A journalist’s story of an unexpected detour in Armenia

By Mane Berikyan

Civilnet

Armenian businessman and politician Gagik Tsarukyan is determined to build the world’s largest statue of Jesus Christ — and many in Armenia, the world’s first country to adopt Christianity, are opposed.

This summer, I was tasked with reporting on this story just days after the first images of the statue at its construction site emerged. The issue had first piqued my interest when plans to erect the statue were announced amid widespread public controversy.

Critics raise both religious and cultural objections. The Armenian Apostolic Church — which considers Gagik Tsarukyan, the oligarch behind the project, a “mega donor” — rejects the statue on the grounds of idolatry. Some say that such a statue goes against their own values. Soviet-era atheism lingers in some parts of Armenia, especially among older generations who reject grandiose displays of religion. In their own turn, historians and cultural preservation experts highlight that Mount Hatis, the hill originally chosen for the statue, is a state-protected national monument home to approximately 20 historical sites.

Proponents of the statue, including Tsarukyan, contend that it will boost Armenia’s tourism sector and stimulate economic growth in the region. They envision the statue as a landmark that will attract visitors from around the world and inject new energy into local communities.

Needless to say, the issue is deeply fascinating and something I was excited to cover on the ground this summer. So, one blisteringly hot August day, I, along with a fellow journalist and a camerawoman, set out to Hatis village to see the statue ourselves and survey local opinions.

Little did I know that I’d return with an entirely different story.

Our journey brought us to Akunk, a neighboring village where initial construction for the statue was rumored to have begun. Upon arrival, we learned that the construction site was inaccessible without a military vehicle. Then, misguided by some well-meaning locals who insisted they knew just the place for three journalists from Yerevan, we ended up at a 5th-century church complex. A town’s main tourist attraction is precisely where one does not want to be when looking to talk to locals — especially when stranded on a steep hillside road without a car.

By that afternoon, we had no photos of the statue, no interviews with locals, and no plan. After catching a ride with a local driver and then trudging down a highway on foot, a glimmer of hope appeared — we detected movement in one of the houses along the village highway: hallelujah! An elderly couple sat outside, and when we approached, they kindly invited us in.

Older men and women in villages are sometimes humorously referred to as the “surveillance” machines of these post-Soviet neighborhoods, and Armenian villages are no exception. They are known to be well-informed about their surroundings and they don’t hesitate to speak with strangers. At last, it seemed, we had found our story.

But as the day had already taught us, things rarely go as planned.

Inside their modest home, we met Melsik Petrosyan and his wife, whose hospitality was nothing short of extraordinary. It turned out, they were not longtime locals who could comment on the story we were looking for. Rather, they were refugees from Nagorno-Karabakh who had been displaced more than a year ago, when Azerbaijan launched its military campaign to ethnically cleanse the historic region of Armenians.

Melsik Petrosyan, a Nagorno Karabakh refugee living in Akunk (PHOTO: CivilNet/Hasmik Khachatryan)Over coffee and the sweetest strawberries, they shared their story. The couple was forcibly displaced from their home in the Martuni region of Nagorno-Karabakh after the war. Since December, they had been renting this house and trying to rebuild their lives.

“Karabakhtis [people from Karabakh] are hospitable people,” Melsik’s wife said with a proud smile, bringing out more food than we could ever hope to eat.

And that they were. The couple insisted we stay to sample all of their homegrown vegetables and their homemade vodka. They brought out an entire table spread, and we sat together, breaking (also homemade) bread, sharing toasts, and exchanging stories. Despite all they had been through, their warmth was overwhelming.

Melsik explained how he had begun cultivating the land in their rented home, planting the vegetables and fruits he had grown back in Karabakh — grapes, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and peppers.

“The weather’s different here,” he admitted. “In Karabakh, we had just a couple of windy days a year. Here, it’s windy almost every day, and that’s not ideal for farming. But what can we do? We work with what we have.”

As we talked, it became clear that their lives had been uprooted in ways that are difficult to fathom. Melsik’s son had been serving in a military base near Akunk, which is how they ended up in the village. Now, Melsik works tirelessly to provide for his family, growing just enough to feed them and selling the surplus to cover their rent and utilities.

Melsik’s wife prepares a meal in a gesture of hospitality. (PHOTO: CivilNet/Hasmik Khachatryan)When the conversation inevitably turned to the statue — the very topic that had brought us here — Melsik had little to say, but he seemed optimistic about the project. “Maybe it will benefit the people here,” he said. “Maybe someone will be kind and give us more land to farm. Or maybe it will raise the rent, who knows? It’s out of my hands. All I can do is keep working.”

I realized then that our story was no longer about a statue or the controversy surrounding it. It was about resilience, hospitality, and the quiet dignity of two people rebuilding their lives against the odds. As we left their home that evening, their kindness stayed with me. The Petrosyans were a reminder that humanity can prevail even in the midst of loss and displacement.

The rest of the day was a blur. We managed to walk back to the village, encountering locals on the way whom we interviewed. As expected, many expressed support for the project, championing the region’s patron oligarch. Over the last several years, Tsarukyan purchased Mount Hatis and much of the surrounding village, acre by acre, cementing his influence in the area.

But as we know all too well, oligarchs come and go, and so do public controversies. It is the unity and strength one can find in human kindness that’s everlasting. Perhaps that is the legacy of Nagorno-Karabakh Armenians.