It was our second attempt to reach Tatev, but our first try had ended in disappointment. The road was completely impassable due to thick fog and icy conditions.
TATEV
It was our second attempt to reach Tatev, but our first try had ended in disappointment. The road was completely impassable due to thick fog and icy conditions. Both the road to Tatev and the route from Tatev to Kapan had been closed off. However, the weather forecast promised a sunny day, so we decided to give it another shot.
Long trips with my companion Vahe were nothing out of the ordinary. We had worked together in Artsakh before, and our most recent adventure had taken us from the Sarsang Reservoir to Gandzasar and finally to Yerevan in August 2020. Now we were heading towards Syunik—I was visiting a community, while Vahe was going there for a study as the head of deployment.
Although we had frequently visited the Tatev Monastery or passed by the adjacent road, it was our first time visiting Tatev village. I couldn’t help but think how wonderful it would be if we could stop by the villages more often, say hello to the residents, engage in conversations about village life, and get to know the people. Nowadays, we barely know our next-door neighbors. People are just known by their names and surnames, and villages are merely names of places.
Tatev village was a mere three-minute walk from Tatev Monastery. As we reached the village entrance, the magnificent sight of the monastery unfolded before us, with the breathtaking Syunik mountain range serving as its backdrop. Despite the occasionally bone-chilling wind, the day was bright and sunny.
Students the school once had
At its peak, Tatev school served over 250 students from across the region
Students remaining today
As families leave for larger cities, enrollment has dropped dramatically
Without running water
Frozen pipes forced villagers to carry water from natural springs
We noticed a picture of Nzhdeh adorning the wall of the school, and in the yard stood a memorial stone bearing his name. In Syunik, it was hard to miss his presence. The school building itself was large and newly repaired, with construction underway for a preschool to accommodate 12 children.
Inside the classroom, we engaged in conversations over cups of hot coffee. These discussions usually began with the prehistory of the village and flowed into the present day. The teacher of military science, one of the village’s long-time residents who had both grown up and studied in the same school, shared his insights.
"At that time, the school had over 250 students. Now, there are only 50 left. The village is emptying out, and there's no one to blame. There's nothing left in the village. Do you see that building? It used to be a factory. ... I'm here no matter what. This is my village, and I'll never leave it."
Such stories were commonplace, with a common beginning: once upon a time, the villages were large, and so were the schools. But as time went on, the villages became smaller, while the capital city expanded.
As we discussed the outflow of young people from the village, Nune, an Instructional-Leader who had moved to the village the previous year, joined us. I smiled and embraced her: a long-awaited reunion. Nune taught Russian language and, due to a former teacher’s health issues, had taken up the responsibility of educating the children, filling a significant gap.
"Nune works tirelessly, and the children adore her. They've opened up and fallen into a routine of learning thanks to her efforts. I don't know what will happen if she ever leaves."
They recounted how thrilled the children had been when they visited Goris with Nune in December to perform "Angetik," a play they had staged for children displaced from Artsakh. The visit, organized by the Teacher-Leaders of the Syunik region, gave children an opportunity to interact, have fun, draw, and solve puzzles at the Bakunts Museum during a game of "Fort Boyard." Despite the challenges of the journey, the children returned home filled with excitement and joy.
As we entered the classroom, the children were buzzing with excitement. It was the first meeting of their project study group, and they couldn’t wait to share their progress. Nune shared stories about each student with great detail and care. Sadly, two students had recently moved to Kapan, bringing the school’s population below 50.
The school walls were adorned with scenes from all the Artsakh wars, the pictures growing progressively more vibrant from black and white to color. One unique feature was a separate poster honoring the female heroes of the Artsakh wars—a sight not often seen in other schools.
3 of 3 questions shown
TANDZASHEN – SHURNUKH – VOROTAN
Perhaps one day, the reasons behind our partial encirclement in our homeland will become clear. Life in these villages was severely disrupted after the closure of the Goris-Kapan road section. It turned into a blockade, forcing the gradual paving of forest paths with asphalt.
The road from Tatev to Tandzashen was built after the war. Since the Goris-Kapan road was blockaded and now serves as the Iran-Armenia interstate road, the asphalt is renewed at least twice a year. At first glance, one might be glad the road was built, but then comes the realization that it only happened after a part of the former interstate road fell into Azerbaijani hands.
We arrived in Tandzashen and were welcomed at the grandparents’ house of one of our students. We enjoyed a dinner featuring domestic rabbit meat and homemade sal. Dzyadz Apo poured a traditional glass of vodka and toasted to peace and youth. In Syunik, a toast for peace is a simple wish, not just a perfunctory dinner ritual.
Under siege
Villages of Vorotan, Shurnukh, and Bardzravan have been cut off from both sides, connected to other Syunik villages solely through newly opened forest paths since the road closure.
The road to Shurnukh was rugged, winding through the forests. The serenity and grandeur of Khustup Mountain left us breathless. We reached a crossroad, unsure of which path to take. Vahe checked the GPS and proclaimed, "The road ends here." Yet a narrow passage lay ahead, descending before us, until we spotted the sign pointing to Shurnukh.
We halted, taking in the gloomy atmosphere of the village. It was unclear where it began and ended. The village seemed to exist and not exist simultaneously. Amidst the semi-desolation, we noticed the construction of new large private houses—seemingly serving as compensation for the abandoned homes on the Azerbaijani side.
Now, these villages have endured a siege for nearly two years. Vorotan and Shurnukh are cut off from both sides, connected to other Syunik villages solely through newly opened forest paths. Why am I only passing through these villages now? How do my compatriots live here? How many of us are aware of the location of these villages and the reality in which these people live?
The road from Vorotan to Khot was treacherous—extremely rocky with narrow passages. Border guards warned that our car would not survive. Nevertheless, we decided to proceed. Despite everything, we reached our destination. The lights of Khot came into view: a sizable village with well-built houses and sloping roofs. We had escaped the labyrinth.
Driving on smooth asphalt now felt unfamiliar. I recalled the teacher striving to bring vibrancy to the lives of children in Shurnukh—a village lacking color. I discovered that she had applied to our program. There is life in Shurnukh. It will be, it surely will be.
Arriving in Yerevan past midnight, we are filled with countless impressions. Then I realize that we are all surrounded—some in our blind comfort, others in their homes, and some beyond the boundary of our home. In this blockade, we must not drift apart; instead, we should draw closer, uniting to break the blockade.
On August 10th, I was able to witness what Teach For Armenia has done for the students all over Armenia by visiting Shenavan Basic School in the mountains of Lori.
