Since the end of last year’s Artsakh war, Azerbaijani soldiers have been consistently crossing Armenia’s borders, intending to stay.

It’s become routine at this point. Azerbaijan encroaches on Armenia’s borders, fires in the direction of civilians, and a few soldiers lose their lives.

Prior to coming to Armenia, I did not have the intention of visiting border cities or villages, but an opportunity came to shoot for the Armenian Unity Project in Chinari, Tavush, where bombs were indiscriminately dropped on civilians at the beginning of last years war.

Without reluctance, I decided to go.

The Armenian Unity Project was working in collaboration with United Armenians to help deliver a month’s worth of supplies, as well as chicks, to 24 families who were most affected by the war.

Passing through an Azerbaijani Enclave

The three-and-a-half-hour route to Chinari was khujuj (winding) and disorienting because of how large the valleys were, but charming.

It’s presentable to outsiders who know nothing about Armenia or its issues.

For example, we were about two hours away from Chinari and I decided to look at Google Maps to see how far we exactly were. We ended up passing through an Azerbaijani enclave, which no longer exists and had the towns of Sofulu and Barkhudarli.

There was not any Azerbaijani military or presence in the enclave. I asked our driver if there were any Azerbaijanis left in the towns and he responded with an impassive “no.”

It was relatively empty besides a few apartment buildings and a soccer field which we saw kids playing on while driving back from Chinari.

Passing by the de jure enclave of Azerbaijan was unsettling. Where did the Azerbaijanis of these towns go, and what did it take to keep these lands within Armenian borders?

At least for now.

Samvel Saghoyan, the Gyughapet

We pulled up to the village searching for the gyughapet, or the village’s mayor. I was sitting in the passenger seat of the sprinter van taking photos when out of nowhere a man with yellow-white hair, deep green eyes and a missing right hand made an appearance.

I told him we were looking for the gyughapet.

“That’s me,” he said while directing us where to park.

We hopped out of the van we’ve been sitting in for more than three and a half hours and followed Samvel into his building. They had prepared a table inside, along with some homemade wine and vodka.

Before we took some shots of oghi and sips of wine, Saghoyan began describing how the 44-day war and 4-day war (2016) were not a novelty for him. War had always been a part of his life.

“When they say 44-day war or 4-day war, for us it feels like half a century,” Saghoyan said. “Since 1989, our village has been at war [and] I have not seen peace my entire life.”

We weren’t sure how Saghoyan lost his right hand but he was describing the shape Armenian soldiers were coming back in and said “They’re coming back injured like me,” and raised his right arm.

The memories of last year’s war are still fresh as well. Before we entered his building, Saghoyan pointed to a mountain range no more than 3 km away and recounted how Azerbaijanis were firing on the town from there a year ago on the day we showed up.

We had aid to give out and work to do.

As we were unloading the bags of supplies and preparing the boxes of chicks, an argument sparked between Saghoyan and another man. The man was sitting with a group of other men, who had been presumably drinking given their demeanors and slurred words. They were angry with Saghoyan and wanted to see the paper that described which families AUP was giving aid to.

He then looked at me and said “Film this!”

He went on about how they were giving aid to families who were already well off, but that was far from the truth. Many of these families had more than 5 children and had limited resources to sustainably live in the village.

One woman seemed to be sick of his banter and approached him and the group.

She asked, “Where are your sons at right now? Aren’t they living outside the city?”

She was saying that our drunk uncle was speaking a lot for someone whose sons weren’t even living in the village, and she was the one who needed the resources because she still has mouths to feed here.

Seeing the quarrels within these villages is equally as troubling because it is the last thing you want to see. We already have the Azerbaijani and Turkish governments strangling us at our borders, so being internally divided won’t help either.

People’s tempers eventually simmered down and the altercation was forgotten.

Driving to the Azerbaijani Border

After all the aid was dropped off, Saghoyan wanted to take us closer to the Azerbaijani border.

I sat in the front with Saghoyan. He had the window seat, of course.

We were hauling down an unpaved road until one of the people from AUP told our driver to slow down.

After making our stop in one piece and Saghoyan once again pointed to the distance, this time he was showing where the closest Azerbaijani village was. In the distance, you can see a couple of houses poking out of the hills.

The group felt a natural animosity towards the Azerbaijanis of the town but I needed to know more to feel that same animosity. Feeling that resentment towards a collective based on their location seems silly. They are living on the border but how do they know who’s fired on the houses in Chinari and if they were civilians who fired those shots?

For the people of the town, it’s better to be safe than sorry. You don’t want to wander around the border because you have some pipe dream of Armenians and Azerbaijanis all of a sudden living peacefully again.

Saghoyan even said he was friends with a few “Turks,” but as soon as the first war started in the 90s those friendships were cut off.

That is also one of the most unfortunate realities coming out of visiting border villages. Armenians and Azerbaijanis have been peaceful. Sometimes I can’t tell if Armenians speaking about being friends with Azerbaijanis in the past are wistful about those times or not.

The group took a photo of themselves flipping off the neighboring village, but Saghoyan and I stood in the back and watched.

How do we help Armenian border villages?

As Aliyev continues his irredentist claims about sovereign Armenian land, the people at the border are consistently being threatened with displacement, and sometimes death.

With COVID numbers once again rising, and the world being distracted by the Taliban taking over the Afghan government, I would not be surprised if Aliyev starts another war.

For Saghoyan, he wants to continue to help his people but in a sustainable way.

“People have to work to live,” Saghoyan said. “They need to work, they need to struggle – not just sit and wait.”

To contribute to development projects for the Tavush region you can donate to Sahman NGO and the Armenian Eagles Foundation, who have partnered with one another to finance businesses in Baghanis village, which is positioned less than 1 km from the Azerbaijani contact line.

Sahman also has greenhouse cultivation and beekeeping projects in Chinari since 2014. There isn’t much industry work in the village, so the people of the town rely on their farming to generate income.

For immediate aid, you can donate to Kooyrigs, which provides custom monthly support boxes for over 270 beneficiary families with their Project Mayreeg initiative, many of whom live in border cities. The boxes contain family care items such as food, water, medication, clothing, diapers, formula, sanitary products, and household essentials.

In a way, the story of Chinari is the story of Armenia. Being surrounded by Azerbaijani and Turkish military posts, living within closed borders and dealing with the constant threat of military aggression is a common denominator among Armenians, particularly those at the border.

With the future of Armenia and its borders being uncertain, we can only give immediate and long-term aid, demand our governments in the diaspora to put pressure on Azerbaijan and Turkey, and hope the sovereignty of Armenia is respected. For the sake of the people living at the border, I hope it does.