The freedom to navigate

by Maria Titizian

Published: Saturday October 27, 2007 in Living in Armenia

The Black Sea – and the horizon.

I often wonder what would happen if we had access to the sea. Let me state for the record that I ask this not from an economic, political, or strategic point of view. However, like many others I obviously do wonder how it would positively impact exports and imports; how it would no longer make us rely on the good grace and behavior of our neighbors; how business and tourism would flourish; how we could have access to larger markets and integrate into the global economy; how it would impact transportation costs; how we could import goods for much lower prices. We are not only cut off from access to seaborne trade, but are also cut off from the resources of the sea - alas, sushi restaurants are not in my top 10 picks of places to eat in Yerevan.

Facts show that coastal regions tend to be wealthier and more heavily populated. According to the World Bank, landlocked developing countries pay on average about 50 percent more in transport costs than coastal counties and have up to 60 percent lower volumes of trade. In terms of transportation costs, typically 1,000 km on land translates to 10,000 km of sea freight - but delays and unpredictability is more of a problem sometimes than costs. Add into the equation that two of Armenia's four borders are closed and you wonder how it is that this country has registered double-digit economic growth for the last several years running.

And then imagine the possibilities of sea access...

What I wonder about, however, is how being landlocked impacts our state of mind, our flight of mind, our ability to breathe and think and move. One of the first things friends who had moved here from the diaspora told us was that in order to live in Armenia and retain your sanity, it would be necessary to exit its borders at least once every year, for at least a week. I thought it was a rather silly suggestion, taking into consideration the long list of things in Armenia that could drive any normal person over the edge. The argument was that the size of the country ultimately would begin to take its toll, and we would feel stifled.

I lived in Toronto, a sprawling metropolis by Canadian standards (actually it's the fifth most populous municipality in North America), covering an area of approximately 7,125 square kilometers. With all its highways and byways, its recreational facilities, theaters, restaurants, shopping malls, parks, and sporting events, I lived, worked and existed in approximately 20 square kilometers. So for all that it offered me, Toronto and Canada, yes were big, yet I existed in a very tiny part of that great vastness. So what did it matter to me how big or small Armenia was at the end of the day? I wouldn't physically feel it. I wouldn't be bumping up against barriers, walls, and boundaries. And besides, I loved the mountains that surround this country.

The Armenian highland (or Armenian Plateau), is part of the Transcaucasian Highland and constitutes the continuation of the Caucasus mountains. Mountain ranges rising up from the valleys, appear to be leaning against one another as mists and clouds surround their snow-capped peaks. Stunning, breathtaking. And ultimately so overpowering that you feel as though they are cutting you off from the rest of the planet. In every direction there are layers upon layers of mountains...stretching up toward the sky. But there is no view. There is no unending horizon against the crystal blue of an ocean. How I yearn for it. The ocean. The waves rushing up to the shore and then receding in a clash of white froth. The total, absolute sense of freedom and space that you feel when you stand on the edge of the earth and there before you lies limitless skies and possibilities.

I never saw the ocean in Canada, but I knew that we were buttressed by the Pacific, Atlantic and Arctic oceans. As a result I never felt closed in, blocked, or stifled - even though I continued to exist in a 20 sq km radius.

So it's not only the area that the country occupies on the planet that can cause discomfort, as my friends so many years ago warned me. It's the fact that we are landlocked. It's the feeling of being closed in and shut out from the rest of humanity with no access to the seas.

There are of course countries that are just as small or smaller than Armenia, such as Lebanon and Israel. These two countries have had and continue to have their share of troubles. Peace eludes them. I would even argue that life is far more difficult there than it is here. Yet, when I was in Lebanon a few years ago, even among the intermittent bombings, the security checks at shopping malls, and the political tension, people seemed heartier, happier, more buoyant than here in Armenia.

Back in the mid-1990s, when I first came to Armenia, there was exhaustion and an impatience, a tension, an unyielding frustration that was written all over the expressions that people wore. It was overwhelming and inescapable. Today, a decade later, things have improved but there continues to be this peculiar weight that people seem to be carrying.

So it really does make you wonder.

All someone living in Lebanon has to do is to look out toward the sea and intuitively sense that there is the great vastness of the planet beyond the horizon. Limitless possibilities, freedom, the ability to breathe and think and have flight of mind.

I once asked a friend of mine, who had gone to Cuba for a holiday, what her impressions of the country were. She said that Havana reminded her of Yerevan, except that the people were happier.

The sea, of course is not a panacea, but it is a gateway to the rest of the world, both physically and psychologically. Our geography presently doesn't grant us the privilege or the pleasure. We must mentally dismantle the mountains that surround and engulf us and go in search of the sea.