DARK-ADAPTED EYES
by Arpi Harutyunyan
Transitions Online
April 11 2008
Czech Republic
In a disputed corner of the Caucasus, some settlers have given up
much of the modern world, including electricity, to stake a claim to
a territory.
This is the 10th in a series of articles from the TOL Special Report:
Energy.
Also see: THE BALANCE OF POWER
IN DISPUTED TERRITORY BETWEEN ARMENIA AND AZERBAIJAN | Samvel
Stepanyan, his brother, and their families – nearly a dozen people in
all — are the lone residents of Martiros, a village just outside the
disputed territory of Nagorno-Karabakh. In this mountainous enclave,
settled primarily by Armenians but surrounded by Azerbaijan and
claimed by both countries, they live as people lived a century ago.
Martiros, like many nearby villages, has been without electricity
since the brothers brought their families here 10 years ago. At night
they see by the light of an oil lamp or the fire in the stove, which
they light with wood from nearby forests.
They have no television, no radio, no computer, no refrigerator.
Stepanyan’s mother explains that the families stew their food,
often making ghavurma, a dish of meat stewed in oil, so that it does
not spoil.
Stepanyan makes his living by farming and beekeeping. He used to
have 50 hives, but this year he has double that. "I’ve managed to
get about a ton of honey this time. It was a good year," he says. He
sells the honey in Armenia, traveling along the single road that
links that country with Nagorno-Karabakh, a passage that was won in
the 1991-1994 war with Azerbaijan.
Stepanyan’s wife and two children live here only part of the time,
staying in Armenia during the school term. Still, he says, life isn’t
so bad. "I feel very good here." It’s only electricity that’s lacking,
he says.
Martiros is one of about 20 powerless villages, many with just two or
three families, here and in Nagorno-Karabakh. They account for about
10 percent of the population of this disputed territory, about 340
kilometers from Yerevan.
Nagorno-Karabakh, populated largely by ethnic Armenians, declared
itself an independent republic in 1991. No country, including
Armenia, has recognized it. The settlements are part of an effort
by the government of Nagorno-Karabakh to establish population in the
district of Lachin, known as Kashatagh in Armenian, which was taken in
the war with Azerbaijan and which links Nagorno-Karabakh and Armenia.
Settlers received incentives to move there, including free housing,
cows, and – where available – electricity. Many of the settlers come
from Armenia but others are refugees, having been driven out of their
homes in Azerbaijan.
Lachin/Kashatagh is one of seven districts surrounding Nagorno-Karabakh
that an international peace plan envisions being returned to Azerbaijan
after the status of Nagorno-Karabakh is settled. No one has figured
out when or how that will happen, however.
The local government estimates that it will take about $700,000 to
$800,000 this year to bring electricity to eight to 10 villages.
Ernest Ghevondyan, the area’s top administrator, has no firm data
on the number of people who have left the region because of this
problem, but said at a recent press conference, "In at least 40
percent of cases people have left the settlements because of the lack
of electric power."
Stepanyan, 32, was the first settler in his village. He insists
he will stay, even as the rest of the pioneers have given up. "Six
families have lived for different periods in the village within the
last 10 years, but we’re the only ones left," he says, recalling his
neighbors with a mix of warmth and regret.
BEAUTIFUL ISOLATION
It may be a difficult life, but the surroundings offer their own
rewards. The 50-kilometer road from the seat of the local government,
the town of Lachin/Berdzor, to Stepanyan’s village crosses mountains,
woods, and gorges. The road is rough, often impassable in winter,
and an off-road vehicle is the best way to get around.
As the route climbs the mountains, a panorama of vibrant greens and
yellows opens up. Until, of course, evening – and unbroken darkness
– falls.
Nearby, in the village of Verishen, dim light beams out at night from
the houses of the two families who live here, cut off from the world.
Mobile phones don’t work in Verishen.
Still, inside Artak Hovhannisyan’s house, a small hut made of
wooden logs with a gray plastered interior, a light bulb hangs from
the ceiling. Attached via a wire to an accumulator – a device for
storing electrical energy – the bulb provides barely enough light to
distinguish other people’s faces. From the corner of the room comes
the sound of music as Artak’s two teenage sons, Mikayel and Gor,
listen the broadcast of a Karabakhi radio station. "There are only
few radio stations you can listen to here. We get news from there,
but we always try to save the energy, because there’s no other way
to recharge the batteries except the sun. And the sun isn’t always
bright enough," Gor says.
In addition to their two sons, Artak and his wife, Asya, have a
daughter, Ani, who is studying in Yerevan. Asya says Ani reads books
day and night. "She would read secretly by the light of vegetable oil
light at night. She loves languages, and now she’s studying several."
Artak adds proudly, "She wants to learn Chinese," vowing to do
everything he can to make Ani’s dream comes true.
On the road outside, some of Artak’s neighbors had taken the
opportunity of a stranger’s visit to recount a time years ago when
cars were a rarity in this small gorge and Artak carried a sack of
flour from Lachin/Berdzor to the village on his back. "It took me
two days, because crossing about 45 kilometers with a heavy sack like
that wasn’t an easy thing," he says later, when reminded of it. "But
what could I do? We only had enough flour left for two days."
In the only other villager’s house, a lamp burns. Karen Badalyan
came to Verishen nine years ago – alone at first, then bringing
his parents. He says life here suits him. He married a woman from a
neighboring village and they now have two daughters, Hasmik, 6 and
Lilit, 4. Hasmik attends school in the nearby village of Shalua.
"This is my village. I love it very much," Hasmik declares.
"Everything is good here. I love the air here, the wind. … In the
summer when it’s hot I take my bike and go stand in the wind – it’s
so cool," she says.
"Here it’s better than in Yerevan. I can’t sleep because of the noise
of the cars when I go see my grandmother in Yerevan," Hasmik says,
seeming not to miss conveniences like televisions or computers. Lilit
had never seen a camera before visitors showed up with one.
‘THIS IS THE HOMELAND’
Ofelya Manukyan opens the gate to her garden and invites a visitor
in for coffee. At 43, she is thin and wrinkled, looking years older
after a hardscrabble life. After inquiring after the visitor, she
happily relays the news that last year another family had moved into
her village, Himnashen, several kilometers from Verishen.
"We get along; we keep animals, grow crops," Manukyan says. The family,
Manukyan, her husband, and five of her seven children – two sons are
in the army – live on about 20,000 to 25,000 drams ($65 to $80) per
month. They raise sheep and cows and grow vegetables. The family shops
in Lachin/Berdzor, about 45 kilometers away. "We buy food for 10 days
at a time," Manukyan says. "We’ve adjusted ourselves to everything
— what else can we do? But we want our children to live properly,
have light, and watch TV."
Next door, Yura Khachatryan’s family moved to Himnashen nine years
ago. One of their three sons married here and has a child. The people
here acknowledge that life in villages is difficult and boring,
especially when there is no electricity. But they persevere.
"This land needs to be tended," Khachatryan says. "My children have
to plant trees, harvest crops, and have children here to understand
this is the homeland and it needs to be kept," Khachatryan says,
switching on the oil lamp with care.
Meanwhile, a few kilometers away, two families create a lonely
outpost in the village of Vazgashen. Among the residents is Samvel
Gyulzadyan an architect who, driven to hold on to the land, moved
here from Yerevan.
"We came here with friends in 1994," he says. "There was nothing
in the ruined houses, neither windows, nor doors. We began to build
everything gradually, grow vegetables." The villagers say the houses
were left by fleeing Armenians and Azeris.
Gyulzadyan no longer practices his profession, and he doesn’t know
if he ever will again. For now, he says he is content with his new
life, tilling the soil. More than electricity, he says, he and his
family crave contact with the outside world. "Don’t forget, we need
to talk to you," he says, allowing visitors to take his photograph
in exchange for the promise of a return visit.
photo: Villages, still bearing the pock mocks of the Nagorno-Karabakh
war, have settlers but rarely electricity.
Arpi Harutyunyan is a reporter for ArmeniaNow, an independent,
online weekly.