Special for the Armenian Weekly
As small and accessible as Armenia may be, I tend to hear about so many interesting and unique projects that it can actually feel strangely overwhelming at times. Whether it’s a woman who makes soaps for different skin conditions with local herbs grown in her own backyard, or a new company specializing in essential oils made in Armenia, my list of people to meet and interview continues to grow.
When we arrived, Hovig and Vrej automatically got into tour-guide mode and hoped that we didn’t mind having muddy shoes as it had been raining all day.
When I arrived in Artsakh (Karabagh), I had decided to focus on meeting a few people, learning how to make jingalov hats, and working on activities I had planned beforehand, thus crossing some “to-dos” off a long list. When my host-family—of Saro and Hasmik—and I went over the plans for the full day I would be there, Saro mentioned that I should meet two Syrian-Armenian farmers who had been living and working in Stepanakert for about four years already. I was instantly interested, but thought the extra meeting would make the schedule too hectic and started the “Maybe next time…” excuse. Saro quickly gave me a short preview of the Syrian-Armenian farmers, Hovig and Vrej, by saying they were focused on bringing local Syrian produce to Artsakh and Armenia. He mentioned olive trees, lemon trees, different plants and herbs, and I had to interrupt him to say that he had me at olive trees. Saro called them and arranged for them to pick us up in the center and take us directly to their farmlands between our meetings in different regions the following day. I asked Hasmik to swap my thyme tea for a coffee the following morning.
Vrej and Hovig first showed us the interior of their beautiful greenhouses. The first one had taken them about one and a half months to create, with many mistakes made, but the second one took only a week.
Monika and I waited in the rain in the busy center of Stepanakert when Hovig called us, saying to watch out for his white jeep with stereos on top. It stood out as much as we assumed it would and we jumped in their car and were on our way. We stopped for gas, where we had coffee number two and Hovig told us a little bit about their move to Artsakh. He mentioned they were the first ones from Syria to make the move here, as Yerevan is usually the first choice. He said his older brother Vrej had come to understand the area first and began to study farming, as that seemed to be the most realistic option in terms of sustainable work. Vrej said he could tell right away that the land and water was good, to the point that if someone “spit on the ground, a plant would grow.” They made the move with their families and settled in Stepanakert, but decided that they would bring a taste of Syria with them.
When we arrived, Hovig and Vrej automatically got into tour-guide mode and hoped that we didn’t mind having muddy shoes as it had been raining all day. With both of us wearing combat boots and because I have a mini-obsession with olive trees, we assured them that we were in “all-or-nothing” mode. The mud ended up adding about five pounds to each foot, but no regrets.
Vrej and Hovig first showed us the interior of their beautiful greenhouses. The first one had taken them about one and a half months to create, with many mistakes made, but the second one took only a week. They were four workers all together, with one from Yerevan and one who lived in a nearby village. They even established a greenhouse heating system that innovatively used wood powder instead of wood chunks and kept the greenhouse warm all night (rather than at hour-based intervals).
Hovig told us that his farm, techniques, and new ideas are open to anyone interested. He invites people—both his neighbors and strangers—to come and see what they have established, as it will only serve to benefit everyone, and to encourage more discussion and collaboration.
While we sipped some thyme tea in their greenhouse, Hovig and Vrej reflected, and said that they had made a lot of mistakes. “Armenians are hard-working people, but they do not want to work hard,” they laughed. He elaborated by telling us that the four different types of olive trees he planted would take seven to eight years to show fruit—and that this waiting period is the “hard work.” While others may be discouraged from planting kiwi trees, as they take 3 years to grow, the brothers planted theirs in May 2013, and since they can stand -20-degree temperatures, they expect the trees to bear fruit in less than 2 years.
They showed us some of the many plants they plan to sell in pots when they grow, including lemons, pomelos, limes, Palestinian oranges, mandarins, and even sweet limes, which Hovig happily described as a citrus with an edible peel.
Monika and I—so engrossed in learning about Hovig and Vrej’s trials, tribulations, successes, and visions for the future—eventually realized that we were going to be late to our next meeting. Before we left, I asked them if they were happy with their decision to move to Artsakh rather than Yerevan. Hovig smiled and replied, “Yes, as I do not want my children to only remember 1915. I want them to remember 1992 when we were also warriors and not victims.”
Hovig and Vrej drove us back to our original meeting spot, while we apologized for muddying up their jeep, and while they described in detail where they would take us and what we would do the next time we came to visit. We told them we would look forward to it all, including the day we would be able to buy Syrian olives grown in Artsakh.
As we left their farm and returned to the center of Stepanakert, I was left wondering if, as a result of Vrej and Hovig committing to growing olive trees—the ultimate test of patience and dedication—I would be able to see if I was patient and dedicated enough to be here to try those Syrian olives when they make their debut in Artsakh.
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