In his waterproof boots and a sun-hat, Gurgen Mesropyan is walking stiffly through the row of pomegranate and apricot trees on a pleasant October morning. He wants to make sure the trees have been properly watered. Bees and butterflies are flying in circles across his garden, pausing on the trees that he has planted throughout the years. “Every day I wake up, I try to find something to do in my garden to keep me busy and my brain working to preserve my memory,” he says, wiping away the sweat on his forehead.
Mesropyan’s memory stretches beyond these quiet garden paths. It has come a long way. He wants to hold on to his memory tightly, which tells about the rocky path of endurance and perseverance not only of his family but also of his community. In 1964, to fulfill his military duty as an Armenian citizen of the Soviet Union, Mesropyan left for Kazakhstan to serve in the army. After two long years of service, he returned to only find the ruins of the village he grew up in. Old Zovuni was gone, submerged in the flood.
“When I came back, I hurried to go home and see my family,” he recalls. “ I stood there confused, doubting myself if I had come to the same place or if this was anything close to the place I had passed my childhood in. There were ruins and water. No houses and no streets at all.”
Old Zovuni, once was a flourishing Armenian village in the Aparan region but was swallowed by water in 1965 as a result of the construction of the Aparan Reservoir that covers roughly eight square kilometers. This was a Soviet project that was meant to expand irrigation supply. The plan also led to the displacement of hundreds of families that had lived there for centuries. Eventually, the water level of the reservoir rose and engulfed almost the entire village.
Mesropyan stood in the ruins, not having the slightest idea of what had happened to his family. In a time without communication devices, he had to ask around to piece together the vignette. What he learnt as a result was that his family, along with the rest of the community, had relocated to the outskirts of Yerevan and created a new township, which they named New Zovuni. “When I learned about what had happened to them and where they are now, I went to New Zovuni looking for them,” he says. “When I saw my mom and my little sister outside on the street, my overpowering sense of discouragement had been compensated. My family was here, all together, in a small, crowded house. My family of seven, including my five siblings, had been expanded; my older brother was now married.”
The drive from Old Zovuni to New Zovuni takes 40 minutes. One of the few remnants that survived the wreckage is a fifth-century church, St. Peter and Paul. The color of the church walls is distinguished: the lower parts are lighter, showing how high the water had once reached, while the upper parts are darker because they remained dry and withstood.
For the people relocating to New Zovuni, the process of survival included building new houses, routines and a new community, while trying to preserve old traditions. In recent years, New Zovuni has seen a growing influx of city residents, including the centre of Yerevan, coming to build their summer houses or houses to move permanently. They find New Zovuni’s balance rare – its proximity to the city, and mountain air with a nature oriented setting. Now the population size of New Zovuni is approximately 7360 people according to the latest census data.
“Even under the Soviet regime, when the church had been shut down, people tried to keep their old traditions,” says Smbat Torosyan, director of the kindergarten in present-day Zovuni. Torosyan’s family also was displaced as a result of the reservoir construction and relocated to New Zovuni. Today, he visits Old Zovuni frequently, and he is the person that keeps the records and the story of the flood alive through knowing every resident of the village by their first and last names. “People have visited and today still do visit the old church and cemetery to show that they remember the home of their ancestors. It is not like we have moved out of this place and left our sacred churches unattended,” he says.
The St. Peter and Paul Church and Tukh Manuk, a small shrine nearby from over 1500 years ago, stand today as a symbol of continuity to keep the voice of history alive. The Zovunecis, as the locals call themselves, consider these places to be sites of living history that are protected by local authorities. “These buildings serve as a bridge. Even today, we have instances of when people die, they wish to be buried here,” Torosyan says. “It connects Old and New.”
Mesropyan, to this day, does not miss the opportunity to go and visit his old home every other Sunday with a few of his peers. With every passing year, his resilience and perseverance become more and more palpable. The trees and the flowers in his garden are the tangible fruits of the endurance and persistence of his old village. “The way I approach taking care of my garden and the trees I planted here is like the way we took care of our village. I think of it that way. The process is somehow similar: you plant, nurture, and wait. This is how you rebuild something. You take care of something and it gives it back to you. This is what my parents did,” he says.
Such a touching story! Thank you to the author for sharing such an amazing piece.