CultureQ #2: The loss of the neighbourhood community

Picture again unrelated and one of my own film photographs.

The earliest memories I have of actual neighbours was something more textbook. The type of neighbours you'd see interacting with the characters of a film. We would go over to their home frequently. We'd have a barbeque or tea. Often enough I would play football with the man of the house; they didn't have any children at the time. I can't remember who moved first. We were always moving, never did we really settle down and have a long-term home. Neighbours after that were never quite the same. Fast-forward a decade and my family had finally managed to save up to buy a house, this time in the countryside. This was an area the elderly lived in. Generational homes and farmers.

We lived on the corner of a dead-end road, the house semi-detached. Next to us a single father raising his slightly younger child. We never interacted a lot, but sometimes we'd catch each other and they'd show me their odd collection of slithery or scaly pets. Milk snakes. Bearded dragons. One snake of which would somehow escape one day never to be found. Fortunately nothing dangerous. You could tell this was a struggling family, even at my age then I could see it. A father that worked at the village shop for a low wage, supporting his son. We never did know what happened to the mother; we didn't feel it was necessary to ask what was never told. They were nice. That was enough. Nearby were other families down the road, though this was already the sort of time in which the concept of neighbourly support was ending. They didn't seem as friendly. More recluse and the gossiping type. We would see them out and around but rarely would a hello be exchanged. Sometimes just a sad stare into the soul as paths were crossed. I found it strange whenever this happened, I still do to this day.

When I moved to Armenia I noticed something I had never really seen before, and it was something still found in the older Soviet apartments: community. Everyone knew each other. Everyone would say hello. Families would drop by for a cup of coffee or some food. A quick check-up on each other to see how things are going and just discuss life. In some areas of Armenia it's common for people to simply just drop by. The door remaining unlocked and schedules rarely aligned with visitor's intent. I found it really warming. That this side neighbourly atmosphere continued here, after having lost it so many years ago back in England. The more time went by back there, the more I noticed the routine: you find a decent home to rent in this tough climate, you settle for a little, and then you find a better place for a better price. Alternatively, you buy a home, you fix it up, and then once you're done you just sell it for more and more on to the next. This became common practice, especially in these cheaper areas of England. Real estate being quite a lucrative opportunity for people trying to get ahead of the economic stagnation. Naturally, homes being the one thing that remains in demand and heavy in speculation.

This meant that for many years we never really knew the neighbours. People would go and go within what felt like short weeks. Our little road felt more and more mysterious as new faces came and went. It wasn't a nice feeling. The sense of community was gone to the point in which gentrification began as a result, the older people had died off. The homes now acted more like hotels. The surroundings would start to decay more as people never saw these as long term homes and spaces to maintain. In Armenia, I'm also noticing this shift within Yerevan. Not so much elsewhere where the community and generational homes continue. We moved into an apartment building where we don't know anyone. The neighbours within six months have already changed. We know nothing beyond what we might see in the lift, of hear in the halls.

It's interesting to see that dynamic. A few weeks ago in a small village in Georgia I witnessed the continuation of community from neighbours. They would share their farm produce with each other. Bake things and share them. Exchange eggs, milk, or sugar. The farm holds a routine in which a lottery decides who takes the village's cows that enter triple digits up into the mountains for their daily exercise and feeding upon the natural landscape. It puts things into perspective for sure. Could I go and ask my neighbours for some sugar? The door would be slammed in my face.

On my end, even back in England, the total lack of familiar faces had me just ignoring the doorbell whenever it rang. There was no longer a sense of safety whenever strangers would appear. Perhaps that's how my neighbours feel now. Perhaps the sense of community isn't even longed for as people have enough of what they want and need. It definitely goes both ways. But what more could be done to differ things? How do we reverse the isolating methods of living we are building for ourselves? How do we become the neighbours we would want?