Epress.am News from Armenia
In early June, Mary and I went down to Yeraskh, the last village in the Ararat Valley, right on the border with Nakhichevan. Mary’s an artist, and she came to research Soviet-era agriculture. Along the Aras (or Araz) River, there used to be cotton, rice, and grape cultivation. Thousands of people were relocated here and exploited for labor. Even the salt-heavy soil was used—lakes were created to wash the salt out.
I went mainly to do some birdwatching. I had recently learned, by chance, that the Armash lakes are on a major bird migration route. I love observing birds in their natural habitat. When I spot one, I become completely focused—it’s like my eyesight sharpens. Birds always appear suddenly. Even if you have a camera ready, only the eye catches them.
Yaraskh isn’t just a stop for birds—it’s a transit point for people, too. The North-South highway passes right through here. Most people just know Yeraskh roundabout with its gas station and roadside bistro. Ararat marz is mostly seen as a place to pass through. I was born in the village of Dvin, nearby. I know the road to Yerevan by heart, but I have no idea what there is across that 30 kilometers.
That sense of being a transit zone is also tied to the railway. Yeraskh is the last stop on the Armenian rail network. The continuation—through Nakhichevan to Meghri—has been blocked since the First Karabakh War in the early 1990s.
Locals told us that after the 2020 war, there was a brief moment of hope that the railway might reopen and that the 30-year conflict might suddenly end. Land prices even started rising because of that hope.
Fast forward to now—negotiations have stalled. The region is once again entangled in waves of both cold and hot wars. Hopes for international connectivity have faded. Instead, the border is becoming more visibly marked—new signposts, national flags. Yeraskh is now officially labeled a “borderland community”—a designation that signals not just geographic status, but a certain danger in living there. Ironically, this same label attracts factories to the area through tax incentives.
Our visit to the Ararat Valley coincided with peak harvest season. We found ourselves in long conversations with locals, discussing the complexities of planned versus market-driven agriculture. Many villagers expressed frustration: now they’re not only at the mercy of unpredictable weather, but also subject to manipulation by market speculators. Most have sold off their small plots to large farms and vineyards. Agribusiness is scaling up again—but this time, unlike during the Soviet-era collective farms, the villagers no longer own land. They’re wage laborers now, working someone else’s fields.
Some quotes from the video reportage:
— Did it feel like we were at the border while we were there? Especially when we went to Yeraskh?
— Honestly, I felt more like we were at the center of the world. That feeling was stronger. But at the same time, you walk around and see these artificial hills, trenches—clearly for defense—and it feels strange. A different dimension opens up when you realize, “This looks like an ordinary street, but that hill beside it is there for protection.” All the mountains seem similar, but then you’re told, “There’s a military position over there,” or “That area is cut off,” and you can’t walk any farther. I guess that’s what a border is.
—Why does it feel like the center of the world to you?
— I don’t know. I think the center of the world must look like that—dry, rocky terrain. The landscape shifts with the time of day. In places that don’t have this kind of landscape, everything feels the same, whether it’s morning or night. Back when the Russians occupied this area, they were frustrated that even the soil was unpredictable—it kept changing.
***
— When the peace talks were happening, they removed the wagon that had been blocking the tracks, and even flattened the hill beside it. People wanted the border to reopen so prices would drop again. When trains used to come through, everything was cheap—gas, diesel, all of it. Now, nobody talks about reopening anymore. It’s like hope has vanished. No one even thinks about it.
***
— If it reopens, that would be good, dear folks. Goods will come in from Russia and elsewhere. If the freight trains run, industry will get going again. And if industry works, the country will grow richer. Back in the ’80s, the trains were always running. We used to import everything—coal, timber, everything—from Russia.
***
— We used to export gold, remember? Russia took everything from us, dear children. What did they leave behind? Freight was everything back then. Everything we produced went to Russia.
***
— This region has always been connected. During Soviet times, the train would go all the way to Kapan. The Kapan-Yerevan line was active. There was even a regular Baku-Yerevan route. Now, the only route left is Yerevan to Yeraskh. But this is the key junction to Iran and Syunik. All the roads to those areas pass through here. That’s why it’s called the Main Highway.
***
— We didn’t really have “borders” back then. We lived together—mixed, equal. People came and went freely. We had a good relationship with Sadarak, the Azerbaijani village nearby. I work at the school. In those days, they’d invite us to their school, and we’d invite them to ours. There was friendship. I had a cousin—he used to do house repairs over there. One day he said, “Seryoj, let me take you to Sadarak, I’ll treat you to something.” We went to the house of the village brigadir (chief). As soon as we arrived, the kids ran out yelling, “Mama, Aghasi Ami gyaldi!”—“Mom, Uncle Aghasi is here!” Then the man came out and said, “Stay at the gate, don’t come in yet.” He went to the barn, brought out a sheep, slaughtered it, and only then said, “Now, come in.”
***
— This region has always revolved around agriculture. I used to work in the Sovkhoz. We had vineyards here. We worked and got our monthly wages. We didn’t have to worry about selling, or pesticides, or irrigation—that was someone else’s job. Ours was to tie up the vines, pull weeds. We lived calmly. We didn’t stress about what would happen when the grapes ripened—who would buy them, where they’d go. That was the responsibility of the state, the agronomist, the Sovkhozdirector.
— What are the issues you face now?
— No one’s buying the harvest. We’re just standing around, not knowing what to do. The kids went out to try and negotiate some kind of sale. The driver now says, Lars is closed, we’re not loading anymore.
***
— Are you trying to understand your roots through this research? To learn how your grandparents lived?
— Not exactly. Not in terms of “roots.” It’s more about understanding where I am—understanding what I’m saying, and where I’m speaking from. I don’t want my work to be just about external influences. Of course those influences exist, but there’s something internal, too. I want to understand where my parents were speaking from, and where their parents were speaking from. The stories we do—or don’t—know. How historical experiences shaped real people’s lives, and how all of that has changed. How the physical space has changed. Because often we look at a place and think we’re seeing it clearly—but the space itself has changed. The ecology has changed. What’s interesting to me is how we see ourselves in that space. Whether I can shift my own vantage point, even slightly.
— Maybe this urge to locate yourself only comes after traveling, as the myths say. You travel, and like Odysseus, you return home and suddenly see your house—your world—in a new light.