The enchantment of medieval Ani

The day was overcast yet dry, cold yet not uncomfortably so. An undulating topography stretched as far as the eye could see as we made our way along the lonely, desolate road to the ancient and medieval ruins of Ani.

Softly rolling hills, with very little vegetation. Barren yet striking, made so by all that these lands had witnessed, made so by all that they had endured. Even though this ancient site was abandoned many centuries before the Genocide, there was plenty of violence to brave — even without invoking the Ottoman atrocities.

From the scholarship I have read, Ani stands as a mesmerizing symbol of Armenian loss, perseverance, strength and cultural achievement. She lives in every Armenian’s imagination.

I wanted to visit the ruins alone, to prevent any distractions and fully absorb the essence of this spiritual and sacred place. I felt like General Patton, as portrayed by George C. Scott in the movie Patton, in the scene where he insists that his perplexed driver redirect their route to the site of ancient Carthage, convinced that the battle was being fought there.

Patton was indeed accurate, as a decisive battle had occurred in Carthage — only, it had occurred over two thousand years prior. The General ruminated on the sacking of the ancient Phoenician trading center by the Romans as though he were actually there. Like Patton, I wanted to feel as though I were actually in medieval Ani, when it was a prominent center of life — a living, breathing city of antiquity and medieval times. Ani, however, like Carthage, as I would soon witness, lay in ruins, with not a soul in sight.

“We are almost there,” my driver Levon informed me, as we drew closer. Overflowing with anticipation, I felt like we were about to land on the moon.

At long last, an actual structure came into view — just beyond an expansive hillock: undoubtedly one of the ancient Armenian churches that had survived, proudly flaunting its distinctive Armenian character. I felt as though I were looking at an ancient Oz, inspiring anticipation and imagination.

When we finally arrived, the car’s engine was switched off so as not to contaminate the tranquility of the setting. I opened the car door and planted my foot on the ground. We had landed.

Surveying the wide-ranging site before me, I could see several ancient churches dispersed over the land, as well as pieces of the protective wall from various periods of history. A single, solitary soul appeared in the distance, but no other. Ani was magnificently alluring — I was at once besotted.

At long last, I was here, standing on the ashen dirt of Ani, the spiritual soul of Armenia. The city of 1,001 churches, the city of 1,001 tales — the city of enchantment, fascination and, above all, ethnic pride. Beneath my shoe was earth that felt like no other I had ever tread upon. Ashen in color, soft and powdery in sensation — like incinerated ash.

I could hear the dramatic silence of this supernatural place, the same silence one hears in a cemetery. With few obstructions and very little plant life, the wind howls unchecked and makes itself known. It demands that any visitor understand and respect the sanctity of the site, this veritable shrine.

How can one not? An ancient church impossibly perched halfway down the bluff of a gorge, like a majestic peregrine falcon. Yet, it still stands. Despite centuries of violence punctuated by periods of prosperous peace, Armenian architecture still stands. Despite the episodic seismic rumblings of the earth beneath it over the past 600 years, it still stands.

It is the Hripsimian Monastery of the Virgins, with cupola still unbroken. Divine energy could not have picked a better site location and natural barrier for Ani, resembling something out of Lord of the Rings — fantastical, yet real.

One day, I hope to get there.