Childhood ended for the youngest generation of Nagorno-Karabakh (Artsakh) in September 2020, during the 44-day war. And this year, their realities became partitioned, divided into before the September 2023 attacks and after. 

After 2020, the tales of hardship and danger older relatives used to tell all came true. The gunfire outside the window, the shells flying by, the buzzing of the drone became reality. 

Despite the risk and deprivation–from the war, then the blockade–many young people in Karabakh did not want to leave.  

The blockade that preceded the war divided families, children with parents, sisters with brothers.But for those who stayed, they did not see a future elsewhere: they had made their plans. Their life there, on their homeland. Many who were outside Artsakh at the time of the blockade, such as students, were also looking for ways to get home.

Since they left for Armenia, their identity remains. In every conversation, their words are imbued with a sense of the land, a sense of place. And for many, the impossibility of returning home is something that cannot be reconciled with the lives they dreamed of before.

Haik, 21, documentary photographer

We all expected the war to start early in the morning, like in 2020, but it started at noon. That was a shock. What war starts at noon? Well, you wake up in the morning - there's no war, you live, there's definitely not going to be one today. My dad and I take the food out of the fridge and we hear a vibration in the windows. We've just sat down to dinner and the bombing starts. Well, there's no mistaking that sound. I told my dad to come down, the war started. We didn't give a damn about the war, we were all standing in the courtyard watching those missiles and drones. You're so frustrated with everything, you don't care about anything, not even your own life. I took my camera and I went to shoot. 

Life goes on, but all my goals were in Nagorno-Karabakh. Now it's gone. And if it's gone, why am I living at all? What do I do? Well, yes, I work, I earn money, and then what? I don't know. When people asked me “how do you imagine yourself in 5-10-30 years?” I always said that I imagine myself in independent Artsakh, in my homeland, in my house, where I have lived and will live all my life as a photographer. No words, no text, no book, no article can convey what you feel. Everything explodes inside you. Sometimes I sit there and I can't fully comprehend that I won't be able to go home. It's like something's clenching, my heart is bursting. I can't, I want to go home, but I can't get there. There's no way to describe it.  You're being pulled like rubber, torn. And it just goes on and on.

Mira, 21, teacher

My ancestors were among the founders of Karin Tak village. I am from the seventh generation of residents of this village and until 2020 no one could imagine that we would be left without a house and would have to look for a new one. After the 44-day war, these lands were captured and we moved to Stepanakert. 

Different generations had different attitudes at the beginning of the blockade. Because those people who had already been through the war in the 1990s knew what was going to happen, they started to stock up in advance and there were huge queues in the shops, buying up everything. I didn't think it would last long, I didn't get involved and for me this rush seemed strange. I thought we had been through a lot and this shouldn't be a hindrance. But the situation changed drastically, and after a week it was already clear that food would run out very soon and there would be nowhere to get it. Our family was helped a little by a small vegetable garden. After moving from Karientak to Stepanakert in 2020, my parents, who were used to working with land, immediately planted a vegetable garden on a piece of land  where nothing had ever grown. 

During the whole blockade, there were light outages. I continued to teach children, and all the lessons were on computers. We adjusted the schedule for the 2-3 hours when there was light. We made sure that there were no problems, that the children didn't miss anything until the last days. We worked and the children came even though there was no transport. Everyone was starving, there was no strength, but they are the real heroes because they were coming until the end. And I was posting something every day: “here people, look.” We had nothing at all. And there really was nothing. You have to make a fuss. It seemed like the 21st century, the civilized age. There was a feeling that nobody wanted to pay attention to it. 

Now I try not to remember that time. I blocked those memories. I have a lot of thoughts now, but I don't want to dwell on them any more because after 2020, it grew into a disease, a mental disease that has become physical. So, when these thoughts come back to me, I just chase them away. Now I'm just looking forward, working on myself and becoming the person I want to be and getting back what was taken from us.

Mari, 27, assistant to the Ombudsman for Human Rights in Artsakh

I'm originally from Moscow, but I couldn't find a place for myself there. I mean, I don't know if it was that my identity was too strongly expressed in me—I was constantly drawn back home. I couldn't get along. And this desire eventually manifested itself in the fact that I came to Armenia to study at the university. I studied for a bachelor's degree in International Relations and Diplomacy. Those were my best student years; I was exploring myself in my home country. I was no longer a tourist who came for the summer.

In 2016, when the four-day April war in Karabakh happened, I had a realization and I applied for citizenship. That's when I realized that each of us is responsible for the future of our country and it doesn't matter whether you are from the diaspora or not. You have to be a part of it; you have to participate in the creation of Armenia's future. It was as if that war confirmed all the questions I had before. I was thinking after my studies, where to build a career? Where to go? And before I even had time to think about it, the war in 2020 happened, and it decided everything for me: that I should move to Artsakh.

But Covid changed my plans, and for a while I went back to Russia to my parents. At the age of 22, I started looking for a job again. That is practically two years. I got into a special programme where they send me to work in state structures in Armenia. It's a programme for 50 people, with only one place in Artsakh. Many people were afraid to get there, but I just wanted to go there.

In September 2022 I moved there. I had time to visit so many places and meet so many people. After the war in 2020, not many people came there, especially to move for a long time. The locals were all very surprised. A lot of people want to leave. And when you come from your quiet comfortable life abroad, safe, deep down, they really appreciated it․

On September 19, when the war started, I came home for lunch, and just when I went to leave the house, I closed the door behind me and I heard the first explosion. I saw my neighbours running down the stairs. And I asked them a naive question: what's going on? They say “don't you understand? War.” For me, it was the first time.

I didn't move out of rationality, but out of great love. Somewhere in my heart I realised that Artsakh was running out of time. And I wanted to do something. That is, I never pretended to make any global changes. Even if it was just a small drop in the sea, I wanted to make my contribution.

Arnold, 22, film director

Our generation has seen three wars; the older one has seen four. 

I fought in the 44 day war in 2020 and was wounded. After the war, the fear of danger never left me. At night, you sit and think that someone is coming. A dog barks and you immediately grab a knife. Or every day you hear some gunshots. You're always on the lookout. During the next escalation, there was always someone staying up and guarding the house at night. In Yerevan, there were no such dangers: you sit and there's silence. This is also an anxiety. You can't believe that it can be so quiet. After the war I started to have nightmares often. Sometimes every day, for months on end. Children lying in foils in the mud and us running over them. Always someone in our family getting killed. Always losing. Always some new technology. Missiles and drones. 

I was constantly going to Artsakh and shooting films. The last time I was there was two days before the blockade started. I had to return to Yerevan on business and as soon as we left, the border was closed.

Three days before the war, I was in Yerevan. My brother called me at night and said that the war would start in the morning. But that time it didn't happen.  On  September 19, after I had already calmed down a bit, I had a shooting job. It was a nice sunny day, nothing foreboding. I got on the bus and see a message: "Arnold, it's started."

Everything around me stopped. I couldn't hear anything. I got off the bus and tried to calm myself down.  I immediately call and I hear that it's not simple shelling: there was noise, everyone was shouting and shooting. There was nothing in the news yet. I called my mum. Nobody knew about it yet. I went outside. There are people walking around and I want to scream “the war has started.”

Anush, 21, law student

On the first day of the war I went to study, put my notebook on the table, and the war started. There was a premonition that it would start that day and many people in the town were talking about it. We waited for a while for a neighboring cellar to open to shelter all the students. Afterwards I went straight to work; I worked for the government. All these days I went to work; refugees came from border villages and they had to be sent somewhere and settled. And that's what we were doing, we were settling them in gyms—the university was just completely full. They lived in classrooms, 25 people each. I was one of the last to leave, on the 27th. The city was almost empty. 

This time nobody burned and tore down their houses. We did the cleaning, washed the dishes, took the keys and left. I wanted to break everything there, but I didn't dare. We took only winter clothes; we didn't take summer clothes because we thought it was for the season. My dad died in 2020 in the war and we burned all his medals, diplomas, flags and military uniforms. That's what a lot of people did for fear of checkpoint inspections. The whole road turned into a junkyard of cars: many broke down, many ran out of petrol. It was a horrible sight. 

Before 2020 we didn't understand adults when they reacted to every rustle behind the wall or in the street. But after 2020, when we saw a full-fledged war, we also became afraid of every sound. You can gradually get used to shells, but not to the sound of a drone, especially when a kamikaze drone is flying. And even now, in Yerevan. I was driving and helicopters flew by and my hands shook. I stopped the car to avoid getting into an accident.

Diana, 22,  journalism student

I have lived almost all my life between Yerevan and Stepanakert. The last time I went there before the blockade was in November 2022. 

Probably my warmest pre-blockade memory from 2019, when Artsakh hosted the Pan-Armenian Games. Everyone came to Stepanakert. The city was full and fireworks were being launched. And when I went after the 2020 war—my house is in Stepanakert, which is very close to the border—I remember hearing gunshots when I went to bed.  I had in front of my eyes 2019 and fireworks at the sports games and this is the dissonance that doesn't leave me.

When the war started, I went to Goris on the first day. I wanted to see it all with my own eyes. I marked my birthday there with volunteers. While we were packing blankets, the news came about an explosion at a petrol station in Stepanakert. I will never forget this moment. I saw the news on my phone, looked up and the refugees were everywhere, sitting on the floor and on benches. I saw that everyone started crying. No one had a mobile connection at that moment. A day later it was my birthday. 

When my grandfather left, he drove his Zhiguli and tried to take out everything that was valuable to him. And what was valuable for a simple Soviet man of 78 was a Madonna tea set, a collection of lighters and good whiskey.  I asked him to bring photos, because after the war in 2020 I saw a lot of videos of Azerbaijani soldiers entering homes, destroying everything and mocking photos, and I was very afraid to ever see anything like that happen to my personal belongings.

Now in Yerevan, everyone talks about politics, but it's often a conversation to nowhere. I have the feeling that no one has any civil responsibility.

Even during the blockade, life in Yerevan did not change much. But I understand that in Armenia there is severe post-war depression and disappointment. People feel deceived and many people are disconnected from reality. But being apolitical in Armenia is like a crime, when you literally hear gunshots 50 minutes away from Yerevan. 

Ani, 22, contemporary artist

I never thought that I could create something based on something negative. I have always had creative works that were, you could say, kind and cheerful, even after 2020. Well, in the last six months, I've automatically gone negative. I have a few pieces, a series about how I lost touch with my family. My younger sister and I stayed here to study and they are in the  blockade. And this situation is reflected in my last work; it's about how there is no peace. It's all an illusion and the red, endless lines, the blood lines. Which lead to deaths, ethnic cleansing and destruction.

Now there is no option, only despair. I kept thinking, planning all the time, even in July: “I'll finish university, I'll go somehow through the Russians or the Red Cross. I'll build myself a studio and I'll create there.” But, everything turned out differently and here I am standing without any plans for the future. My mind refuses to accept that I won't be in my home again. 

2020, until September, was the happiest year of my life. I've asked a lot of people. Everyone else talks about it too; they say it was the happiest year, the most peaceful. We just lived and enjoyed life. And just accepted that we were free there and we had rights to live like everyone else.

Goga, 30, classical vocal teacher

I had a classical vocal studio that was opened before 2020. After the war, we continued to hold master classes for children and adults.

After the 44 day war in 2020, I organized the first post-war group. The aim was to restore the previous culture, the pre-war life. There were many children in the group who had lost their parents, relatives and homes. There was a lot to do. Life slowly started to return. There was no feeling that we would leave Artsakh. Everyone had their own post.

I created art therapy groups. Everything was done for children. We traveled to villages and performed in Stepanakert and all over Armenia. I worked all day long. It helped a lot not to think about what happened, about who we lost in that war.

When the war started on September 19, it was as if we were in a fog. We couldn't think straight. We walked around the city, looking at the buildings and saying goodbye to Stepanakert. We left on September 28.  I said it was a waste to go. We should have stayed at least a couple more days. It was a road to hell. Everyone was screaming, many people died on the road: some had accidents, some had heart attacks. Even though I am a healthy man, my heart got sick. I thought I was going to die on the road.  In normal times, this road took a little over an hour. But it will alway remain in my memory as a three-day journey. I can't imagine it any other way.

Even now I can deceive myself. I found an office where Karabakhis work and all Karabakhis are at home. When I am on public transport, I close my eyes so that I don't realize where I am. To be honest, I don't know why there is such energy there—probably because so many people died for this land. And it's become priceless. You wake up every day and you have to do the best for your homeland.

I was amazed on the second day of the war, when the ceasefire was declared. Fifteen minutes later I saw children playing football in the playground outside my house. And at that moment I realized that we did not lose. I am eternally grateful to Artsakh for creating us like this. We are Artsakh now. Artsakh is people.

This photo story was produced in the framework of Chai Khana Fellowship program - Summer-Autumn 2023.

This photo story was prepared with support from the Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung (FES) South Caucasus Regional Office. Opinions expressed do not necessarily reflect the views of FES.