On the Road in Armenia

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“This is what is yours.” My grandmother began with this phrase nearly every day of my recent visit to Armenia. The line is simple yet carries a powerful emotional message for nearly every Armenian. It reminds them that Armenia—perhaps Armenia alone—is what truly belongs to them in this world. The phrase is also flexible enough to take on even comedic connotations. I remember years ago Professor Gregory Areshian half-jokingly telling me over lunch in Syunik, as flies circled our food, “You should never forget that these flies are your flies.” He was subtly implying that even the flies were mine—just as Armenia is.   

With my grandmother’s words and recollections of every sort in my mind, I set out on a trip along familiar roads from my hometown, Vagharshapat, to Noravank Monastery in Vayots Dzor. This trip, however, was far more than a simple drive to Noravank and back. Our first stop was Khor Virap, a place of personal significance––I was baptized there, and as Armenia’s revered poet and writer Hovhannes Tumanyan might say, Mount Ararat or Masis as we often refer to it, became my godfather.[1] A special place for Armenians, this site is where Gregory the Illuminator was imprisoned in a deep pit for 13 years by Tiridates III before becoming our first Catholicos.

At Khor Virap, gazing at Masis––so close yet so far––I was once again struck by how Armenia is a country of many contrasts. But then again, what country isn’t full of contradictions? My father, looking intently, remarked that he had never before realized how close the Turkish border was. It was so close, in fact, that my phone had switched to displaying Turkish time instead of Armenian. 

The arid Mount Urts and majestic Mount Masis accompanied us until Armash, where we came dangerously close to Azerbaijani-held Nakhichevan, another part of the lost homeland. Armenian military posts were visible on several heights, and the raised berms alongside the road were a reminder of the first war fought in the 1990s; they were built to prevent the enemy from targeting vehicles driving on those roads. 

However, this wasn’t the only change in the landscape. In the past, the road from Surenavan, my native village, to Armash was lined with trees on both sides, almost forming an arch according to my aunt’s description. In the semi-desert climate of the Ararat Valley, these trees provided much-needed shade. They were cut down and used as firewood during the first war, helping people survive the harsh Armenian winters. [2] 

The country’s landscape changed, as did people’s way of life.

As I drove past those mounds, a story my aunt once shared sprang to mind. During the first war, Armash faced the looming threat of attack from Nakhichevan, and the people of Surenavan faced evacuation. Instead of fleeing, they chose to stay in their homes and resist any potential enemy attack. In the end, only pregnant women and children were taken to safety. My grandfather gathered all the sharp items in the house, preparing for a possible fight. Fortunately, in the ensuing battles the Azerbaijani forces were stopped in their offensive, and the Armenians managed to gain control of the heights overlooking Nakhichevan.   

Driving past Zangakatun into Vayots Dzor, one feels a relative sense of safety, surrounded by mountains on all sides, seemingly as a shield from enemy sight. Yet the border remains close, just beyond view, and today, the mountains provide only little security. Our feeling of security vanished as we entered the gorge leading to Noravank, finding ourselves at the mercy of rocks that could fall and block the narrow road at any moment. In sharp contrast to this rugged, rocky landscape stands the jewel of Vayots Dzor: Noravank Monastery. Commissioned by the Orbelian family and built by architect and master artist of Armenian illuminated manuscripts Momik in the 13th century, it leads the mystic triad of churches in former Orbelian territories, all constructed with the same white, yellow and red stone. 

Some 40 kilometers north of Noravank, nestled deep within the mountains, stands the Saint Hovhannes Karapet Church. During our visit, it was undergoing much-needed restoration, with fortification of its ancient foundations in progress. Even if the church were open to visitors, it would be far less crowded than Noravank. Here, in this tranquil setting, one could pray, find rest in the cool shade of the inner walls, and admire the khachkars (stone-crosses) etched with the meticulous artistry of the craftsmen who carved them centuries ago. It is in places like this, meant for ascetic contemplation, that one can feel what Vahan Teryan so delicately called spiritual Armenia (հոգեւոր Հայաստան). It is not the Armenia celebrated in songs and poems, but an Armenia that retreats into the mountains, seeking a moment of respite from the burdens that weigh her down. 

Not far from Saint Hovhannes Karapet, near the village of Lanjanist, one can find what the locals call Spitak (White) Monastery. Recent excavations in the monastic complex have unearthed a 14th century church and a graveyard where commoners and people of social distinction were buried side-by-side. The tombstones are bare except for a simple etching of the human form, a common feature of medieval cemeteries across Armenia. 

On the way back, I asked my father to take a detour through our village. How much it had changed! The image I carried in my memories was worlds apart from the reality before me. Now, all I saw was a dilapidated place, so altered that even our own street seemed unrecognizable. The only familiar sight was the old gate to our house, its once vibrant green now dulled and tinged with rust, the patterned handle still intact. Not a single person was outside; no living soul could withstand the searing heat of the Ararat Valley at its peak.

For a moment, my native village seemed alien to me, but deep in my childhood memories, I had preserved a perfect image of Surenavan: nestled in the Ararat Valley with its many storks, and my childhood self, sitting in our garden, avidly painting Mount Masis with watercolors, guarded by the mountain’s imposing presence. Despite all the apparent changes, things have remained the same. Armenia, with all its transformations, ebbs and flows, remained our Armenia—the country to which we feel inexplicably attached. As George Orwell put it: “Patriotism […] is devotion to something that is changing but is felt to be mystically the same…” [3]   

Only on the road can one grasp Armenia’s small size and vulnerability to attacks from unfriendly neighbors. This rugged terrain of seemingly insurmountable mountains, dotted with vineyards and monasteries, appears barely aware of its borders. [4] Stretching far beyond its internationally recognized borders, Armenia is simultaneously a country of epic depth and intricate history, yet so fragile and young that it is barely conscious of its past. 

Hence, despite the National Assembly President’s smug response, Saryan Street is not representative of Armenia. In fact, central Yerevan is merely a polished façade carefully concealing l’Arménie profonde (deep Armenia) [5]. This true Armenia still resides––as it has for most of its history––in the villages and countryside[6], among the still standing monasteries and half-ruins. It’s in these places where ordinary people struggle to get by, feeling in their bones the misfortunes that might yet befall them.   

Footnotes: 

1] “Սարը եղավ կընքահայրըս, ցողը` մյուռոն կենսավետ…”
2] “Winter, indeed, was the chief fracturing agent in Armenian history—months of isolation enforced on individual localities in a regular annual rhythm were the primary cause of Armenian particularism.” From: Howard-Johnston, James: The Last Great War of Antiquity, Oxford 2021, p. 246.
3] Orwell, George: Shooting an Elephant and Other Essays, Penguin Classics, 2009, p. 154.
4] I am paraphrasing the words of Ashot Voskanian. See: Փաշինյանը, «Երկիր Նաիրին» ու պատմական Հայաստանը. զրույց Աշոտ Ոսկանյանի հետ, especially after minute 4:00.
5] I borrow a concept used by Fernand Braudel with regards to his native France: “La vraie France, la France en réserve, la France profonde restait derrière nous, elle survivait, elle a survécu.” (The true France, the France in reserve, the deep France remained behind us, she survived, she has survived), taken from: Braudel, Fernand: L’identité de la France: Espace et histoire, Éditions Flammarion, Paris 1990, p. 22. In Armenian, this concept can be rendered as follows: խորքային Հայաստան:
6] “Finally, the great monastic academies of Hałbat, Sanahin, Goshavank, Narek, Tatew, Gladzor, and others were not located near the contemporary capitals although nearly all of them were royal foundations. They flourished far from the world and the “desert [anapat]” rather than the city remained the focus of intellectual activity. No important group of city-dwellers can be identified within the ruling class until the end of the Middle Ages.” From: Garsoïan, Nina G. “The Early-Medieval Armenian City: An Alien Element?” Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society, 1984 16 (1), p. 81.

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