ABC News, Australia

Dec 5 2020

 

 

 

By Filippo Rossi

 

 

After a long, cold night on the frontline Sos and David returned to the building where they grew up and dropped their gear and AK-47 assault rifles to the floor, exhausted.

 

"The main enemy is panic. We teach that to our children," says Sos, 30, and the father of a four-year-old boy. "The most important thing is self-control."

 

For several days the Azerbaijan army has been besieging Sos and David's hometown of Shushi — as it is known in Armenian — or Shusha in Azeri.

In the background, mortars and cannons are rumbling and the war's frontline line sits just a few hundred metres away from their home. "Everything is getting worse. But we will not let them enter our city. We will die for Shushi and for Artsakh," says David, using the Armenian term for the contested region.

 

The area Sos and David are willing to die to defend is called Nagorno-Karabakh, a region inside Azerbaijan. Following war in the early 1990s this pocket of land is home mainly to ethnic Armenians and controlled by a separatist government supported by Armenia.

 

But the region remains disputed and on September 27 this year, fighting erupted again.

 

 

 

Sos and his brother are ethnic Armenians. They were children during the first war and Sos remembers his father returning home with his rifle which seemed so huge and heavy back then.

 

David keeps a photograph of Sos's son in his pocket. They are both visibly traumatised by what they have seen.

 

"It is difficult to see so many bodies, especially when you lose a loved one or see family suffering," says Sos, who sent his wife and child to Armenia as soon as the fighting began.

 

"We don't want to kill anyone, we like peace, but when they attack us and threaten our families we are forced to resist. The longer the war lasts the more brutal it becomes."

 

But entrenched ethnic rivalry that goes back centuries can turn even the most peaceful person into a fighter.

 

Sos is well-educated, a computer programmer and graduate of the Yerevan Technology Institute. His brother David is a mathematician. A third brother fought on another frontline and even their mother joined the fight — baking bread for the soldiers before being forced to evacuate.

 

"When we saw our city being attacked we came back to defend it," says Sos. "We are ready to die for our motherland and our city."

 

But it wasn't to be. Over a few weeks of fierce fighting, and with support from Russia, the region was won back by Azerbaijan, displacing thousands of Armenians who live there.

 

 

 

Sos and David's hometown of Shushi, located on a rocky hill in the heart of the Artsakh-Nagorno-Karabakh region, is symbolic for both sides. An old Armenian saying states that "whoever controls Shushi, controls Karabakh". This was a decisive battle.

 

Shushi's residents, along with the Armenian army's reinforcements, have made a desperate last stand to defend the town from attacks by the powerful and technological advanced Azeri army.

 

As the battle for Shushi rages, Sos and David are the first line of defence. "I remember when we were children we used to play war in these streets," says Sos. "It breaks my heart to see them ravaged by conflict."

 

The shelter is full of soldiers and civilians with guns. They have a table, a gas heater to cook on and some beds, but little more.

 

The walls are protected with plastic to keep in the heat.

 

Suddenly, there is a loud explosion. "It's 50 metres from here," says Yuri, 60, a relative. "Stay in the shelter. Don't move.

 

 

"They will wait two minutes before shooting another one. It's their tactic," he tells the people who try to go out and check on the damage.

 

After a while, there is another explosion, just as Yuri predicted.

 

Sos and David run out from the shelter to join their positions.

 

They know the Armenian army faces a critical situation, but no one is ready to accept the bad turn the war has taken.

 

After a week-long siege, Azeri troops surrounded the town at the beginning of November. They sent in ground forces, supported by shelling from heavy artillery.

 

'A sniper almost killed me'

 

On the Armenian side of the city chaos rules.

 

From the separatist's capital city Stepanakert — known as Xhankendi in Azeri and just a few kilometres as the crow flies from Shushi — it is possible to see the bombs exploding and you can hear the sound of Kalashnikovs.

 

The small Soviet-styled Tabletka ambulances fill up the city's main hospital, one after the other, evacuating dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of badly injured soldiers.

 

 

A soldier gets down in panic: "A sniper almost killed me," he screams, showing the scratch the bullet left on his neck. He walks around with red eyes. People try to calm him down.

 

A winding road connects the two cities. It is blanketed in fog and seems to mirror the Armenian defeat.

 

Soldiers walk along the side of the road. A sign of retreat? "It's hell up there," shouts one, but keeps moving, an RPG on his shoulder.

 

Further along the road ambulances lie flipped on their sides, then bloody bandages mixed with piles of empty ammunition boxes.

 

The road has been shelled and is dirty and torn up by tank tracks.

 

 

Snipers are silent killers.

 

"They are everywhere," says Sos, on the phone the next day.

 

A few hours after our phone call, the Armenian government decided on what for many is the worst-case scenario: The complete evacuation of Stepanakert.

 

It was November 7 and the city was all but surrounded by Azeri fighters.

 

 

Civilians gathered quickly what possessions they can before jumping in cars heading for the Armenian border. Traffic lines up for kilometres.

 

Despite their best intentions rising panic is all but impossible to control. Everyone is trying to escape fast.

 

Armenian artillery batteries reposition outside the city and soldiers set up last-minute checkpoints to make sure no male citizen below 58 is leaving. They will have to stay and defend the town.

 

'We are out of the city'

 

Sos's second phone call two days later, on November 9, puts an end to all Armenian hopes: "Me and David are good. But Shushi is lost. We are out of the city".

 

The news is astonishing. Nagorno Karabakh's most symbolic town has fallen into Azeri hands.

 

The Armenian government keeps denying what has happened but the Azeri leaders publish a video showing Azeri flags waving over Shushi's city hall.

 

From the hill, Stepanakert is an easy target. The war may be over.

 

Later that day, Armenian Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan announces a new ceasefire with Azerbaijan, brokered by Russia, which will hold the re-conquered territories and will hand over control of three more regions occupied by Armenia for almost 30 years.

 

The deal will cut off what remains of Nagorno Karabakh's territories from direct connection with Armenia.

 

"We had no other choice but to sign. If we didn't stop the hostilities we would have suffered much more human and territorial losses," Pashinyan argued.

 

 

Rage feels unstoppable

 

Officially, more than 2,300 Armenian soldiers lost their lives.

 

The defeat is hard for the Armenians to digest. Rage feels as if it will become unstoppable. Demonstrators storm the parliament building in Yerevan, Armenia's capital city.

 

The next day, protestors line front of the building to call for the Prime Minister's resignation.

 

"This is a betrayal. What for did all those young soldiers die for?" asks Vaghe, 52. "It makes no sense to finish a war like this. We have to keep fighting."

 

 

On the other side is Susannah, 66. She was forced to evacuate Stepanakert a few days earlier.

 

"I demand the immediate resumption of all the hostilities and Pashinyan's resignation," she screams. "He made an agreement while people were sleeping."

 

She is traumatised. She has been forced to leave her home with little warning.

 

 

But on the same day some commanders, like Artur Grigoryan, couldn't believe the Government's decision.

 

Grigoryan, 40, is a lieutenant with the Armenian special forces who fought in Shushi.

 

"The town is still under our control," he says, defying the evidence. "If the Prime Minister will not find a solution, we will find it by ourselves. We are ready for anything."

 

Yerevan and many other cities are now full of Karabakh refugees who are relying on benefactors and public aid to survive.

 

Evelyna, 62, a widow and mother of three with a son at the frontline, was living in a small village in the south which fell into Azeri hands two weeks after the war started.

 

"When they stormed into the village, we had no other choice but to leave. I had no time to gather anything," she says, gesturing to her clothes to indicate she left empty-handed.

 

"I don't know what I will do now. Our houses are burnt down".

 

Evelyna will probably never see her belongings again.

'Thank God I didn't renovate'

 

As a consequence of Putin's brokered agreement, the region of Kalbajar was the first region scheduled to return to Azerbaijan in mid-November.

 

It is mountainous and remote. This region, too, is symbolic for both sides.

 

However with such short notice to evacuate the whole territory, a 10-day extension was agreed.

 

But it was too late. As soon as the agreement was made public, chaos has ruled in Kalbajar's valleys.

 

People packed what they could and then burnt down their own houses.

 

They have removed metal sheets from the rooves and the wooden planks from the ground.

 

Beds, tables, chairs and clothes were piled on trucks and cars. Some tied horses behind their vehicles and others led their sheep and cattle along the cold and winding mountain pass — the only route to Armenia.

 

"You have to burn it," says one man to his wife.

 

"I cannot," she replies. "My hands will not allow me".

 

"Do it," he repeats.

 

Together, they throw a gas-filled plastic bottle over the wooden parts of their house.

 

Soon, smoke rises to the sky from dozens of people's homes.

 

 

"Thank God I didn't renovate my bathroom. I would have wasted my money," says an old man sarcastically as he gathers some cables and an antenna. "Before going tonight, I will burn it".

 

Behind him, his neighbour's house is ravaged by flames.

 

'I couldn't stop crying. I cannot sleep'

 

 

The Kalbajar district is witnessing its second mass exodus in less than three decades.

 

During the first war between Armenia and Azerbaijan in the early 1990s, thousands of Azeris were forced out after losing the region.

 

The rubble of their homes remain, a testament to their presence, next to new Armenian homes. Now the story is repeating itself the other way around.

 

Anahit lives in Bersham village, next to the Terter river.

 

She watches on, as her husband removes the roof of their home and loads a small truck with their belongings. The ground is covered with clothes.

 

 

"We've been living here for more than two years," she says. "I don't know what we will do now. We will take our cows and go to Armenia.

 

"When I heard about the agreement I couldn't stop crying. I cannot sleep. What are we going to do?" she says.

 

Anahit and her husband are an example of the many Armenian families who came to the region as part of a government program to repopulate Kalbajar after 1994.

 

"They gave us free electricity, free building material for the house. We discovered that there was the chance and we took it," she says.

 

Many Armenian citizens from disadvantaged communities took this step, unaware of the potential consequences or the way they were being caught up in the government's political goal to colonise the region.

 

 

A never-ending revenge

 

In the region's main town, Qartvachar, the sound of people escaping breaks the usual silence of this beautiful region.

 

Many looters sneak in silently from Armenia to steal what others have left behind.

 

"These are our lands. Historical monuments can prove it," says Mariam, 38. "I will leave only by force."

 

She has invested everything in a small guesthouse next to her home.

 

"I already took off the windows in case we have to go," she says. Behind her, a soldier removes a public sign from the municipality. It will not be needed any longer.

 

Kalbajar burns. Queues of traffic to trying to escape of the region stretches for kilometres.

 

Some people dismantle entire electrical power stations. Others cut down trees with a plan to resell the wood in Armenia or use it to heat their homes as winter descends.

 

As the army steadily evacuates tanks and troops from the region Russian peacekeepers enter from the other direction to take their positions.

 

Kalbajar is the symbol of Armenian defeat: not only have people lost their homes but cultural heritage is now lost to their enemy.

 

With towns and villages lost, and accusations of war crimes on both sides, the foundations of a never-ending cycle remain in place.