Epress.am News from Armenia
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Anton
My first three visits to Ijevan don’t count. I was taken to Ijevan against my will. I was sent to guba (a military disciplinary cell used for punishment) from the Koghb military unit. The new commander had decided to do a shock-and-scare campaign across the positions. Virtually every position had a few people getting disciplinary punishment, reprimands, or being sent to guba.
I was the lead at our position. Over time, we managed to find some balance—just enough to survive between common sense and the soldier regulations. It was hot up there—the trench alley and dugouts were pretty deep, and the distance to the Azerbaijani posts was about 600–700 meters. Between the two sides lay bewildered crops from ancient vineyard rows, a few concrete pillars, a freshwater spring, and scattered garbage. Since it got really hot, we didn’t wear our helmets or bulletproof vests.
We were told an inspection was coming. Usually, they checked tidiness, the condition of new fire positions, and whether we could recite the army regulations by heart. So we built two new fire positions, did a full clean-up at sunrise, and only then put on our helmets and vests.
The inspectors came. They said, “You’re not sweating—so clearly you just put the vests on.” “Mr. Major, of course we just put them on. Do you think we sweep the trench in full gear?” They thanked us for the new fire positions—and sent us to guba for the vests and, apparently, for our honesty.
We came down from the mountain positions. Everyone was trying to smooth things over using their connections. Some used apologies, some worked it out with the head of the regiment. I had no connections. Fine. Off to guba I went.
So me and two other “losers” were taken to Ijevan for punishment. We stopped and had coffee with the guys escorting us. There we learned that guba had just gotten over a lice outbreak. One of our guys—no offense—wasn’t too tidy and had apparently brought lice with him to Ijevan. He even bragged that he did it on purpose. Can’t say for sure—maybe he’d been preparing for this day all his life. So they sent us back to clean up; they didn’t want to admit new arrivals just yet.
The lice-dude then found a connection—he had some uncle who delivered food to the army kitchen. He put in a word so that they wouldn’t punish “his boy.”
Second trip to Ijevan—just the two of us this time. We got there, had coffee from the same vending machine, and went to guba. But this time it was full. Oh God, why didn’t you check before bringing us here? Our officers had no managerial skills at all. So we had some donuts in Ijevan—we’d missed lunch at the position—and came back.
A few days passed. A new batch of soldiers was getting ready for their shift, collecting money, food, etc. Our position was the hangout place for the platoon commander. The only good thing he’d ever done was when he stopped me a year ago after I bolted out of the trench—some asshole tried to prank me, pretending he was going to rape me. Yepremyan calmed me down, got me to unload the gun, and hand it over. Good job, Yepremyan. I didn’t shoot anyone that day.
In short, this time Yepremyan realized that if I was in guba, he’d have to do the work at the position.
The third time, I was being taken to Ijevan alone. The second guy had also managed to dodge punishment. But on the way, we got a call. The commander ordered them to take me back. He’d had the idea that sending me to do the shift with platoon commander Yepremyan would be a better punishment than guba.
During that shift, I learned that I could have run into Yepremyan in Yerevan in March 2008. He’d been serving in the police surrounding the protestors. We missed each other—I’d been taken to the police station and was busy getting beaten up there.
So, this is the only time I’ve successfully made it to Ijevan. May 2025. The weather is chilly, subtropical. We’re here to do a reportage. The old pit stop is gone, but the military police station looks exactly as it did back then. The guba remains hidden behind it.
Along the banks of the Aghstev River, within a 500-meter radius, you’ll find the market, the bus stop, the municipality building, the police (both civilian and military), the post office, a few new cafés, a coffee machine, shashlik takeouts, the House of Culture, and taxis waiting around. Ijevan seems to be aspiring to become another Dilijan. We’re waiting for a bus to take us to Berkaber and Kirants — the newly demarcated border between Tavush and Ghazakh.
We briefly considered stopping at the villages of Azatamut and Kayan. The Ijevan–Berkaber bus runs regularly, and the ticket costs 200 drams. It’s an old car, but it works fine. Besides me and the driver, there are no other men aboard. I always wonder how men get around in Armenia. I guess they either have a car — or are too shy to admit they don’t.
Zara
We’re passing by Ijevan’s Bentonite factory. If we turn right at the Krivoy Bridge, we’ll end up in Azatamut and Kayan. The highway connecting Ijevan to Shashadin passes through here—across Azatamut, then the Azerbaijani enclaves of Sofulu and Barkhudarlu, and finally the Armenian village of Kayan. If the enclaves are handed back to Azerbaijan, the Armenian communities will be partially isolated.
Azatamut has the feel of a town—it has storied buildings, small squares. It was built in 1970, as an adjunct to the Bentonite factory. It was named after the 11th Red Army. It’s here that the Red Army marched into Armenia from Azerbaijan in November 1920. It was from the Tavush border that the Sovietization of Armenia began.
Residents of Azatamut have a sense of nostalgia for the Soviet Bentonite factory. The Ijevan–Baku train used to run through here, along with the Ijevan–Ghazakh highway. When the trains ran, the factory was in full operation and created around 3,000 jobs. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the small town became a village. But residents of Azatamut don’t see themselves as “villagers.” They don’t own gardens or farming fields, they don’t do animal farming or agriculture. Instead, they go abroad for seasonal labour, work in workshops left over from the Bentonite factory, play football in the Bentonite club, or work as guards in the Grand Candy warehouses, as laborers in the tobacco factory, as contractors in the army, or as teachers or doctors in local institutions.
The Ijevan–Berd highway, as well as the electric wires and connection cables, stretch through the two Azerbaijani enclaves. Sofulu and Barkhudarlu came under Armenian control in the early 1990s. The residents fled, and now only the remnants of their houses remain. After the 2020 war, Azerbaijan demanded the return of the villages. Armenia offered to exchange them for the Armenian enclave in Azerbaijan—Artsvashen.
In the yards of Azatamut, we’re told that the enclaves were created in the 1930s, as if the Soviet Union had a plan to create islands within republics—near major interstate roads and strategic locations. But Sofulu and Barkhudarlu, like Armenian Artsvashen, were isolated long before the Soviet Union. They had never been part of Armenia.
For a Soviet citizen, there were no internal borders. One could travel from Sofulu to Ghazakh, or from Artsvashen to Chambarak, without a second thought about borders or ownership of the land. Borders only emerged in the 1990s—in order to be closed. Communities are now signposted with trenches, enclaves, barbed wire, and national flags. Interstate roads, once signs of unity, now divide nations.
If the Azerbaijani enclaves are returned, Shamshadin will lose its existing road to Ijevan, and a few villages will be isolated. But how will that happen? To go from Sofulu and Barkhudarlu to mainland Azerbaijan, one would still have to pass through Armenian roads—and cross the yet-to-be-unblocked border between Armenia and Azerbaijan.
– There’s an Armenian village 3 kilometers from here. How are we supposed to go there? It’s ours. Does it make sense to go through forests and valleys to get there—while they’ll be freely roaming? I don’t get it. We can’t go through their community. They’re spoiled people, don’t have shame, they’ll come here. To avoid just a kilometer of road, we might have to go through forests.
– The Armenians have farming land on the other side of the river—the villagers of Aygehovit. At least let them do a swap. This road would then be free for Armenians to come and go. This isn’t only for us, it’s also for Berd.
In Shamshadin, people want the borders to reopen. In Azatamut, they prefer things to stay as they are. Nobody talks about what will happen after peace is achieved, because one thing is clear: it won’t be like it was before 1987.
– If they return the enclaves, we’ll have a lot of difficulties. It’s an island. They’ll have to pass through our territory to get to the island. But it’s only talks and rumours. Nobody knows what will happen, or when. It’s just people talking, especially on Channel 5. They say exaggerated things and cause panic among the people. But nobody knows yet how this issue will be solved.
We head to Kirants, Beraber, Voskepar. The sample demarcation of the Armenia–Azerbaijan border started last year, from this part of Tavush. Armenian positions were removed from the territory of the four Azerbaijani villages. Border control personnel were dispatched to the new Tavush–Ghazakh border, a barbed wire was placed here, and a wall was built. The territories that include Armenia’s interstate roads were exchanged—for an unlimited time.
The local archbishop and Dashnaks from Tavush led a small protest in Kirants, which faded away very soon. Property that happened to be left across the border was compensated at good rates. A few villagers got rich, a few got offended, and the majority got tired.
– Behind this wall, my in-laws had a house. Now it’s demolished to the ground. There was a wagon-cabin and a car repair shop there. Both are now left on their side.
– Bro, what happened was—they gave compensation to everyone. I’m asking: if a wagon-cabin is estimated at $120,000… are you kidding me with that $120,000? It’s just a wagon, with a kitchenette in front of it, made of about 50 tufa plates. How did it happen that they gave 120 grand for that wagon? For that sum, you could go to Yerevan and buy the house you want—on Northern Avenue.
Nobody wants to give interviews in Kirants. They say the village is divided—because of compensations and the opposition’s rallies. A new school and a football field have been built in Kirants. But the villages are now deprived of pasture land. One can’t even complain.
– By the maps, these were Azerbaijani lands. But historically, they were 100 percent Armenian.
– As the demarcation process started, there was a flow of journalists here. Before that, journalists never came here. But since demarcation, they’re choking our village—just to earn money.
Only the guard at the new school wants to talk politics with us. He’s sharing his take on “salvation of the nation” scenarios. He’s had a lot of them over the last few months—and now he’s an expert.
– I gave interviews to all the journalists who came to our village. You might’ve seen me on. I give lots of interviews.
To go to Berkaber, we need to hitchhike from Saint Mariam Church. But there are no cars going to Berkaber. Finally, a contractor-soldier pulls over. We learn that the roads have been asphalted recently, and drinking water is now being delivered.
— That’s Joghaz Lake. And that’s the mountain called Odandagh. That height—all the way to the top—was Armenian land, up until 1992. During the fighting in 1992, our forces controlled it, but then they retreated and gave it to them. The Joghaz reservoir is partly controlled by us, partly by them.
— Haghartsin was one of the seats of King Gagik.
— Alexander Pushkin passed through here. This stone is placed in his honor.
— Since the war, there’s been no shooting here.
We talked about the reservoir with a water expert in Yerevan later.
— The Joghaz reservoir is located on the border. During the USSR, most of our reservoirs were located on the Armenian-Azerbaijani border—I don’t know why. Armenia used irrigation water through pumps, and Azerbaijan used gravity. The Kirants reservoir was also in that state before the collapse of the USSR. There was a pumping station; water was raised through that station, and because of that, about 5-6 villages in that region had irrigation water. After the collapse of the USSR, the entire pumping station was looted. Only the old demolished building remained. After the war and border clashes, everything remained in that state, and now it is impossible to use it.
The men gathered in Bekaber Square are happy with the demarcation of the border. They are sure the protests against it were staged by Dashnaks.
– They say, “Four villages in Tavush are handed to Azerbaijanis.” Do they have to say such nonsense? Did Tavush have a village called Qızıl Hacılı? Did Tavush ever have a village called Fərəhli? The talking heads mislead people just because the 2026 election year is approaching.
Sar villagers explain the difference in attitude like this: After the war in the 1990s, Kirants village gained the upper hand as a lot of Azerbaijani land was left under their control. While Berkaber didn’t benefit, as Armenian territories here were lost. After the delimitation, Kirants lost pasture land, and Berkaber hopes its lands occupied in the 1990s will soon be returned, or they can get compensation from the State.