It’s a Tuesday morning and I’m walking uphill on Proshyan Street. A herd of huge bright clouds cuts across the sun, and in the hushed light, the city begins to spread out below me. I feel like I’m the only person around, as if on an abandoned film set. It’s one of my favorite things about Yerevan—nothing much happens until after 10am, so there’s an uncanny beauty to the city until then. Sometimes I wake up around 4:30am to smoke a cigarette on my balcony and watch the group of women dressed in green outfits walk down my street, sweeping and gossiping. I waved hello to them once. They were confused. It’s ok, I thought. Me too.
At the top of the hill is St. John, built in the 18th century. As I cross the courtyard, I hear sounds coming from inside. I touch the intricately carved heavy door as I step in. I’ve noticed myself doing that—touching the doors of the ancient churches and monasteries I visit. I don’t know why. I’m not religious, but I’m quite moved by the ancient mysticism that’s very much alive in these structures. Perhaps it’s been dormant in me and was part of the reason I’d been so restless in the States. I don’t know. As I light a few candles for my family and people I love or have lost, swallows fly around inside, singing. The scene strikes me as some sort of cliché, and I want to resist, yet it’s more real than most things I’ve felt in my life. I run my hand against the cool, old stone wall on my way out.
This hilltop is called Kond. It’s one of the oldest neighborhoods still standing in Yerevan, as though preserved in time. For various reasons, as Yerevan quickly developed after WWII, this area was overlooked. Basically part of the city center, the houses here are dilapidated, the streets super narrow and winding, and the people fiercely proud. It was mostly built in the 18th century, but there are still some structures from the Middle Ages. The residents that have remained exist in a liminal state between being, waiting, and fading. They are mostly forgotten by the rest of the city all around them. Kond is a thriving ghost that wants to have its body back.
As I enter the quarter, to the right is the towering, recently abandoned Dvin Hotel. In typically somber Soviet style, it looks like something out of Blade Runner, standing guard over the one and two-story ancient buildings below. Structures old and modern, keeping each other company as best as they can while memories rattle around inside them.
Most of the doors of the homes in Kond are open and it’s hard to tell which buildings are inhabited and which are abandoned. Children sit on doorsteps and play or one overhears chatter coming from inside. As I walk deeper into the neighborhood, people clearly notice that I’m not from there. I feel a bit awkward and shy. My intention isn’t to pry or treat this place like some quaint exhibit. As I say hello to some of the residents, they immediately engage me in small talk, asking me into their homes, telling me it’s okay to take photos. This hits me in the gut. These people whose roofs are made of old wood and tin, whose homes are in disrepair, and who are treated like afterthoughts by the city, show me nothing but heart and kindness. I hold back tears and find myself unable to take many photos. It seems perverse on some level.
On the first floor of one small building is a makeshift tiny market run by an old woman. It’s basically the size of a walk-in closet without proper lighting and cracked walls. The products are few and random. I buy two bottles of water. The woman and her little granddaughter give me a piece of pastry that they’d made together the day before. “Come back often, my son. It’s nice to have visitors. Some of you remember us. Thank you.”
Before walking out of the neighborhood, I come across a building that seems abandoned. As I slowly poke my head into the doorway a man appears behind me. “Hello. Go ahead, it’s okay. Take a look.” The owners are not around but this older man looks after the building. I step into the doorway and notice a part of the living room with a photo hanging and a picture of Jesus as a shepherd. I find myself unable to go further. It’s as though I’m trespassing on an intimate moment, containing all the loves, losses, joys, defeats, and struggles of a family, a community. I take a quick photo and shake hands with the man. I lightly run my hand against the peeling wallpaper as I walk out into the warm bright light.
* I’d like to thank UrbanLab Yerevan, an organization that strives to raise awareness about old Yerevan. Their tour of Kond was my first time there.
