“A mirror of history after the genocide”: on the streets of the Armenian capital, Yerevan

Mother Armenia. Image: Mosinyan/Wikimedia Commons.

In her wonderful essay The Eyes of Yerevan, Taline Voskeritchian writes of the Armenian capital’s “post-Soviet frenzy to erase from the urban landscape traces of the empire”. Writing in the period immediately following Armenia’s independence from the Soviet Union, Voskeritchian evocatively identified the defining characteristic of Yerevan: the city’s tug-of-war with the past.

Yerevan exists in a permanent state of flux, intimately connected to its history but, like the country at large, caught in permanent uncertainty too. In Armenia, the past isn’t a foreign country. It’s everywhere, all around you, its weight oppressive and inescapable.

It’s just gone 7:30am when my companion and I groggily haul our luggage off the clattering Soviet-era sleeper we’ve taken from Tbilisi, and emerge out of the central train station into the Yerevan morning sunshine. Taxi drivers in battered Ladas and newer imported German cars compete to take advantage of our unfamiliarity with the local exchange rate; the July Caucasian sun is already beating.

The rich history of Armenia makes itself felt here. The architecture of the train station, an imposing building erected in the mid-1950s, takes its cues at once from the socialist realism en vogue at the time, neoclassical Saint Petersburg grandeur, and Armenian traditional architecture. Like every important building in Yerevan, it is clad in the beautiful pink tufa stone, native to Armenia, which gives the city its soft pastel hue.

The pink tufa stone of Yerevan. Image: Ido Vock.

In the square in front of the station stands a handsome statue of David of Sassun, built to impress upon visitors the resilience of the Armenian national character. In An Armenian Sketchbook, Vasily Grossman wrote that the monument is “huge, full of movement and strength,” an impression which reflected the view he came to form of the Armenian nation. He saw them as proud and hardy people, who had suffered innumerable injustices – reading his book, it is difficult to imagine that Grossman did not consider Soviet subjugation one – yet retained enough sensitivity to generally not fall prey to the crude nationalism he so despised.

The train station is a microcosm of post-Soviet Yerevan. Whilst the Armenian heritage of its rosy tufa is undeniable, it is clearly a Soviet and Russian edifice too. And unlike the vast majority of buildings in Yerevan, the station hasn’t been scrubbed of its most overt Soviet influences. A five-pointed star still looks down on the Kond, old Yerevan, from the tip of a huge spire, flanked by twin signs in Armenian and Cyrillic scripts.

Yerevan, to a greater extent than most other cities anywhere in the world, exists with the burden of history on its shoulders. Reminders of the Armenian people’s lengthy history of hardship and dispossession, from the 1915 genocide to the republic’s uneasy transition from communism to shaky democracy, permeate the urban environment.

Soviet era apartment blocks. Image: Ido Vock.

Nothing makes this more obvious than the towering silhouette of Mount Ararat, which frames Yerevan, a low-rise city. The mythical birthplace of the Armenian people, Ararat looms over Armenia, alluring and inaccessible in equal measure, like a precious vase locked inside a museum glass case. Voskeritchian describes it as “opaque and impenetrable, removed from my reach, yet visible”. The fabled mountain lies just across the border with Turkey, now closed, in one of the twelve provinces of Western Armenia ceded to Turkey by Lenin with the 1921 Treaty of Kars.

Mount Ararat’s snowy peak taunts Yerevantsis, forced to gaze upon this ubiquitous symbol of Armenian nationhood, but unable to easily visit it. Yerevan without Ararat is more than Paris without the Eiffel Tower: in its spirituality and centrality to the Armenian national consciousness, a closer parallel is perhaps Jerusalem without the Western Wall.

Indeed, the city found its modern form around Ararat. Under the Soviet Union, Yerevan was transformed from a provincial town of perhaps 30,000 into a capital city over a million inhabitants, largely according to plans drawn up by the Russian-trained architect Aleksander Tamanian. His 1924 masterplan formed modern Yerevan, orienting the city as a huge “semicircular amphitheatre” which opened up towards Ararat, as the academic Diana Ter-Ghazaryan puts it. In his Invisible Cities, Italo Calvino dreamt up Perinthia, a city orientated precisely in accordance with the position of the stars. Yerevan is a real-life Perinthia, aligned not with the heavens but with the earth.

We amble along the amphitheatre, past the expensive cafés lining central Yerevan’s boulevards, before arriving at the foot of the Cascade, a monumental edifice of pale amber tufa. It stretches nearly 120 metres up a hill almost directly facing Ararat. The Cascade was built in the 1970s, although it was included in Tamanian’s original plans as a means to link the centre of the city with the northern Monument district, situated on much higher ground.

On the day we visit, the Cascade is deserted, but kept spotlessly clean and well-maintained by a silent army of gardeners and cleaners. The greenery lining the hundreds of steps steadfastly refuses to wilt, even under the crippling 40°C heat. The detailing of the stark socialist architecture is sublime. During the evening’s last hour of sunshine, lengthening shadows soften out the structure’s harsh angularity, the rosy hue of the Armenian stone heightened under the sun’s golden glow. As Grossman wrote in his magnum opus, Life and Fate, “the light of evening can reveal the essence of a moment”.

A sweaty walk away from the top of the Cascade, on a hill overlooking the city, stands the statue of Mother Armenia, the Armenian nation personified. The effigy she replaced was that of Stalin, nearly 60 metres tall, and it shows. Statues of this scale are not built to commemorate but to intimidate. Grossman described the likeness of Stalin as embodying “a power so vast that it can belong only to God”. It was built to tower not only over Armenia but over the rest of the Soviet Union too, its domineering gaze conveying the unmistakeable message that “Stalin and the state are one and the same.”

Today, the statue of Mother Armenia no longer watches over the Kazakh steppe and Black Sea, but its scale and steely looks awe all the same. The dissolution of the Soviet Union was messy in Armenia, which remains locked in conflict with its neighbour Azerbaijan over the territory of Nagorno-Karabakh, under de facto Armenian control.

Soldiers hold a flag during the Constitution Day march. Image: Ido Vock.

At an Armenian Constitution Day march, the region’s flags, a pixelated enhancement of Armenia’s, are everywhere. The procession is headed by ordinary people on their own bikes, and has an endearingly amateurish feel. At one point, irritated by the rally’s delayed start, the brass band put their instruments down in the middle of the road and pause for a smoke.

The following day, we make our way to the Cathedral of Saint Gregory. The cathedral, erected in 2001, is perhaps the best embodiment of Yerevan’s fraught post-Soviet urban environment. It sits in a neighbourhood almost exclusively made up of identikit Soviet apartment blocks, which originally may have been a pale pink imitation of tufa but are now monochrome, caked in grimy Yerevan soot. The Yerevan TV tower peeks out from behind the blocks, giving the area its slightly unnerving 80s SSR feel. As we wander, a passer-by notices our pale English complexions, makes an erroneous assumption, and shouts, “Russians! Nice!” at us.


Yet the feel of the cathedral itself could not be further from that of the area in which it is located. It is a stark, unadorned building, quasi-Brutalist in the unpretentious honesty of its materials: entirely tufa, of course. It is unassuming but strikingly beautiful, and not only in comparison to its surroundings. The cathedral manages a deft balancing act, nodding both to Armenia’s past, its domes and swooping arches recalling the hundreds of small monasteries which dot the country; and to the future, with its scale and modernist looks. The very presence of a place of worship among so many ashen Soviet fossils is a statement, a break with the state atheist past, in the country Armenians are so proud to remind foreigners was the first in the world to adopt Christianity as its state religion.

Armenians are not a subdued people, who passively wait for their urban environment to evolve as élites erect cathedrals and tear down statues at their leisure. Yerevan has a rich history as an unusually active seat of political insubordination. In 1965, it saw the first large-scale anti-regime demonstrations in the Soviet Union, demanding the construction of a memorial to the Armenian Genocide on its fiftieth anniversary. (The Communist Party, initially reluctant to indulge gestures which might encourage nationalist sentiment in individual Soviet republics, conceded the construction of the excruciating Tsitsernakaberd, erected two years after the protests.)

It is in the fabric of the capital city that an official narrative is most readily conveyed. The city’s architectural styles, the symbolism in its statues, the name of its squares and streets… With these, governments – and peoples – choose alternately what to glorify and what to forget. Modern Yerevan is a mirror of Armenian history after the genocide. More than a simple administrative centre, Yerevan had to “become the embodiment of the rebirth of a nation, which was on the brink of disappearance,” in the words of the architect Karen Balyan. Yerevan would be “a city that would save the nation”.

In a moving passage of An Armenian Sketchbook, Grossman describes attending a wedding in a small village, far outside Yerevan. The groom’s mother embraces Hrachia Kochar, whose clunky novel Grossman has travelled to Armenia to translate – despite not speaking Armenian – before the two collectively break down in tears. As merry flutes and drums sound to celebrate the wedding, they weep for the loss and suffering of the Armenian people, for the lost twelve provinces, “because they couldn’t not weep for relatives of theirs who had perished during the massacres of 1915”.

And yet, as they weep, the drummer plays on, a smile on his face. “In spite of everything, life would go on, the life of a nation making its way through a land of stone.”

 
 
 
 

Urgently needed: Timely, more detailed standardized data on US evictions

Graffiti asking for rent forgiveness is seen on a wall on La Brea Ave amid the Covid-19 pandemic in Los Angeles, California. (Valerie Macon/AFP via Getty Images)

Last week the Eviction Lab, a team of eviction and housing policy researchers at Princeton University, released a new dashboard that provides timely, city-level US eviction data for use in monitoring eviction spikes and other trends as Covid restrictions ease. 

In 2018, Eviction Lab released the first national database of evictions in the US. The nationwide data are granular, going down to the level of a few city blocks in some places, but lagged by several years, so their use is more geared toward understanding the scope of the problem across the US, rather than making timely decisions to help city residents now. 

Eviction Lab’s new Eviction Tracking System, however, provides weekly updates on evictions by city and compares them to baseline data from past years. The researchers hope that the timeliness of this new data will allow for quicker action in the event that the US begins to see a wave of evictions once Covid eviction moratoriums are phased out.

But, due to a lack of standardization in eviction filings across the US, the Eviction Tracking System is currently available for only 11 cities, leaving many more places facing a high risk of eviction spikes out of the loop.

Each city included in the Eviction Tracking System shows rolling weekly and monthly eviction filing counts. A percent change is calculated by comparing current eviction filings to baseline eviction filings for a quick look at whether a city might be experiencing an uptick.

Timely US eviction data for a handful of cities is now available from the Eviction Lab. (Courtesy Eviction Lab)

The tracking system also provides a more detailed report on each city’s Covid eviction moratorium efforts and more granular geographic and demographic information on the city’s evictions.

Click to the above image to see a city-level eviction map, in this case for Pittsburgh. (Courtesy Eviction Lab)

As part of their Covid Resource, the Eviction Lab together with Columbia Law School professor Emily Benfer also compiled a scorecard for each US state that ranks Covid-related tenant protection measures. A total of 15 of the 50 US states plus Washington DC received a score of zero because those states provided little if any protections.

CityMetric talked with Peter Hepburn, an assistant professor at Rutgers who just finished a two-year postdoc at the Eviction Lab, and Jeff Reichman, principal at the data science research firm January Advisors, about the struggles involved in collecting and analysing eviction data across the US.

Perhaps the most notable hurdle both researchers addressed is that there’s no standardized reporting of evictions across jurisdictions. Most evictions are reported to county-level governments, however what “reporting” means differs among and even within each county. 

In Texas, evictions go through the Justice of the Peace Courts. In Virginia they’re processed by General District Courts. Judges in Milwaukee are sealing more eviction case documents that come through their courtroom. In Austin, Pittsburgh and Richmond, eviction addresses aren’t available online but ZIP codes are. In Denver you have to pay about $7 to access a single eviction filing. In Alabama*, it’s $10 per eviction filing. 

Once the filings are acquired, the next barrier is normalizing them. While some jurisdictions share reporting systems, many have different fields and formats. Some are digital, but many are images of text or handwritten documents that require optical character recognition programs and natural language processors in order to translate them into data. That, or the filings would have to be processed by hand. 

“There's not enough interns in the world to do that work,” says Hepburn.


Aggregating data from all of these sources and normalizing them requires knowledge of the nuances in each jurisdiction. “It would be nice if, for every region, we were looking for the exact same things,” says Reichman. “Instead, depending on the vendor that they use, and depending on how the data is made available, it's a puzzle for each one.”

In December of 2019, US Senators Michael Bennet of Colorado and Rob Portman of Ohio introduced a bill that would set up state and local grants aimed at reducing low-income evictions. Included in the bill is a measure to enhance data collection. Hepburn is hopeful that the bill could one day mean an easier job for those trying to analyse eviction data.

That said, Hepburn and Reichman caution against the public release of granular eviction data. 

“In a lot of cases, what this gets used for is for tenant screening services,” says Hepburn. “There are companies that go and collect these data and make them available to landlords to try to check and see if their potential tenants have been previously evicted, or even just filed against for eviction, without any sort of judgement.”

According to research by Eviction Lab principal Matthew Desmond and Tracey Shollenberger, who is now vice president of science at Harvard’s Center for Policing Equity, residents who have been evicted or even just filed against for eviction often have a much harder time finding equal-quality housing in the future. That coupled with evidence that evictions affect minority populations at disproportionate rates can lead to widening racial and economic gaps in neighborhoods.

While opening up raw data on evictions to the public would not be the best option, making timely, granular data available to researchers and government officials can improve the system’s ability to respond to potential eviction crises.

Data on current and historical evictions can help city officials spot trends in who is getting evicted and who is doing the evicting. It can help inform new housing policy and reform old housing policies that may put more vulnerable citizens at undue risk.

Hepburn says that the Eviction Lab is currently working, in part with the ACLU, on research that shows the extent to which Black renters are disproportionately affected by the eviction crisis.

More broadly, says Hepburn, better data can help provide some oversight for a system which is largely unregulated.

“It's the Wild West, right? There's no right to representation. Defendants have no right to counsel. They're on their own here,” says Hepburn. “I mean, this is people losing their homes, and they're being processed in bulk very quickly by the system that has very little oversight, and that we know very little about.”

A 2018 report by the Philadelphia Mayor’s Taskforce on Eviction Prevention and Response found that of Philadelphia’s 22,500 eviction cases in 2016, tenants had legal representation in only 9% of them.

Included in Hepburn’s eviction data wishlist is an additional ask, something that is rarely included in any of the filings that the Eviction Lab and January Advisors have been poring over for years. He wants to know the relationship between money owed and monthly rent.

“At the individual level, if you were found to owe $1,500, was that on an apartment that's $1,500 a month? Or was it an apartment that's $500 a month? Because that makes a big difference in the story you're telling about the nature of the crisis, right? If you're letting somebody get three months behind that's different than evicting them immediately once they fall behind,” Hepburn says.

Now that the Eviction Tracking System has been out for a week, Hepburn says one of the next steps is to start reaching out to state and local governments to see if they can garner interest in the project. While he’s not ready to name any names just yet, he says that they’re already involved in talks with some interested parties.

*Correction: This story initially misidentified a jurisdiction that charges $10 to access an eviction filing. It is the state of Alabama, not the city of Atlanta. Also, at the time of publication, Peter Hepburn was an assistant professor at Rutgers, not an associate professor.

Alexandra Kanik is a data reporter at CityMetric.