The Spitak earthquake on December 7, 1988 was a defining moment in the history of present-day Armenia.

The profound loss of life and displacement of lives was only the beginning of suffering and of challenges that in the coming years would see the collapse of a political structure, the complicated birth of a new one, historic hardship brought by energy blockade and war that – all combined – crippled Armenia in ways unimaginable.

So much time has passed that a second, post-earthquake, generation has begun, started by parents born as “replacement” children for those lost 25 years ago. But not enough time has passed to undo the devastation.

Armenians are famous for surviving. Still, after a quarter-century of rebuilding, the wounds of December 8, 1988 have not scarred despite constant attention to transform the “disaster zone” into a semblance of normalcy for those who survived the earthquake’s horror to inherit its legacy of aftershock.

This weekend ArmeniaNow devotes its coverage to articles reported, photographed, written and edited over the past three months from Shirak and Lori Provinces, where life goes but where memory is as fresh as new flowers on too many graves with the same date of death.

The elderly man fights back tears, but his son’s presence is enough to break the efforts, and he falls apart...

“I pulled him out, the world had collapsed, I was in a fire or I don’t know in what… but I was glad at the same time. Why was I glad? Because he was alive, it means he could survive; I had no idea his spine had been damaged this way,” recalls 77-year-old Samvel Asatryan. “Somebody pointed in the direction from where Arsen’s voice was heard and I started digging right there and crept forward until I caught the glance of his feet, recognized him from his shoes. But, you know what? He lay there with his legs turned around and his body twisted… I pulled him out from under the ruins myself.”

In the courtyard of Seven Wounds Church scarlet red rose petals soaring in the air paint a road for the couple which has just received a blessing in the holy wedding ceremony. As the tradition goes, the newly-weds, standing on the church stairs, release a couple of snow-white doves to fly up into the now grayish winter skies. The bride and the bridegroom then move to the wedding caravan of family and friends waiting for them. Women beggars block their path asking for some coins in exchange for blessings of long happy life and many children.

Twenty five years separate Gyumri’s Antaravan and Savoyan districts. Antaravan ends with the half-ruined building of the Polytechnic institute and Tort (cake) Fountains, Savoyan begins with stray dogs, a district were tiny shacks, “temporary houses”, are scattered about. Faces here are sad, needy, miserable. The 1988 earthquake turned the paradise-like part of the once prosperous city into something a little short of hell.

Like splashes of color on a snow-white canvas of Spitak stretching on the slopes of Bazum and Pambak mountain chains stand 25-year-old young districts each unique in its kind – Italian, German, Swiss, Czech, Finnish, Norwegian, Russian, Uzbek, Estonian, and Tambov.

“I lost my legs under the ruins… they were folded, lying like this by my side, I recognized they were mine from the boots. When I touched them, I realized they had been ‘disjointed’ from me, but I felt no pain. A man’s voice from the outside told me that if I could lift myself a little bit he might be able to help me out. I grabbed the iron bars of the nearest desk and somehow dragged myself to the opening they were instructing me to from the outside,” recalls Marineh Asatryan, 41, skillfully turning the wheelchair, as she brings a tray with coffee from the kitchen to the living-room.

“Distinguished master Khanan Aristakesyan at your service”. This notice is fastened to the mirror along with the photo of the young master himself, showing little difference with the smiling reflection of the 80-year-old man in the same mirror.

With skillful hand movements the young woman is demonstrating how it is possible to replace the metallic strings of the prosthesis with bee-waxed shoe-maker’s thread.

Twenty five years after the devastating earthquake of 1988 the 95 small and big ‘domik’ districts continue to exist in various parts of the city. The ‘domiks’ – wagon-like temporary tin houses placed for two-three years – have been there for two and a half decades giving shelter to 4,000 Gyumri residents left homeless after the greater part of the city was turned to dust. In this urban settlement with once unique cultural, architectural profile and active political life these districts are like open wounds, still bleeding, still hurting, reminding Gyumri and its people of their tragedy.

Cultural energy is Gyumri’s landmark – a mixture of everyday life routine, unequaled sense of humor in all of Armenia, life stories of its residents, each of which could become a plot for a good book or a movie.

Two and a half decades after the 1988 earthquake they still say that culture is a living organism in Gyumri - it has helped to survive, made them go on living, gave them strength to create.