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| The platform with a view of Mount Ararat |
Khor Virap is the holiest site in Armenian Christendom. Then why is it in such a mess?
The location marks the site of a dungeon where Krikor Lusavorich was imprisoned for preaching Christianity. When he was released, thirteen years later, King Dertad III converted, and accepted Christianity as the official religion of Armenia. The year was 301 AD.
But why is Khor Virap in such a mess today?
A beautiful church compound, built around the pit where Sourp Krikor Lusavorich was imprisoned, sits on the side of a soft-sloped hillock facing Mount Ararat. The Turkish border is no more than 400 feet away. The platform at the edge of the compound provides an exceptional breath-taking view of Mount Ararat - so close, yet so far away.
I never miss the opportunity to visit Khor Virap every time I’m in Armenia. The vista point at the edge of the church yard is a place of contemplation and meditation about identity. When I’m there, I am reminded of Armenia and my place in this world as an Armenian. The mountain, Turkey across the border and a medieval church hurl me into a journey of exhilaration and sorrow.
But I didn’t find Khor Virap in good condition this summer.
The lead to the monastery on top of the hill was a difficult experience. A group of young unemployed men from the surrounding villages gather in the parking lot, at the foot of the hill. But the most tortured soul in all of Armenia is a woman, a beggar, shriveled and turned purple by the sun, and she is seen agonizing on the side of the pathway leading to the top. She is barely able to cling on to life, or to the dresses of women making the walk to the monastery ahead. My teenage daughter broke down into tears at the sight of the poor woman, opened her purse, and panicked at the thought that she may not have enough to alleviate suffering of this magnitude.
Once in the compound of the monastery, the rejection from the place becomes even more apparent. There’s no information booth anywhere, no security guards, no signage, no guide books, no rest facilities, and for crying out loud - not even a priest in sight. Inappropriately-dressed bunch of loud Armenian tourists from the north were pushing for their turn to enter the pit twenty feet below. There were no trained people to help them maneuver the claustrophobic dive, and no guides to explain the historic significance of the place. I was shocked to find some of them rubbing pieces of gravel stones against the walls of the chapel (this is a 500 year old national landmark, mind you). I was told that wishes will come true, if they successfully stuck the stones into the hole of their making. How bizarre!
The revered platform I was eager to occupy for an unobstructed view of the mountain was heavily damaged at one end, and there were no workers repairing it. On her way down, a woman in her 40’s fell off the stairs. There were no railings to support her. Half a dozen other women rushed to the scene to wash her face with bottled water. The only person who seemed to be in charge of anything was an overwight, unwashed and unshaven man inside a little room by the side, selling postcards. I checked, and they were the same postcards I saw there the first time I visited Khor Virap in 1973.
On our way back, I stopped at the dinky kiosk at the bottom of the hill to buy bottled cold water. Soon the brigade of the unemployed was around me with an eerie plea to use the money Armenians in America donate to the church, to repair and guard Khor Virap, and give them jobs that will help them feed their families. It turned out that in happier times, these men were carpenters, masons, metal workers, and stone carvers.
My driver abruptly pulled me out of the pack. I heard him whisper nrank (them) with a slight jolt of his chin toward his left shoulder. It was apparently a warning against unseen people who may give me a hard time, I suppose, for instigating dissent amongst the poor and the destitute. I did not bother to ask him if the authorities he suspected of watching and listening were from the church, or the government. We were not in the mood to discuss.
Two days later on Sunday, we visited that other gem of Armenian Christendom, Noravank. The two of us were the only people attending mass.
Manifestations of dejection are visible throughout Armenia today: Poverty-stricken villages with dilapidated schools and roads dot the entire country. But behold... of brand new churches, standing taller than the shacks around them, making their mark, in stone and steel... in a deserted land.
What is a hungry man to do?
Pray.
Armenians have no hope except for their trust in God. But what is God to do about the pain that men inflict upon others?
In God we trust, but what’s in it for a forsaken and desolate nation, and its poor and abandoned people.
