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.
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.
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."
