Article
Change
Freedom of Belief
3 min read

A tale of two Septembers

The recent conflict in Nagorno-Karabakh is already a twice forgotten war. Forced to flee twice, Anush Petrosyan describes the experience.

Anush Petrosyan is a writer now based in Armenia. She is originally from Nagorno-Karabakh.

A sunset dramatically silhouette's a ruined tower and people at its base.
A September 2023 sunset over Stepanakert.

The ethnic cleansing of 100,000 Christian Armenians from Nagorno-Karabakh has left Armenians around the world questioning the world order that allows dictators to have their way without impunity.  

 Following Azerbaijan’s brutal war of September 2020, the people of Karabakh were subjected to a complete blockade of their region – an exclave of Armenia in Azerbaijan. In the small stretch of land where Armenians had fought for independence following the collapse of the Soviet Union, civilians were being kidnapped, the elderly were dying for lack of basic healthcare, and schools were closing due to no heating gas. To the outside world, Azerbaijan’s President Ilham Aliyev was speaking of peace and integration. Inside the region, experts were warning of genocide by starvation.  

In September 2023, Azerbaijan at last got what it wanted - the territory of Karabakh without Armenians. After an attack that left hundreds of people dead, Azerbaijani forces moved into the region as people began to flee to Armenia, forever leaving their homes and homeland.  

This is the story of Anush Petrosyan. A native of Shushi, Karabakh, which Azerbaijan took control of in 2020. Since then, Anush had been living in the Armenian-controlled Karabakh capital of Stepanakert, which she was forced to evacuate during the ethnic cleansing.  

In September 2020, I left my birthplace in Shushi, Artsakh (Nagorno Karabakh) with a strong conviction that I would be back soon. 

In September 2023, I left Stepanakert, my new hometown, with only the hope of staying alive. 

 

In September 2020, I had a father. He drove us to Yerevan in our own car. 

In September 2023, I no longer had a father… A kind person from Martakert, Artsakh, who I had not met before, agreed to evacuate my mother and me to Yerevan in his car. 

 

In September 2020, I left Shushi when there were still some people in the city. 

In September 2023, I was among the last to leave Stepanakert. The hotel where we had been living as refugees from Shushi for the last three years was empty. I had never seen the streets of Stepanakert look so desperate. There were stray dogs roaming, and those without cars and were waiting for public buses to come and evacuate them. 

 

In 2020, we left behind the harvest of my father's garden in Shushi, and an abundant life. 

In 2023, we left a few kilos of buckwheat, rice, and potatoes in our hotel room in Stepanakert. Food we had managed to get a hold of during a nearly year-long brutal blockade. 
 

In 2020, I left Shushi with dreams in my heart. I had not been broken yet, I had no personal loss, and I was confident I’d be back. 

In September 2023, I left Stepanakert with a sense of uncertainty about my life and my future. I had lost a homeland, my father, and I was lost in my own life. 

 

I have written much about Shushi since the September 2020 Artsakh War. I left a whole life and a garden of violets there. 

But I haven't written a single line about Stepanakert since the violence and ethnic cleansing of September 2023. Maybe one day I will write about this cozy city and its beautiful stadium where I would jog and regain a sense of peace. 

 

In September 2020, for the first time in my life, I felt how alone and powerless a person can be.  

In September 2023, for the second time in my life I felt how alone and powerless a person can be. 

 

In September 2020, I started to realize that in any hopeless situation a person should put their hope only in themselves and God. 

In September 2023, I became convinced that in any hopeless situation a person should put his hope only in themselves and God.  
 

I went through hell twice, or through different stages of hell.  It is difficult to say which hell was worse.... I am only afraid to imagine that there are people whose hell has been more hellish than mine. 

 

But in the midst of hell, I came across the most compassionate people, who made me feel God’s presence in this absurd world of ours. 

Voices of Artsakh is a new series developed in collaboration with The Armenia Project, an educational non-profit in Armenia, that features the stories of the refugees who were forced to flee Nagorno-Karabakh (also known as Artsakh). These personal essays will focus on their experiences, and life after Artsakh as they try to rebuild new homes following the ethnic cleansing from their historic lands.

Snippet
Change
Gaza
Israel
Trust
2 min read

The little red cross trusted by everyone

Hostages and prisoners alike accept the symbol of trust and hope.
At a night time hostage exchange, a hostage wears a pink top and is guide toward the side of a white vehicle bearing a small red cross.
Hostage release, Gaza.
IDF.

The moments when the Israeli hostages are exchanged for the Palestinian prisoners bring many strong feelings. Powerful pictures capture the moment when people on both sides of the brutal conflict regain their freedom. Such images show the hostages embraced by their families and relatives, while the Palestinian men and women are applauded as heroes by their communities. Camera recordings are shaky, we hear the noise of voices, jubilant ones, and see tears on the faces of relatives. The dominant colour among crowds in Tel Aviv is white and blue (the star of David), with yellow ribbons symbols of hope. On the other side: the black military uniforms with green headbands among the members of the Hamas.  

Watching these unfolding events one detail can be easily missed: the little red cross. It is there on the Israeli and Palestinian soil, it is on the white vehicles and on the uniforms of volunteers who mediate exchange of hostages and prisoners. This symbol, shown to us, although originating in the Swiss flag, is still accepted by both sides of the conflict as the sign of trust. Of course, the sign of the cross is well known to the Jews and Palestinians and, sadly, has not been only the symbol of glorious, charitable events in the history of that land.  

Spotting the small red cross reminds me of the film Schindler's List and the little girl in a red coat… Not everyone can see that girl in red in the overwhelming chaos of events. The viewers can be easily distracted or close their eyes to avoid the brutality of the scene on the movie. What we watch on the day the exchanges commenced is not a movie, it is broadcasting live, and the red cross is there. What is its significance and what does it mean? 

At least for me it is a powerful reminder that this small red cross is accepted by everyone – even those who are not Christian - as the sign of their trust and hope in safety, in humanity, in value of promise. In our world of secularism, growing populism, AI, in the world of hate, cruel killings and brutal treatment, on the streets of Gaza where life is annihilated, and outside of cold, grey prisons in Israel, the small red cross appears and embraces both groups. Is not there to judge, does not expect any recognition of its mission, still, remains humble, silent, but a visible reminder of a compassion that is greater than hate. It is accepted by both sides as the bridge on which they wish to walk to their future. Who knows, maybe it will become the door behind which many people from both communities will leave the horrors of this broken world.   

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