From ghost towns to growing settlements: Armenia’s village life

Kushane՛ Chobanyan

New Eastern Europe

The wind is the only thing moving in this village, but once it is silent, you can hear every detail of nature, follow every movement, and take in the picturesque view of mountains covered with lush autumn forests. Our photographer and I drive to one of the abandoned villages of Armenia – Karaberd in the province of Lori. Yurik Shavelyan, the head of the Karaberd Administrative Area, is waiting for us. Suddenly, even the phone connection begins to break up, leaving us in tranquility until a woman with her child passes by our car. You can tell from their appearance that they are not Armenian. We ask them for Yurik’s house, and the boy kindly points us in the right direction.

Finally, we meet Shavelyan, who takes us through the village and ultimately to the house of Serzhik Grigoryan, a man living alone in Karaberd. On our way, Shavelyan explains that there is no school in the village and that he was the last graduate in 1973. The only child living in the village is the boy we met whose parents, an Indian couple, moved here a month ago. A handful of families now live in Karaberd, many of whom spend cold winters in the city with their children. A little vibrancy returns in the summer, but mostly the village stays calm and silent.

Karaberd, with fewer than 100 inhabitants, most of them elderly, seems like a ghost town. Once a vibrant community founded in the 1720s, it lies only 15 kilometres from the provincial centre of Vanadzor. There used to be a Russian military base nearby, and many people assume that was the reason villagers were forcibly removed from their homes. In 1974, there were a handful of residents, but since the 1990s, people have returned, trying to start new lives. In 1992, Yurik Shavelyan was selected as the head of the Karaberd Administrative Area.

“You can imagine, if there’s no school here, how will the children live? Many people tell me that if there were children, the school would exist too, but I may have a different view,” Shavelyan says.

As soon as we reach Serzhik’s house, it feels clear that he lives alone. A thirty-five-year-old coffee cup on the table, an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, a tidy bed, a handmade wooden stove, and a small Soviet-style TV: these are the familiar companions of a villager’s home.

“Sorry for the mess, there’s no woman around to keep it in order,” he hurries to explain.

Born in Karaberd in 1950, he left the village at 14 and spent nearly 20 years working as a city bus driver in Vanadzor before returning to his roots. His wife passed away four years ago. Their three children live in different places and visit him regularly, and he goes to see them every week. Yet he has firmly decided to stay in the village and live alone.

“I don’t feel upset because of loneliness; I got used to it. At first, it was hard to be all alone, but there’s so much to do in the village,” Grigoryan recalls.

“I can’t live indoors; my life is in nature. I go for berries and rosehip in the forest; sometimes my friends come to eat and drink vodka.”

As he says, freedom in nature is a treasure, and he would not trade it for a comfortable city life. His usual day begins with a cup of coffee and a cigarette, followed by a meal and vodka. Lori Province is famous for its variety of produce, which he collects for his children living in the city. Sometimes he sells what he gathers from the forests.

“If I stay at home, I won’t be able to bear it. I don’t want to get married again. After Siranush, I have no desire to take another woman’s hand,” he says.

In cold winters, he enjoys spending time in front of the TV following the news. If there is a good movie, he will not miss it. Serzhik spends holidays with his children, but usually only for a day or two. Once there was even a village club where people would dance or watch movies, feeling connected to the larger world.

“I haven’t seen tourists here like in other Armenian villages they show on TV,” Serzhik explains. “Usually it’s too quiet here, but for me, this is the best place. Look around – I want to see this view every single day not to miss anything,” he recalls.

Karaberd seemed quietly abandoned during our visit, almost as if the village itself were holding its breath. If you get lost here, there is no one around to ask for directions. Quite far from Serzhik’s house lives the village’s oldest resident, Hrachik Mkrtchyan, born in 1939. He has spent his entire life here, apart from brief periods in Vanadzor. His wife passed away a year ago, and he now faces life in solitude with his cats.

“My children are very attentive; they come to visit me often. I never cook for myself, my daughter-in-law does it. But still… No one else lives in the neighbourhood,” Hrachik recalls.

“Loneliness is with me; there is no other way. I am like a wild person, but I have no choice but to make peace with it.”

Hrachik looks after the animals, renovates the house at his age, and wants to create comfort for himself. Owning a house in the city does not feel safe. He loves his village home, and it seems even more secure here in the silent neighbourhood than in the city. He knows the village perfectly – every sound, every movement – and there is nothing here that may frighten him.

Like almost all the remaining villagers, he wakes up with the sun, which acts as a natural alarm at five in the morning. The sounds of nearby cockerels also calls everyone to start the day. There is much work to do: the animals must be fed on time, the renovation process takes time, going to forests, resting. Village life is never boring unless you are lazy.

“There’s no child, no young people, no school,” Hrachik tells us.

“But we saw a child on our way to your home,” I say.

“Yeah, an Indian couple moved to our village. It’s strange, I’ve never met them before,” he replies.

Curious about the couple, I ask Yurik to arrange a meeting. Yurik does not speak English, and the Indian couple does not speak Armenian, but somehow their phone conversation ends with an invitation to their home. Though the couple declined photos, they were welcoming and shared their experience.

“I had no clue about the village because we moved here just a month ago. We used to live in Vanadzor and were planning to move to Georgia when a friend told us there is a guesthouse for sale in Karaberd,” Vishal says.

In 2023, Vishal Sabar, his wife Manisha, and their son Agastya decided to move from India. Vishal owns a business in India and a startup in the US. He had visited Armenia and, one morning in Yerevan, saw Mount Ararat. He could not believe his eyes, such a mind-blowing sight.

“I fell in love with Ararat and that’s how we ended up in Armenia, lived in Vanadzor, then bought a house in Karaberd,” Vishal laughs.

Vishal and his family are learning about their new environment and culture. Armenian hospitality greeted them immediately: every trip to buy milk or eggs ended with invitations for coffee and sweets. Google Translate is their interpreter if Agastya is not with them. Agastya attends an Armenian school in Vanadzor and speaks Armenian.

“We want to explore and research the environment. Everything is new, from language to customs. We take our time to integrate authentically. We have a house here, so we don’t want to escape; we want to involve ourselves in Karaberd’s life step by step,” Vishal explains.

While Karaberd lies mostly silent, far away, the village of Karashamb bursts with life. Here, young voices, laughter, and the hum of daily activity fill the air. Among them, a young couple from Yerevan highlights the striking difference between a slowly emptying village and one being reborn.

Karashamb is in Kotayk Province and about 742 people live there. Karin Grigoryan and Garegin Alexanyan moved to Karashamb, Kotayk Province, in 2016. The couple opened a guesthouse called “Zov”, meaning “cool” in Armenian, right next to their house.

Garegin works in Yerevan, while Karin mostly works remotely. At the time, houses in Karashamb did not even have addresses. For instance, if someone wanted to send a letter, there was nothing to write on the envelope. Now, Google Navigator finds their house easily.

Karin and Garegin were renting a small house in Yerevan, but when their child was born, it became too small. Karin, raised in a private house, never adapted to apartment life. Then Garegin said the magic sentence: “Let’s move to a village.”

They searched for a village house for three months. On a December day, in the cold of minus 30 degrees centigrade, they moved into the house they found online. Other options were rejected after they saw this one, which Karin knows was designed by an architect. The house, built in the 1960s, had been abandoned from 1990 until 2016. Soviet-style walls now harmonize with the modern furniture they brought, an unlikely combination that somehow works beautifully.

While we spoke, a neighbour’s child entered because the door was open. In Armenian villages, doors are rarely closed, and Karin follows this unwritten rule.

“You can see the architectural detail; it’s done meticulously, you feel the architect’s hand,” Karin recalls.

Karin wanted to escape mass consumerism, advertisements, and extreme urbanism. Now, many of their friends are following their example, moving to Karashamb to build a community.

“I’m happy that the road is not only for people but also for animals. You feel it in every step,” Karin says.

The most important thing she appreciates is the cycle of nature: each season brings colour and life. In spring, the land flourishes; in autumn, harvest begins; winter then slows life, but the rhythm continues.

Comfort in the village may be harder than in the city, but Karin is not upset. Her children may have fewer private classes, but they grow up in peace and harmony.

“I know my children will go to the city to study, but they will return. Many of us follow our roots at some point in life,” she recalls.

When they bought their house, few city-dwellers were interested in permanent village life, but COVID-19, the war in Nagorno-Karabakh, and the Russian-Ukrainian war impacted housing prices. Now not everyone can afford a village home. Initially, friends visited to see the results of their risky move, but over the years, many became inspired to move themselves.

When the couple came to Karashamb, their initial vision was not to change the villagers’ minds. Rather, they aimed to have an impact on village life.

“Who said that a newcomer from a city is a missionary who should change the villagers? They don’t need to be changed,” she says.

“We made a brochure about Karashamb, which represents two years of our work. We want everyone in the village to know our village better. I hope this is not a change, but an impact,” Karin says.

While saying goodbye to the couple, Karin stops me and grabs a quince from their tree — a small, yet deeply meaningful gesture, the kind you probably only see in a place where humanity is always in style.

From the quiet of Karaberd to the vibrant Karashamb, the story of Armenia is written by those who remain and those who arrive, each carving a space where life, in all its rhythms, can flourish.

Kushane՛ Chobanyan is a freelance journalist and documentary podcaster. Her work focuses on the human side of violent conflict, social issues, and inclusion. Since 2020, she has been researching the food memories of displaced communities, using food as a lens to explore deeper human stories.