A Print Shop in Kapan Turns the Page for Former Inmates

Listen to the AI generated audio article. 

In Yerevan, any sign for a xerox will usually lead downstairs to a cramped printing shop with low ceilings and fluorescent lights, containing a cluster of machines that breathe out a metallic scent of toner ink and warm paper. Open till late, the operators pass time speaking over the hum and drone of the machines while customers hover over dated computer monitors late into the evening. These spaces can be a little dingy and chaotic, but reliable nonetheless. But down south, one printing shop has taken on a very different personality. 

At Metakse Hnchyun in Kapan, Syunik, the staff are all former prisoners. Each day, a small crew runs the printers, turning out business cards and posters, and even binding full length books. The shop is part of a social enterprise initiative created by In The Name of Freedom, an NGO founded and staffed by people who also once served time themselves. Their goal is to show former prisoners can return to society through steady work and routine, and importantly, interacting with other people. 

The small print shop is a new foray for the country into something researchers have known for a while: that having employment is an important predictor in whether someone avoids committing a crime again, and also of how well they reintegrate back into society after prison. Decades of research on incarceration, including findings from Armenia’s own context, has found that spending years in confinement breaks social ties and diminishes job skills and confidence, which upon release, pushes people far from the job market. Armenia’s criminal justice system has also long been punitive, or in other words, not focused on reintegration, meaning that the odds are stacked against former inmates as soon as they go beyond prison walls. 

Finding a job during and after prison is extremely challenging in Armenia, as it is elsewhere. According to official figures released by the Penitentiary Service of Armenia, the prison population went up in the first half of 2025 by about 240 people — reaching nearly 1,500 detainees (those awaiting trial), and roughly 1,300 convicts (those serving sentences). Out of those, only 230 were involved in work in the first half of last year while in prison, according to Tsoghik Aleksanyan of the Penitentiary Service. She says employment reduces the likelihood of reoffending, and helps people develop basic financial skills and responsibility, she told journalists at an event organized by the Public Journalism Club. Though opportunities to do while still in prison are scarce. 

And what awaits them on the outside is typically the same, as employers are wary of hiring people with criminal records. Between 2016 and 2018, out of 145 formerly incarcerated people who sought help at state employment centers, only three secured a job. And in the first half of 2019, almost 300 prisoners were released and again, only three were employed through state programs, according to a 2020 report by the Prison Initiatives Center, an NGO advocating for the rights of prisoners. They called the data “worrying” and concluded that programs for employment after release are “not effective” and the reintegration of prisoners is “hindered by a lack of opportunities… and discriminatory attitudes from society and employers.” 

Armenia’s shift from a punitive system to a rehabilitative one is still relatively recent. A law on probation was only introduced in 2016, so until recently, prison wasn’t necessarily about reintegration. Analysis from the Civil Society Institute of Armenia found that prisoners spend “years behind bars doing nothing,” eroding their skills and weakening their ties to the outside world. The challenges become acute at the moment of release, when former prisoners confront a labor market that is structurally closed to them. Employment rates and earnings for offenders are already low, according to the institute, but stigma makes the problem worse. Employers often view people with criminal records as undesirable. 

The founders of In The Name Of Freedom understand these challenges in a way that few policymakers do. Armen Davtyan, the organization’s vice president and co-founder, spent more than five years in prison before launching what he says is the only NGO in Armenia run by current and former convicts. Their goal, he says, is supporting a new beginning for the formerly incarcerated. “We should tell society: yes, we made a mistake,” Davtyan says, “but that does not mean the end, life goes on.” 

In their first project, the group trained more than 40 probationers in practical skills such as driving, sewing, and basic trades. But training is one challenge, says Irina Manukyan, president of the NGO, and finding employment is a whole other. That realization pushed the group toward creating a way to offer stable, paid work to people locked out of the job market. 

That’s how the printing house in Kapan came to be. It’s impossible to miss from the street because of the bright green sign and a wide glass archway that gives way to the industrial-sized printers contained inside. The employees, mostly in their twenties and thirties, and some looking barely older than teenagers, seem shy and polite. Despite their inexperience in the trade, the team is already getting business from Goris and Meghri, and even from Yerevan, where they have taken an order for a book. 

The business puts the former convicts face-to-face with customers, who were cautious but curious at first, says the shop’s director Nerses Kharatyan. “When they come and see that everything is normal, change begins,” he says of the locals’ attitudes toward the former convicts. “Change is one of the most difficult things in this world, but change starts with one person and begins to spread and branch out.” 

Having stable employment also significantly reduces the likelihood of reoffending. As of now, no recent recidivism — or reoffending — rate for Armenia seems available, so the initiative is tackling a somewhat invisible problem from that perspective. But that doesn’t mean recidivism doesn’t happen. The most recent data is from the early 2010s, when advocates estimated roughly 16% of people released from prison committed crimes again — rather low compared to about two-thirds of state prisoners who reoffend within three years in the United States. But the overarching goal of the shop is more social, focusing on making the former prisoners contributing members of society once more. 

Such opportunities for prisoners are few and far between. One organization helps develop skills in craft so current and former prisoners can sell their handmade goods online. Another offers one-on-one support for employment for prisoners from two penitentiaries. But other large-scale initiatives are mostly absent. 

The printing house is the first of its kind in the region, not only because it employs former prisoners, but because Kapan didn’t have a facility with this level of equipment, says Kharatyan. A schoolteacher by training, Kharatyan says if he could go from the classroom to running an industrial print shop, then the former prisoners working alongside him can learn the trade, too. “Any person can become a specialist here,” he says. “It was difficult for me too, but we overcome difficulties.” 

For Kharatyan, making former prisoners visible, in customer-facing jobs, forces a small shift in attitudes. Too often, he says, people assume that a criminal record marks someone permanently, but the shop is countering that assumption. The staff can show that they are able and trustworthy, and capable of rejoining everyday life. “Having been in prison is not a final verdict,” he says. “It doesn’t mean a person can’t be a proper member of society.”

Also see