A couple of years ago, a friend and I visited the city of Goris in southern Armenia, a de-facto stone’s throw from the de-facto border with the de-facto Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh. Walking in the hills and cliffs around Goris, a small city of 20,000, we met Vesmir. Hospitable and talkative to a fault, Vesmir introduced us to his family, who offered us hot Jingalov Hats, a herb-filled flatbread and speciality of Karabakh and southern Armenia.
As we left later that evening, Vesmir hurried after us into the night and, bashfully, asked for a couple of thousand dram to cover the hospitality. Armenian hospitality should come free, he explained, but these days, well, that hospitality didn’t come so easily. Times were tough. They usually are in rural Armenia.
Earlier that day, Vesmir had shared his thoughts on his family’s situation. Like many, he said, he had fought in the war in Karabakh. His resentment — at the cost of the war, not at its outcome — came surprisingly freely. They lived better over in Karabakh, he insisted. The roads into to Stepanakert are paved with gold or, at least, donations from the Armenian diaspora.
