Knarik Meneshian, a teacher and writer from Glenview, Illinois, first came to Armenia in 1991 to teach English in the village of Jrashen, near Spitak. She and her husband returned in 2002 as AVC volunteers.

Of that visit Meneshian writes, "During our stay in Armenia, my husband and I saw much poverty. It was especially heart-wrenching to see how the extremely poor lived--some in moldy domeeks, some in shacks, and some in apartment dwellings that were not fit for even dogs to live in. We saw young mothers, young men, old men and women, begging in the streets as well as in Gyumri's shuga. We learned what happened to some of the extremely poor girls in that city when they became 14 or 15 years old. Sadly, we saw much poverty amidst the dazzling lights of Yerevan too."

Her poem "Son of Armenia" is a true account of a homeless man who died on a street near Gyumri's Ani District.

Son of Armenia

Past the mountain Aragats, 
Beyond fields of cabbage and potatoes, 
The mooing of cows, and the call of roosters, 
Amidst rocks and stones and dusty roads, 
Past twisted scraps of metal and concrete chunks 
Heaped on a winding path 
Near rushing water, 
An ancient church-Marmashen, 
Blackened with candle smoke and time, 
Stands crumbling 
In the coolness of moss 
And tall grass 
Bowing in the wind near royal tombstones.

The ancient church 
Stands vigil still 
To the occasional prayers 
Murmured 
On bended knees 
As candles burn 
And coins are dropped into a plate. 
At times, as in the old days, 
Prayers are released to Heaven 
On the wings of doves.

And in the nearby city-Gyumri, 
On a street 
Lined with domeeks 
Molded and rusted long ago, 
But still called home, 
A man is dead. 
No candles burn for him. 
No prayers are said, 
Not even a tear.

Ignored by passersby 
In life as in death, 
The man, 
A son of Armenia, 
In tattered clothes, 
Lies dead, 
Face down 
On a littered, crumbling sidewalk, 
With only the weeds at his side.
Doves cry from above.

Knarik O. Meneshian 
February 2005