I heard ‘concert’ and ‘in my village;’ I was sold.
That was all there was to know before arriving at the Bus Depot near Artsakh State University. The ticket taker asked for my passport for five to ten minutes, then just told me not to speak English on the bus: avoiding any hassle from the driver.
It wasn’t a lonely trip. I was accompanied by a few Artsakhsi friends and a my fellow teacher, Avery.
Instead of getting off at the bus station in town, Armine, our guide decided to have us dropped off a mile away from our destination in a field. She reasoned it would be nice to take a picture in front of the Martakert town sign, but neglected to add in the factors of walking the extra mile and a half in ninety degree weather. Artsakh can sometimes feel like a desert, and any opportunity to cut out unwanted steps should be taken.
Eventually we made it to the concert: a stage was centered in the middle of the town’s recreational track. Armine’s family saved us seats right in the front. It is funny how kindness from strangers can be more appreciated than kindness from loved ones.
The show began with two hosts taking the stage a accompanied with a flurry of middle-aged woman screaming at each other to get out of their line of sight. My friends translated to me their opening speech: the celebration honored the liberation of Martakert from the Azeri’s, twenty-five years ago to the date. It suddenly dawned on me that I might be in a dangerous place. And it didn’t help to hear that we were also a mile and a half away from the militarized border. Wouldn’t the Azeri’s know the town might have a celebration? Would they take their chance?
The setlist was comprised of songs that contained a strictly nationalist agenda. Although I couldn’t understand the language being sung, I could distinctly hear the place names of either Stepanakert, Martakert or Yerevan being sung every fifteen seconds.
Halfway through the concert I took a walk with Armine along the track. We discussed the four-day war that occurred just two years before. Her town, being adjacent to the militarized border, was almost invaded during the clashes. Her high school was evacuated for fear of shelling and air raids. What she mentioned multiple times was her town all of a sudden flooded with Artsakhsi soldiers overnight: the largest army in the Caucuses.
In the middle of our talk, the finale of the show began. Fireworks lit up the sky to a roar of applause. It was truly surreal. Only a mile and a half behind the militarized border as mortar-sounding fireworks lit up the sky. The message to Azerbaijan was clear: there are hundreds, if not thousands of people gathered all in one place, all distracted.
I’ve never felt fear watching fire works, and I must have been the only one in the crowd who did. I never lived in a state constantly at war. But if I did, I would most likely forget there is a war on. Now I think my feeling was more akin to surprise than actual fear. For me, life and death were hanging in the balance. For them, it was a nice Thursday evening.
Etta, my co-worker, and I had to traverse the Stepanakert slopes to find hamburger meat for our Independence Day barbecue in Artsakh. We thought we could shop for meat in the late afternoon on the third without fear of the butcher running out: we were doubtful that an Artsakhtsi butcher would be making much profit from the American holiday.
But it was yet another hot one in Artsakh, pushing one-hundred degrees Fahrenheit: or thirty-nine degrees Celsius for those reading this across the pond. It was unfortunate that my birthday landed on that same day: but a well-known hazard for those with summer births.
Both Etta and I had already spent five hours with each other and we were already professionals with getting on each other’s nerves—the heat didn’t help, either. The whole situation was a recipe for disaster, unless some one was added to the mix for relief.
Enter the butcher, or, more accurately, us entering the butcher’s shop. We were greeted with ‘Barev-dzez, Comrade’ (or ‘Hello, Comrade’). Being called comrade for the first time certainly felt comforting. I can understand the appeal.
His face lit up when he saw two foreigners walk into his off-white one-room shop filled with refrigerators. Rushing away from his blurry World Cup game, he shook my hand mumbling the same greeting over and over again. He asked me what I wanted but I could only hand him a piece of paper that read ‘3kg Ground Beef’ written in Russian by a friend. He lowered his glasses and concentrated on the message. After ten seconds he couldn’t make heads-or-tails of the meaning: I wonder if the translation from English into Russian sounded more akin to ‘beef from the ground.’ Nevertheless, he produced a tray of meat from the small fridge behind him. The circular motion I made with my finger resembled grinding enough to get the point across for him to take out the grinder.
The next move he made after understanding my request was a dash to a different refrigerator for some vodka. At first I thought he wanted to slick the grinder with some vodka to make the beef taste better. Not being a butcher myself, I nodded in approval.
He took my things and placed them in the back of the small room, then cleared a place for Etta and I to sit. He closed the blue tarp in the middle of the room, blocking the sunlight from shining inside. After we were comfortable, he continued to neglect our bashful refusals of food and proceeded to place bread, tomatoes, and cottage cheese in front of us—plus a small teacup filled with vodka.
After grinding the meat and breaking bread with butcher, it was time to season the hamburger mix. Etta was too shy to put her fingers in the beef. I tried my hand at mixing with his special salt, but flipping 3kg of beef was harder than I had imagined. Luckily the butcher was there to save us. He flipped the meat over like it was made of a crustacean instead of a terrestrial. He tasted the mixture and motioned that it needed more salt: I don’t think he knew we were making hamburgers.
He weighed the beef and neglected any charge for the meal he had given us. After lowering the product into a shopping bag, there was only one thing left to do: take another shot of vodka. Unfortunately, no toast could be given because our languages separated any vocal articulation.The only thing that could be said was ‘spasiva’ or ‘thank you.’ Thanks. And that was the way I felt after leaving the butcher’s shop.
Sure, maybe a four o’clock shot of vodka was unnecessary, and the meal he offered was too much to be consumed in one sitting. But throughout the entire interaction only a few words were exchanged between us, and I received more than just three-kilograms of ‘beef from the ground.’ The butcher saw an opportunity for camaraderie and understanding, which closed the barrier of culture and language that was so divisive between us.
In the evening I hold a second Intermediate English class, which contains a small group of three adult women and two young girls. Though a small class, I am incredibly fond of these students, who invest themselves wholeheartedly in the material every lesson. I have not given them simple material– we are reading and discussing the Nicomachean Ethics by Aristotle. Yet they love the book and it’s subject– what is happiness and how do we achieve it– and (quite literally) insist that it remain the focus of the class.
Of our small group, one of the adult women joined us recently and though quieter than the others, is clearly deep in thought throughout the lesson. She, like all the Artsakhtsi, is shy and afraid of how she will be received by a stranger from America.
Last night, as I wrapped up my lesson and said goodbye to my students, she approached me with a gift of black mulberries. Mulberries are part of Artsakh culture, and are commonly grown to make mulberry vodka, a traditional drink which is one of the prides of the Artsakhtsi. Though to be given gifts is commonplace to living here, as we are more or less American “guests” of Artsakh, I am still amazed and humbled by these small acts of generosity.
After arriving home, I discovered that inclosed with the gift was a hand-written note. Therein she had explained to me what type of berry this was, that it is the favorite berry of Artsakh, and how to clean the black stains the black mulberry will leave from your hands. Contained also was a little spoon, in case I wanted an easier solution to avoiding the stains on my fingers. I was touched by such a small gift, full of thought and care.
This is a woman who does not know me and has only been to one class before tonight, yet her gift to me is full of love. The Artsakhtsi, in general, are like this. On the surface they are afraid of people from outside Artsakh, and this is not a wholly irrational fear. Many outsiders have done them harm in the past, yet beneath this careful scrutiny is a wellspring of generosity. There is a deep desire in the Artsakhtsi to share what they themselves are grateful for, from their traditions and culture to the natural bounty of their land.
All this about Artsakh in a gift of black mulberries.
After months of planning, organizing, and anticipating, we returned at last to Artsakh to begin again our annual educational initiative lead by the Christians In Need Foundation (CINF). Building upon the foundations of last year, we prepared to open five courses; two in general English language skills, two in specialized English language skills, and one in logic and ethics. As is always the case in Artsakh, we were welcomed immediately with warmth and generosity. There are always two beauties that astound me about Artsakh: the beauty of their land and the beauty of their people.
In mid-March, when our President of CINF, Prof. Siobhan Nash-Marshall visited Stepanakert to give a series of lectures at Mesrop Mashtots and Artsakh State Universities, she met and bonded with many University students. None had forgotten their time together and we were almost immediately friends with many young people we had only just met. Two of these students, Gabriel and Larisa, met us for the first time at the Roots cafe a few days before our courses started. At first they were shy, as all Artsakhtsi people tend to be, but once engaged were full of questions and a deep hunger to know and understand.
Together at the Roots.
While explaining the courses for this summer, Logic & Ethics being the class of particular interest, both were curious as to what this Philosophy course would offer them. We then spent half an hour discussing how to form an argument and practicing by attempting to answer questions they already had, beginning with “What is a human being?” and ending with “What is love?” It was this small, close moment that made it clear to me the deep and complex questions in the hearts of Artsakhtsi youth and how their answers to these questions will shape their future beliefs and actions.
When the Artsakhtsi meet a stranger (especially of the foreign type), they first and foremost want to know if the foreigner yet loves Artsakh and then what locations in Artsakh the foreigner has seen so far. Once you have provided your list (“I have seen Gandzasar Monastery, Shushi, and Hunot Canyon, all of which are beautiful,”) you must be prepared to be personally invited to visit all the rest. Such was the case with Gabriel and Larisa, whom, after finishing our coffees, were quick to invite us to their cultural monument “We Are Our Mountains,” just outside Stepanakert. As we walked together, they were as open as close friends as we discussed our aims, academia, English literature, and the like. Though the Artsakhtsi have little materially in comparison to Americans, they are always happy to give what little they own and always all of their attention and love, even to strangers from across the world.
Together at Tatik-Papik.
With the help of Gabriel and Larisa, word of our courses spread fast throughout Stepanakert. Our enrollment numbers grew rapidly over the course of a few days. Our five courses, originally containing a humble 25 students, became 75 students by June 1st when classes began. In response to the sudden demand, we opened two additional sections of courses, and still the number grew.
Students came from the Universities, many remembering Prof. Nash-Marshall and her promise to send English teachers from America. Many came from across Stepanakert, having heard from family and friends. Some came from villages throughout Artsakh. One student enrolled in our Beginner English course came from a village in Armenia four hours away. Parents brought their children to learn English. Friends brought their friends to join as well. By the second week of classes our enrollment numbers totaled more than 170. By now the hunger in Artsakh to learn was self-evident.
Students in class, listening and thinking.
So far, we have done everything to meet this hunger. This means engaging the student not only in class, but outside as well. Our students join us at our office hours, held at the Roots, with their personal inquiries. They invite us to join them in visiting their cultural and historical monasteries, palaces, and castles. They are, after all, Armenians and therefore descendants of the first Christian nation and Artsakh is home to many glorious ancient sites that prove this fact. As Europe’s second largest cross glows over Stepanakert in the evenings, it is clear that their ancient faith persists.
At Jdrduse with our students.
Only our second weekend here, some of our students joined us for Sunday mass at Ghazanchetsots Cathedral in Shushi. Us Americans, three clearly foreign strangers, were at first denied the host by the priests who were rightly uncertain of our baptism. An Armenian woman in the congregation who did not know any of us, approached us thereafter and with the simple English she knew (and with the help of our students to translate when necessary) ascertained that we had indeed been baptized. She then brought the matter to the other ladies of the congregation and together they intervened on our behalf. We were then allowed to take communion privately once the service was ended. The Armenians of Artsakh embody the virtues of the Christian faith: they obey God and protect the host when reasonable but are also overjoyed to share His graces.
This ancient faith, to its roots strong, generous, courageous, and loving, ground all the Artsakhtsi. I learned as much, if not more, from the virtues of the Artsakhtsi people, than I taught my last summer in Stepanakert. I wanted my young American friends, all bright and promising but uncertain in an era of ideological warfare, to learn these lessons as well. To learn how to be virtuous and how to stand by these principles, even when evil is rampant. It is a lesson that I hope spreads throughout the West, for the sake of our youth and the future decisions they will make to shape their countries.
Etta, our new volunteer teacher, admires the mountains of Artsakh.
Between courses, time outside of class encouraging the growth of our students, building connections with the Universities and Artsakh Ministries of Education, Culture, and Youth Affairs, and introducing our new volunteers to the many beauties of Artsakh, I and our little, home-grown foundation are pushing hard to assure the successful growth of this program. Our President, Prof. Nash-Marshall, will be touring California in early July, spreading the word about our work, and presenting her new book about the Armenian Genocide, The Sins of the Fathers: Turkish Denialism and the Armenian Genocide. On the ground here, we are laying the foundations for the spread of this program across Artsakh and into the rest Armenia. In September, we will officially announce an award to finance and support Artsakh youth-lead initiatives to develop culture and industry in their country.
In addition to all of this, we are also leading a crowdfunding campaign to help ensure the success of our current program and its future. Please consider making a contribution, to support the oldest Christian people and their model of virtue to the Western world. And also for our young American volunteer teachers, that they may learn these virtues and bring them home.
This Friday I arrived in Yerevan, Armenia to begin my second summer teaching in Artsakh. This opportunity offered to me by the non-profit Christians In Need Foundation last summer changed me in many good ways and now I am honored to do it all again, this time leading the project as the Executive Director of the Foundation. After many months of preparations, finally I boarded the plane for Yerevan with two other volunteer teachers, one I worked with last year and one new to the program.
A blurry photo on the plane from JFK, with our new recruit, Etta.
Etta is our new volunteer this summer, a college peer, fellow Philosophy major, and friend of mine. She is smart, capable, and caring — everything our program needs from a volunteer teacher. I’m hoping this summer helps her grow and develop these strengths, as I know my experience did for me last year.
Upon arriving on Friday, we visited the Cascades, a massive limestone staircase at the Northern end of the city. At the top, all of Yerevan can be seen, and in the distance Mt. Ararat, a mountain of great significance to the Armenian people. I have been to the Cascades more than once before, but the view is always just as striking. Etta likewise later described it as, “A breath-taking glimpse of Yerevan.”
At the Cascades.
After a long, contemplative rest at the top of the Cascades, we headed for Freedom Square and the Opera Theatre. Already families were gathering, as they do every evening, to meet friends and family as their children play together across the square. It is a sight that always reminds me of the purpose of community. It is a sight I have sorely missed in the year I have been gone.
The three of us in Freedom Square.
I am ever grateful to the Christians In Need Foundation for this program, and now my increasing role in it. I hope this year to use this blog not only as a means to talk about Armenia and Artsakh, but also to document the changes this program will work in all of us in the months to come.
You can learn more about the Christians In Need Foundation and our program at cinfusa.org. If you are interested in supporting our work in Artsakh and Armenia, please consider contributing a donation at gogetfunding.com/artsakhproject or at our website.
Gandzasar Monastery in Artsakh was built in the 13th century. Within the monastery is the St. John the Baptist Cathedral. Built out of traditional tuff chiseled into sweeping arches, the stone cathedral embodies the Armenian expression of the Christian faith. The monastery is still in use today, hosting masses and even a 400 couple wedding only a few years ago.
In the war with Azerbaijan, the back wall of the monastery was hit with a shell. Miraculously the shell didn’t explode and likewise the the monastery considers it a miracle distinct to Gandzasar. The shell is still left in its impact crater in the wall.
As our stay in Stepanakert reaches its end, our attention turns from work to also visiting various areas of Artsakh before our departure. A friend from the Tourism Department in Stepanakert accompanied us on these trips. She works in the info center in Stepanakert’s square and provided a much needed map of the city within our first weeks here. Each tour was only 250 Dram per person or about 50 cents in American dollars.
Our first tour was to the Gandzasar Monastery which stopped at the Nikol Duman House Museum beforehand. This is a small complex of restored 19th century houses that represent life in Artsakh at that time. The location is also used for picnics and parties. Bellow are pictures of the main house on the property.
An outdoor kitchen, typical for older houses.
Bellow is a fire pit on the property specifically for making tradition Armenian bread. Its Armenian name is tonir hats; tonir meaning “oven in the ground” and “hats” meaning bread.
Overlooking Stepanakert is a massive cross, visible even at night when its lit from top to bottom. The people of Artsakh are particularly proud of this cultural landmark. Everyone I’ve met has declared, “It’s the second largest cross in Europe, 50 meters high!” and recommended it as a must-see spot. On the same Sunday as our TUMO trip to the Umbrellas, I finally had the opportunity to visit the cross in the evening.
Once at the peak of the cross, I was struck even more by the view of Stepanakert aglow bellow. My poor quality cell phone photo doesn’t come close to capturing the sight.
This past Thursday marked the end of our English classes with the coaches at TUMO here in Stepanakert. They are an inspirational group, devoted to their students growth and learning. They refer to their work as “coaching” rather than “teaching,” because they aim to work with students to develop their individual skills, rather than provide general lessons. They preferred their own English classes to be casual and personal rather than strict and precise, as I have become accustomed to in American classrooms. In the few months we have worked together, I have learned as much from them as they have from me.
The weekend following the end of our classes, the TUMO group planed a picnic in Hunot Canyon to share their beautiful Mamrot Kar Waterfall with us. Also known as the “Umbrellas,” the location looks much like its name as a waterfall runs off the draped mossy canopy overhanging a cave. The incredible sight and cool water are a refreshing reward for the hike to see them. Along the path to the waterfalls are picturesque mountains, shallow streams to rest beside, and the stone Hunot Bridge that once was a strategic link between Shushi and the town that was nestled in the canyon long ago. Abandoned mills and houses still lie along the path to the waterfalls.
I have been on many picnics while in Artsakh. Nature is never far from Artsakh life and the people here have developed a deep love for their natural surroundings. They are always happy to share this wealth of beauty too, even with foreigners like myself.
Our picnic with the TUMO class further assures me of the abounding generosity of Artsakh people. Our students took responsibility for the entire trip. They asked nothing more from us than to show up at the right time and place. Such selflessness is commonplace here. Within my first couple weeks, an Artsakh English teacher bought me a handmade donkey though I was willing to pay for it myself. Within the past week, a woman from the tourism department has personally accompanied us to various sites around Artsakh. In between these events are countless acts of kindness that have made me feel welcome so far from home. Such generosity I once thought only found in a specific individuals, I have discovered in abundance here in Artsakh.
Also in Shushi is the Ghazanchetsots Cathedral. Though currently the main place of worship in Shushi, the church was also once used as an armory by Azerbaijan while occupying Shushi. The Cathedral towers above its visitors with impressive arches iconic to Armenian architecture. On the inside, visitors can see into the main spire from which a chandelier descends.
Here In Artsakh 