jersey. They had experienced much more of the violence firsthand. We lost a first cousin to an errant bullet that pierced their apartment—an act of random violence that changed the family forever.
Over the following decades, my extended family found their way to the U.S. and Canada, escaping the instability and danger. Our story—like so many others—was shaped by both luck and courage, migration, love and war.
Seeing SOAD with my kids wasn’t just a concert. It was a full-circle moment—one that reminded me how our stories are always connected, even across generations, borders, and battle lines.
