Stories of Karabakh Armenians

Armenia is again faced with the problem of accepting refugees — thousands of people who have lost everything they had. The story began in the late ’80s of the last century. Since the beginning of the Karabakh conflict, more than 500 thousand Armenians were forced to leave Azerbaijan. Some of the refugees resettled in Nagorno-Karabakh, some in Armenia, and the rest scattered around the world.

After the 2020 war in Karabakh, the number of Armenian refugees increased by 40 thousand. And 8 thousand of them are refugees from Azerbaijan in 1988-1990, who have now twice become refugees.

And after the third, so-called one-day war on September 19, 2023, all Armenians left NK. By the decision of the Armenian government, more than 150 thousand people were granted refugee status.

According to data for 1988, Armenians in Azerbaijan made up to 10% of the total population, excluding those living in NKAO. Armenian experts claim that according to international law, they have the right to demand compensation – material, moral and territorial. They emphasize that Azerbaijanis who lived in Armenia before the conflict had the opportunity to sell or exchange their housing before leaving. Moreover, they received $110 million compensation from Armenia.

As for Armenian refugees from Azerbaijan and especially NK, most left in a hurry, trying to save their lives, many not only without belongings but even without documents.

“These people lost their movable and immovable property, bank deposits, etc. in Azerbaijan. In addition to property and financial losses, which are easy to calculate, Armenian refugees from Azerbaijan should be paid other compensations based on international precedents – for killings, injuries, moral damage,” says Arman Melikyan, a diplomat and former foreign minister of the unrecognized NKR.

Karabakh Armenians arriving in Armenia. September, 2023 Photo: Tigranuhi Martirosyan/JAMnews

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“At noon on September 19, the war started. Relatives from Arava called and said that Azerbaijanis were shelling the village. At that moment explosions were heard in the town and smoke rose above the school. The children were in class. But I could not call my son – there was no connection.

I worked as a nurse at the Martuni hospital. At the first shot, the head doctor ordered all the medical equipment and patients to be taken down to the basement. Very soon the wounded began to arrive. They worked non-stop. Martuni was being shelled from all directions.

I couldn’t get out. A neighbor went to the school, but she didn’t find her son there. An hour later, Herman himself came to the hospital with the children of our other nurses. He said: I don’t want to sit in the school basement, I’d rather help the wounded here as much as I can. These 15-16 year old boys carried the wounded, helped with dressings.

We received more than 120 wounded. The lives of 11 could not be saved. My girlfriend’s father also died. He came out of the cellar to get bread and came under fire. A shell exploded near him and tore his head off.”

“Martuni was surrounded. The hospital lacked specialists. I had never delivered a baby. But everyone was doing everything, there were not enough hands. I delivered a baby for the first time. A woman gave birth to twins. Some were born, others died.

Then came the order to dismiss us. They said the hospital was closing. But we didn’t leave, we continued to take care of the wounded. Many of them had amputated legs and arms. The whole medical staff stayed in the hospital until the Red Cross came to pick up the wounded.

We realized that we were leaving completely, but we washed everything in the hospital, cleaned it, did not leave a drop of blood on the floor.”

“My mom suffered a stroke. When we went to Armenia, I was put on the bus with her as her guardian. My son and my sister took a truck.

Near the village of Arav the Azeris stopped the truck and started interrogating Herman. He is tall and looks older than his years. The Azerbaijani soldiers did not believe he was 16. They demanded documents. They wanted to take him away if he was not a minor. I kept Herman’s passport. The connection appeared and disappeared. But Herman managed to get through, I sent a screen shot over the internet.

A doctor from our hospital and her child were also in the truck. When she got a call and answered, an Azerbaijani soldier snatched the phone out of her hands, threw it on the ground and smashed it with his foot.

One of the Azeris took a bite of an apple, handed it to Herman and asked: “Do you want an apple? It’s Karabakhi.” Herman says that he was very frightened. He did not want to take the apple, but was afraid of the consequences. He said he didn’t like apples.

And while they were waiting for a scan of Herman’s passport, the Azeris made the truck driver dig a hole. Everyone got worried about what it was about. In the end it turned out they wanted to plant their flag.

When they passed this post, Herman called and said that he felt very bad and dizzy. We met on the road to Armenia and arrived in Goris together.

In the morning I saw that my son had gray hair. In two days.”

“After the war of 2020, right next to our hospital, they started building a building where we were to get an apartment. I saw this building going up cube by cube, waiting for it to be finished. One day I jokingly told the foreman to build my apartment better. And he smirked and said: “Wait, let’s see who will live in it”.

I inherited my refugee status. My mother and her parents fled Baku at the beginning of the Karabakh movement, leaving everything they had gained there. It was dangerous for Armenians to stay there. Thirty-five years later, I had to go through the same thing.

I left the hospital wearing only a medical coat and slippers. In Yerevan we had to buy everything. We live in the Harberd neighborhood with my mother, son and sister. I got a job in a Yerevan clinic.

Every day we have to change two means of transportation to get to work. We pay 150 thousand drams ($375) for the apartment, and our salary is 86 thousand ($215). We also spend about 40 thousand ($100) on my mom’s medicine every month. Without the financial assistance provided by the Armenian government, we would not be able to cope.

I hear a lot about how some people receive blankets, others receive food, some supplies, but we haven’t received anything yet. I won’t go and ask for anything myself.”

“Can’t stop thinking about going back. Left my father’s grave there.

In 2020, right after the war, they said come back, and we came back. We can all see how it ended. I could only return to Armenian Artsakh, where there would be no Azerbaijanis. Then I would be among the first to return to my homeland. I can’t imagine Artsakh as part of Azerbaijan. It is impossible.”

“The school is next to the military headquarters, and the first blow to the capital came from that area. The geography classroom is on the second floor. All the glass broke at once, we quickly ran out of the classroom, went down to the basement. The shelling of the city continued, the children began to panic. No one could contact their parents, the children were crying and screaming.

We stayed in the basement until their parents came for them. Two of them worked in a hospital in a neighboring village, and they were able to come for the children only by 8 pm.

And a couple of days later, there were already hundreds of refugees from Martakert and Martuni in Renaissance Square. The picture was depressing. And there were two APCs standing outside the military unit, which was called the ORC [Center for Operational Response]. At first I thought they were Azerbaijanis, but then I saw a Russian flag.

I was walking home from my mother-in-law’s house. Russian soldiers blocked my way and said: “You can’t go further, there are Azeris in Krkzhan”.

“And what the hell are you doing here if there are Azeris in Krkzhan? You’re not peacekeepers, you’re entertainers and clowns,” I told them and went on my way.

It was about 200 meters to the house, but I couldn’t get to my apartment that day. The machine gun fire started, bullets hitting the walls and roof of our building. The settlement of Krkzhan is just above our neighborhood, and there was a firefight there.”

“Starting September 21, it was scary in the city. Azerbaijanis who broke through to Krkzhan were shelling streets and houses. Two residents were wounded. One of them was my acquaintance, nurse Lusine Mesropyan. She was going to work during the shelling.

The spokesman of the Ministry of Emergency Situations later said that she was shot by a sniper. The bullet hit her in the lower back. Passers-by called an ambulance. But even before the doctors arrived, she bandaged herself so as not to lose much blood. In the hospital she was operated on and discharged two days later, as there were a lot of wounded people these days. There was mass panic in the city, everyone thought only about how to leave, to save their family. And on September 24, when the Azerbaijanis finally opened the Lachin corridor after 10 months of blockade, the exodus began.”

“I was only able to get home on September 25. I managed to pick up my money and my sons’ jackets. Then I spent a few days with my husband and children on the road to Armenia. We lived in a hotel for a month, then found accommodation in the town of Ararat for 150,000 drams ($375). Expensive, but nothing could be done.

So I started baking zhengyalov ats [traditional Karabakh flatbread with herbs], different cakes, and selling them on online platforms. I also left my details with the city administration. And I have already been called to the school twice to replace the geography teacher. But we survive on baked goods.”

“I was 12 years old when the Karabakh movement started. And I remember very well how we were leaving Baku. Parallels with those days periodically come back to me.

We had a big house of our own in Baku. It was built by my grandfather. I remember the address – 198 Papanin Street, 3rd microdistrict.

In the days of pogroms, Azerbaijanis would throw Molotov cocktails into our courtyard and they would explode. And we sat in the shelter for 3-4 days. Our Azerbaijani neighbor said he would help us, take us out of the city in his car.

I was studying in the 6th grade at that time. Before leaving, I wrote on pieces of paper “I will come back”, “Don’t cry”, “Don’t be sad”. I put the notes in a glass bottle of Istisu mineral water, lowered it into the pool in our yard and closed it with an awning. That’s how I said goodbye to our house, and we drove out.”

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