Epress.am News from Armenia
We’re driving to Berd along the new mountain road — through Chambarak instead of Ijevan. The women are coming back from facial rejuvenation procedures: there are no such services in Shamshadin, so they have to go to the capital. Near Sevan, they stop to buy wild fish; in Aygehovit — cheese; in Yeghishavan — rejan and wild thyme. On the way, they talk about nature, the quality of the fresh asphalt, Turkish soap operas, mutual acquaintances, and their children.
The driver announces up front that he won’t allow any talk of politics. Once, he even dropped a passenger off halfway and hasn’t answered his calls since. But soon he breaks his own rule: “The only thing this government has done right is asphalt.” The road is sleek, and we’re gliding fast. Soon, the conversation shifts — to the war, to the army.
“The peace agreement was signed on November 9, but our unit stayed there until the 30th,” the driver recalls, speaking of events five years past. “My son is a Russian citizen,” says the woman beside him. “A month ago, they called from the local military recruitment office, demanding he show up for training. I told them they had no right — and hung up.” Everyone is unhappy with the country’s defense policy, yet no one is eager to serve.
Near Berd, Natasha joins us. She’s been in the mountains since dawn and has already gathered two apronfuls of wild thyme to sell. We exchange introductions, and Natasha immediately insists we stay at her house for the night. We agree — after all, we hadn’t made any plans.
The last time we were in Berd was in 2022. After the war, there was hope that things would finally change: that the borders would open, stable jobs would appear, and that ecotourism and organic farming would begin to develop. New NGOs emerged. Local women said that before, the only way to get a job was in the army. Now there was a glove factory, and small-scale businesses were growing: some made toys, others cooked jam or cultivated blueberries. Grants were distributed for small enterprises, and people believed that soon everyone would become an entrepreneur.
The optimism faded over the past two years. Last year, the glove factory shut down, leaving 300 people unemployed. Before, they used to complain about twelve-hour shifts and the lack of bonuses for night work — now, they’re ready to accept any conditions.
Those who left the army seeking new prospects have re-enlisted. Some continued working for the glove manufacturer but relocated to the Ararat region.
— They’re given housing there. The shifts are twelve hours long, but the pay is decent. Twice a month, they can return home to rest.
Berd’s residents take pride in their unspoiled nature and dense forests. Unlike other regions, there are no mining operations here. In the past, men earned a living through logging, but it has become risky — oversight has tightened, and one must either strike a deal or take the risk.
Agriculture isn’t well developed. The soil is poor, and only large farmers can afford irrigation. Procurement companies rarely make it out here.
— The land here isn’t very fertile. The yield is nothing like in the Ararat Valley. Back in the days of the sovkhoz, we had steady work, but now you need to be a farmer yourself or have a factory… Even irrigation alone costs a fortune.
Faith in ecotourism has vanished. The only people who visit now are relatives of soldiers. Restaurants, guesthouses, and taxi drivers rely entirely on them for income. There are no foreigners.
In the evening, Natasha’s friends come over — Aida and Astghik. Their biggest complaint is about Armenian journalists. They speak out strongly against the “fourth estate” and in support of the prime minister — a former journalist himself. They say that once peace is fully established, everything will be fine, even in Shamshadin.
— Shamshadin flourished in Soviet times. The factories kept running because the border was open. Most trade and connections went through Azerbaijan.
The older generation still believes in the power of transit roads. Residents of Ijevan live better than those in Berd because they’re ‘on the road leading to the border.’ Without trade, there is no life. The factories will reopen once the railway resumes.”
For Soviet people, these are unquestionable truths. Do they support Pashinyan because, after the war’s defeat, he began echoing their hopes — or do they repeat his words because they already support him?
“Once the peace treaty is signed, there will be a difficult transition, but I’m certain we’ll be able to make peace — as long as Russia doesn’t interfere,” says Aida. “The Russians won’t let that happen,” Natasha responds.
Aida works for a private company that provides meals to the military unit. She’s satisfied with her job.
The next day, we met women from the local fitness club. For them, exercise is a way to break free from their daily routine. People here still look at women’s fitness with some suspicion, but that doesn’t bother them. They’re proud to be gradually reshaping traditional ideas about how a woman should behave.
One of the women used to work at the glove factory. Now her husband goes to Ararat for seasonal work, while she takes care of their child and parents. Her former colleague, after the factory closed, found a job as a cashier in a bakery but isn’t happy with the pay. Another became a home-based hairdresser — everyone understands that it’s better to spend what they earn within the community.
The fitness club, too, will soon shut down: grants have been reduced, and a small provincial venture like this has no chance of surviving on its own.
Talk turns to Ozon, Wildberries, and Temu. Thanks to online marketplaces, fashion trends have reached Armenia’s remote regions. Local businesses are fading amid growing consumer demand — small clothing and household stores are closing one after another.
— I come to work just so I’m not stuck at home. Some days, not a single customer shows up.
Anush runs a clothing stall at the bazaar. Her business survives on credit — she keeps a notebook of debts, and neighbors or acquaintances pay for their clothes bit by bit, from one payday to the next.
Later, we meet Anahit — a familiar forager. We ask to join her on a trip to pick wild strawberries. They say they’ve already ripened in the fields near Nerkin Karmir.
Development programs in Berd have failed — on that, everyone agrees. After the revolution, Nikol Pashinyan said poverty was a matter of laziness: “Go gather greens in the mountains.” In Shamshadin, there’s no shortage of people doing just that.
— The social situation here is dire. Prices in the shops rise every day — by ten, twenty, sometimes fifty drams. It used to be: you gathered herbs, sold them, and that was enough for a few days. Now we roam for five or six days, just trying to make ends meet.
Even so, Pashinyan’s slogan remains popular in Shamshadin. People still enjoy scolding the lazy.
— I’m puzzled when our people say they can’t even buy cigarettes. As soon as the snow melts, Solomon’s seal sprouts, followed by mallow, nettle, and lilies. Then come thyme, mint, papermint, wild strawberries, mushrooms, wood mushrooms, field mushrooms — all of it worth money.
The foragers have divided the forest produce among themselves: one group focuses on blueberries and strawberries, another on fireweed, thyme, and melissa, and a third on Solomon’s seal and asparagus. They determine the prices collectively, depending on market trends. For instance, while a kilo of blueberries sells for up to 15,000 drams in Yerevan supermarkets, here it’s bought for around 2,000.
We return to Berd with full buckets. In the DOSAAF area, residents, upon learning that we are journalists, ask us to report on their sewage issue.
— It’s a big neighborhood, yet there’s no sewage system. We’ve appealed so many times. The wastewater just runs out into the open — imagine what kind of breeding ground that is for disease, especially in summer. There are homes all around, families, children. The neighbors’ child fell seriously ill, had to be taken to Yerevan for treatment — all because of these drains. Wherever we turn, everyone says it’s not their responsibility. They laid some pipes a while ago but never finished the job, never connected them to the main line. Everything seeps out right here.