In August, several members of the Kooyrigs team travelled to Artsakh to visit some of the beneficiary families of Project Mayreeg and make deliveries of Mayreeg boxes and food boxes. Over the three days that we were there I recorded my experience in photographs and writing. Along the way, I was prohibited from taking pictures near the Russian and Azerbaijani posts, but I tried to sneak in pictures when I could.
Day 1: The Road to Artsakh
August 12, 2021
12:10
When going to Artsakh, you need to go to the Artsakh Embassy on Nairi Zaryan street a week before your expected entry into the country. I went there with our team member Maria because she has experience with the visa application process. You enter the building, ask to apply and they ask you why you want to go. For Kooyrigs team members, we say we are delivering aid and write that in the application as well. After finishing the application, they tell you to return a week later to find out if you were accepted.
The week passed so I packed my bags and headed to the embassy. If I didn’t get accepted, Maria would have gone since she has an Armenian passport, so both of us needed to prepare for the possible trip. I entered the embassy with Marguerita, and asked the worker for the status of my application. We waited for about five minutes, and she walked back with the visa in her hand saying “congratulations.”
When I received my visa, I felt relieved that the process was over and I could finally go. But I didn’t know whether to feel afraid or excited. I studied the visa carefully and read the words “Republic of Artsakh” and thought how lucky I was to have the opportunity to visit while it’s still here.
Just yesterday, an Azerbaijani drone was shot down in Shosh, a village south of Stepanakert, just within the new borders of the Republic of Artsakh. I haven’t told my parents I’m going because I know they stay up to date on the military activity in the region, so I didn’t want to keep them up at night. When I was making the decision to go, I realized what made me second guess my decision was the state my parents would be in if something were to happen to me. I would obviously be afraid of dying, being injured, or getting captured by the Azerbaijani military, but we had work to do. Whether it was a stupid decision, or an overly altruistic one, I needed to go.
We’re currently right by Yeraskh by the Nakhichevan border, where skirmishes started by the Azerbaijanis ensued no more than a week or so ago. Remnants of the 2016 war are still present – with large hills built on the right side of the road for cover from Azerbaijani fire. We’re about to pass through what I think is the Azerbaijani enclave of Tigranashen on the E117 highway.
Note: The borders to Armenia and Azerbaijan that appear on Google Maps or other official sources often do not reflect the reality on the ground. Due to the legacy of Soviet rule, there are de jure Armenian enclaves within Azerbaijan, and Azerbaijani enclaves within Armenia. Practically, however, the enclaves are ruled by the governments within whose borders they reside.
3:00
We’re near Jermuk and the memories of the war and social media during the war are starting to cross my mind again. How angry I was that very few were paying attention. How furious I was that all the war crimes committed were overlooked. The sorrow I get for my relatives in Armenia, and still do every time I visit Yerablur. We haven’t even made it to our first check point yet. At first I was hesitant to go because of the danger I’m putting myself in, but the fear is dwindling away at this point.
3:27
We’re almost at Tsghuk. Near the Spandarian reservoir. And I for some reason remembered how I’ve never met Vryur, my dad’s cousin who was killed in last year’s war. When I was at dinner the other day at his house, his family spoke about him in such a way that it was as if I was getting to know him. His sense of humor, personality, character – how much of a good man, husband, and dad he was. I’ll never know him directly, but his family is an extension of his soul. They breathe light into his existence and continue his memory with the stories they tell of him. I wish I could meet him. As we approach the country where he was killed, I can’t help but think about him, his family, and my family more.
4:31
We’ve reached Goris. We stopped by to get some gas and now we’re off to our first checkpoint. After passing through Goris, we have 7 checkpoints to hit. I sadly have preconceived notions of Russian peacekeepers being rude and cold, but we’ll see if they exceed our expectations.
4:46
The Azerbaijani armed forces tried to cross the frontline, according to the Artsakh Ministry of Defense. There were no casualties. I haven’t regretted my decision yet. We still have work to do and I still have things to document. Crossing the border is one of them.
4:57
We just reached the first checkpoint. It was quick because it was an Armenian post. The officer took my passport, checked my visa and then looked up to see if my picture matched. I trimmed my beard yesterday but kept my mustache. He double checked with his superior and then let us pass. We’re now in the Kashatagh region, which was not given to Azerbaijan within the original ceasefire agreement on November 9, but Armenian troops withdrew from the region on December 18. The next stop is Lachin, which is a Russian base.
5:33
We just got out of the second checkpoint. It was a Russian base this time and as predicted it took way longer. They saw the American passport and that’s all they needed. Also, they saw that we were delivering humanitarian aid and stopped us for longer to check with their superiors. It took about 15 min. While waiting, some dogs were waiting for us and one of the soldiers who was holding an absurdly long walkie talkie seemed to be flirting with one of our team members. They had their AKs on their hips and were speaking amongst each other about us, saying it was weird how we were going back and forth between English and Armenian. One of the soldiers, the one who was holding the long walkie talkie didn’t know Lebanon was a country when some of our team members Marguarita and Kevork mentioned they were from there. Despite his lack of knowledge on geography, he said he was learning about Armenia more now that he was in Karabakh.
5:47
“Universe, this is First talking,” said the soldier at a Berdzor when he saw my passport. We stepped out of the car and waited for their clearance. As we were waiting I was joking around and said “they for sure don’t like American passports” in Armenian. One of the soldiers, who’s cheeks were squeezed together by his helmet strap, said it’s not for that reason.
Sose translated once we got back in the car and said the soldier was saying how “you very well know why we stopped you and why we were here.” For “peacekeeping” I suppose. Whatever negative stereotype you have about Russian peacekeepers, he fit the description.
6:34
“Oh he’s an American citizen!”
We’re in the mountains of Lisagor and that’s what the soldier with the code name Baykal said once he looked at my passport. The view made you wonder how on Earth people can fight, live and survive up here. These soldiers probably had the best post thus far. Baykal was treating us very nicely. He kept asking what my name was so he could try to pronounce it correctly and even apologized to us, saying he’s just doing his job. He seemed extremely sympathetic. This next checkpoint was probably the most relaxed one. Afterwards, when everything was cleared, he stuck his hand out for a handshake and sent us on our way – the only Russian soldier who’s shaken my hand so far. He’s softened whatever negative attitudes I had towards these guys, but some of them still fit the mold of our arrogant friend back in Berdzor.
6:50
The next checkpoint made me extremely frustrated. There were signs saying “A peaceful Karabakh!” And “Clean Karabakh Air.” It’s apparent that these soldiers are enjoying themselves up here in our mountains. They have the audacity to come to Artsakh for work and use propaganda to promote and validate their presence there.
The soldiers at these checkpoints had larger weapons. Large machine guns on their hips and rocket-propelled grenades with scopes attached to their backs. As we’re getting closer to Stepanakert, I’m noticing that the soldiers are becoming more heavily armed. Probably having to do with the danger of being deeper into Artsakh and closer to Shushi. We’ll be seeing Azerbaijani troops soon.
7:12
The second to last post is near Shushi. We saw an Azerbaijani base with “Shusha ” written on the mountain. You don’t understand the magnitude of the loss until you drive past the current Azerbaijani base at the bottom of the city, and read the word “Shusha” on the hill. Driving past the base brings demanding emotions. From one perspective you’re angry – furious at the fact that they’ve planted that sign on a city that was once ours. You’re also on the verge of tears – for the loss of the city and for the people who had to flee their homes. The loss of life makes you sick, and to see Azerbaijan boasting and claiming Shushi to be theirs adds on to the nausea.
This checkpoint was smooth. A Russian soldier asked where I was from. When I said Los Angeles he said he really liked hockey and paid attention to the NHL, and asked if I knew Alexander Ovechkin. He let us pass without any problems, wished us well and hoped we stayed safe.
Soon after, we were finally in Stepanakert, and drove to the Charles Aznavour Foundation to drop off the aid so we could distribute it the next day.
We got to Stepanakert and noticed some buildings that were torn up because of last years bombings. But if someone were to visit Stepanakert without any context about what happened in a span of 44 days last year, they would not be able to tell that Artsakhtsis went through a war. Other than some damaged buildings that you see, people are going on with their daily lives. Until having a conversation with some of them, you won’t realize the hell they lived through last year, and continue to live in because of Azerbaijani attacks at the border.
Day 2: Distributing Aid in Artsakh
Our second day in Artsakh was dedicated to distributing aid from the Charles Azanvour Cultural Center and visiting some families. We made our way to the Center to prepare. Marguerita, Sose, and Kevork were in charge of figuring out what type of boxes families needed and they distributed them accordingly.
The attitude of some Hayastantsis towards Artsakhtsis is that they are the cause of the suffering in the region, they are ungrateful, and even more harsh takes I don’t want to mention. It was apparent that the people at the Cultural Center were the exact opposite. They were extremely grateful, hospitable, and had a great sense of humor. I was bringing a box to one beneficiary’s family when the husband, Gevork, asked where I’m from. I said from Los Angeles and after I put the box in his car he said “Wait, before you go, let’s take a picture so I can say I’ve been to Los Angeles.” Gevork’s family was originally from Martuni but were displaced because of the war. It is interactions like these, with people who have lost everything that break your heart but also brings some joy when you see how enthusiastic some get when they see Armenians come from the diaspora.
Once we were done distributing the aid, the Director of the Cultural Center, Armen Hovsepyan, invited me and Kevork in for some tea. Traditionally, the men stick with men during gatherings and the women with themselves – which I don’t agree with but during these trips it’s best to be respectful and push these boundaries slowly. We sat for about another 30-45 minutes talking about Artsakh, the war, as well as some politics. The conversation led to them bringing Zhengalov hats and aged vodka – which got your head spinning with one shot. It is also common for the men to drink with the other men, and the occasion does not matter. So it’s a balancing act of being respectful but also being able to function for work.
Distributing aid is only one component of our work at Kooyrigs. Within the distribution there’s also visiting and interacting with families, and each family carries memories, good and bad, from Artsakh and its wars with Azerbaijan.
Every family we visit invites us into their homes for some coffee and sweets, and some even prepare an entire table of food. The first family we visited did just that. We ate some Tashir Pizza, homemade food, drank some wine and vodka, and talked about their lives in Artsakh.
The second home we went to gave me a reality check about the situation on the ground in Artsakh. Our Mayreeg Elona wasn’t there, but her parents, her sister Galina, and Galina’s kids were there. The family is originally from Baku, but fled to Artsakh after the 1988 pogroms.
Elona’s father Artur never knew his biological mom, but he heard that she was residing in Baku, so he decided to go find her. As if trying to find your biological mother is not a daunting task in itself, now you have to do this in Baku – where pogroms against Armenians were prevalent during the time.
Upon arriving in Baku, Artur heard news about where his mother might be. When he reached the location it was too late. He found his mother burnt by Azerbaijanis in her apartment.
His demeanor changed when talking about his mother. His head was hung and his lips tucked in, trying to hold back tears.
Now living in Stepanakert, their family’s situation and relationship with Azerbaijani authorities has not changed much. Elona’s family lives close to Shushi, and from time to time they hear gunfire breaking out so they have to rush to her parent’s home for safety.
Gunfire, and aggression by the Azerbaijani armed forces, is not a novelty in Stepanakert. Just south of the city is Shushi, where Azerbaijan is now in control – boasting their cultural heritage importance to the Azeribaijanis while ignoring the significance to Armenians.
How can you live with others who do not even acknowledge your existence?
After we finished our coffee and conversation, Artur walked us down to say goodbye.
“Before you all leave, I just want to say something on the behalf of Artsa–,” he said but started to choke up.
His tears from our conversation, last year’s war, and an entire life’s worth of heartbreaking memories started to fall. All that time spent describing and experiencing his memories from Baku, and the horrible ending to the search for his mother, came out.
“We bought guns to keep our kids safe but now they’re living in worse conditions than us,” he said.
We said our goodbyes and Artur pointed in the direction of the We are our Mountains monument. We then made our way by foot.
Under the hill of the, We Are Our Mountains monument in Stepanakert lives Lusik, an 85-year-old Artsakhtsi who walks across a busy main road every single day to fill up two gallons of water. She lives by herself, and her home is in rough shape. The drought in Artsakh has caused her garden to dry up, leaving her with no food, as the cold months of fall and winter approach.
As our team was walking to the monument we saw her filling up her gallons of water in the middle of the busy street. Upon arriving at her home, she showed us her dried-up garden and also explained how her son was killed during the first Artsakh war. She receives social security every month, but it’s only $80 and she gives most of it away to her children and grandchildren.
The next day it thankfully rained so Lusik’s dry crops received the water they’ve been crying for. The third day was our last so we wanted to make one last stop at the local market to get some goods before heading back to Yerevan.
Day 3: Our farewell to Artsakh
Our last day was spent briefly at the market of Stepanakert. We looked around for a bit, but my goal was to find some zhengalov hats to buy for my family in Yerevan. I ended up finding these older sisters who went to Yerevan during the war to sell zhengalov hats and raise money for soldiers. They said the diaspora really helped during wartime and also asked where my parents were from. I said they were born in Yerevan but my grandparents are from Beirut, Syria, Iran and Western Armenia.
One of the sisters said I was a “havakvats hay,” or a gathered Armenian – one who had roots from all over. I never thought about it like that. I have roots essentially from all the different regions where many families set foot and settle in after the Genocide. I now see my existence as the culmination of all my ancestors’ existences. They’ve paved a way and planted their roots all over the place. This is a blessing because I am able to connect with Armenians from all over, but also a curse because I do not entirely belong to one place.
Being my first time in Artsakh, I’m grateful for even being accepted into these families’ homes, and being allowed to document their experiences is another privilege. If you have the opportunity, I encourage you all to volunteer with an organization, apply for a visa, and visit Artsakh.
Its people, its culture, its land – is different. You don’t know if it is the year of war and brief periods of peace, or the fact that despite the aggression from its neighbors, Artsakh remains a homeland for Armenians.