Homeland in a bundle: Narine’s Story

2026-03-12 - 16:45

On Sept. 19, 2023, the life of the Yakhshibekyan family split into a “before” and an “after.” What had begun as an ordinary morning in Martuni turned, within minutes, into shelling, false news of death and the road of forced escape. This is not a story of statistics or shifting front lines. It is the story of a single photograph taken from a balcony — and of a family that carried the scent of its homeland into exile. Chapter 1: Martuni — the last act of ordinary life Until September 2023, the seven-member Yakhshibekyan family lived a normal, hardworking life. The city of Martuni, which for years had symbolized Artsakh’s resistance, was their home. The father was a serviceman — one of those who guarded the calm of the border — and the mother was a teacher working with children in a kindergarten. Narine has three sisters and one brother. Narine, the eldest daughter of the family, was already a university student. She had moved to Stepanakert, rented an apartment with friends and was trying to enjoy her student years — though the word “enjoy” was relative under blockade conditions. “We would gather girls from different villages, rent a house and live together, but we didn’t manage to complete our student years there,” she recounts to the Weekly with sorrow. The nine-month blockade became a serious trial for the Yakhshibekyan family. Because of the complete absence of fuel, the few dozen kilometers between Stepanakert and Martuni turned into an insurmountable distance. Narine was often forced to remain in the capital — alone, without gas and with frequent electricity cuts — because there was no way to return home. “I spent quite a long time alone in Stepanakert. There was no fuel to travel to Martuni, to my family. The university had already announced that those unable to attend because of transportation issues could join remotely,” she says. Meanwhile, the sisters who had remained in Martuni were schoolgirls. Every day they walked more than 2 kilometers from home to school, as public transportation had long ceased to operate. The city was emptying of cars but filling with people learning to live without basic necessities. Just days before the war, Narine had managed to return to Martuni. It was an inner urge — to be beside her family. She did not know that this return would be their last peaceful gathering in their home. At that time, her brother was in Armenia. He had traveled there for work, but when the road closed he remained stranded. In those days, Martuni lived in anticipation. People sensed something was coming, yet they continued cultivating their land, preserving food for winter and believing that “this too shall pass.” No one could imagine that their ordinary work, their home and their daily routines would, within just a few hours, become distant and unreachable memories. Chapter 2: A cup of coffee and the last photograph The morning of Sept. 19 in Martuni seemed deceptively calm. Narine’s brother was in Armenia and, because the roads were closed, he had not been able to return. Their father was at his military post, but around noon — as if sensing something — he came home with his friends. “Half past 12, my father came in and said, ‘Make some coffee, let’s drink it and then go,’” Narine recalls. That seemingly ordinary ritual — making coffee for her father — took on a different meaning that day. When he was about to head back to the positions, Narine and her sister watched him from the balcony. “My sister and I looked at each other and said, ‘Let’s take a photo of Dad — who knows what might happen? At least we’ll have one picture.’ At that moment it felt like a silly thought, but we took it,” she says. That photograph became their family relic — the last frame of a peaceful yet anxious Artsakh. After seeing their father off, life returned to its routine for only a few minutes. At 1 p.m., the electricity came on in the city. Taking advantage of the moment, Narine decided to clean the house. She turned on the vacuum cleaner, filling the room with its monotonous noise. It was 1:10 p.m. when the shelling began. “I was vacuuming and couldn’t hear the explosions over the sound. I thought everything was normal,” she says. She was so absorbed in her chores that she did not notice how the world outside was collapsing. Only when her sister ran in, tears in her eyes, gesturing for her to turn off the machine did Narine hear reality. The hum of the vacuum was replaced by the whistle of shells. Silence shattered. And the first question that rose in Narine’s mind was the direction her father had taken just minutes earlier. The photograph had already been taken. The war had already begun. Chapter 3: “Your father has died”: The terror of false news A few minutes later, the first shell fell near their house in Martuni. The building was old, with no basement or shelter. The only “safe” place was the corridor of the apartment block. At that moment, two of the sisters were at school, 2 kilometers away from home. There was no connection; phone calls would not go through. Their mother was at the kindergarten, responsible for other people’s children. Panic, uncertainty and the sound of explosions blended into one. Half an hour later, one of the boys from the neighborhood arrived with horrifying news: “Girls, we’re sorry — your father has died.” Narine describes that moment as absolute emptiness. Her father had been at his military position, very close to the house. The strike had hit precisely in that direction. Later, however, it became clear that although all eight of his fellow servicemen had been killed, he had survived. To keep their aunt in Armenia from completely losing hope, the girls were forced to lie, saying they had just spoken with their father. The basement of the Martuni municipality became their shelter for three days. Narine recalls that there were no conditions at all. They slept on the ground, with only cardboard laid underneath them. “My mother took risks — under bombardment she would go home and bring the preserves we had prepared for winter. At that moment, every single bite was gold for us” Narine tells the Weekly. After the war ended and it became known that Artsakh would be surrendered, the most painful order came: burn everything connected to military service. Their father, who had devoted decades to the army, could not bear to watch. Narine and her sisters were forced to burn his uniform, his medals and his documents. It was the destruction of identity and merit — so that they would not fall into enemy hands. Chapter 4: The road — face to face with the enemy The decision to leave Martuni was not voluntary; it was a forced escape from a place that had ceased to be safe. The municipality had warned them: Artsakh no longer existed — they had to leave. But how, when the entire city was trapped and the transport meant to save hundreds of families failed to appear? The vehicles promised for 7 a.m. arrived only around 2 p.m. Yet even that was not salvation. The seven-member Yakhshibekyan family, along with others, was taken just a few kilometers outside the city and dropped in a deserted, unprotected area. “They left us under the open sky, in the scorching sun, in a place where there wasn’t even anywhere to hide,” Narine recalls. In that barren silence, the only food was grapes from nearby orchards. People — faint from hunger and exhaustion — entered the fields, picked grapes without even washing them and ate simply to regain strength. It was the only thing sustaining them during those uncertain hours, until the vehicles of the Russian peacekeepers appeared. When a Russian truck finally arrived, it turned out that space was limited. Narine and her family were forced to climb onto the open back of the vehicle. They stood pressed against one another as it began moving toward Stepanakert. Every meter of the road was filled with fear: Azerbaijani flags were everywhere, and soldiers watched the displaced with victorious, mocking looks. The most terrifying episode occurred halfway along the route. Azerbaijani soldiers stopped the truck and climbed into the back. “They came inside and pointed their weapons directly at me and my sister. I could see the barrel aimed at my face. I started trembling with fear; my body wouldn’t obey me, only my tears were flowing. I thought: This is the end, they’re going to kill us in front of our parents,” she recounts. There was an elderly man from Artsakh in the truck who knew Azerbaijani and later translated what was being said. The soldiers were shouting, threatening that they could slaughter everyone on the spot if anyone dared to make an extra movement or say a word. Death seemed to hang in the air. The last bread baked in Artsakh. As they approached Stepanakert, the scene grew even more painful. On the heights at the entrance to the city, Azerbaijani forces had set up tents, placed large tables and were demonstratively drinking tea while looking down at the besieged and depopulating capital. It was a peak of humiliation and psychological pressure that Narine cannot forget. Yet the ordeal did not end there. Upon entering the city, the truck broke down. The seven-member family — carrying only a few bundles of clothes and the ashes of burned memories in their hearts — had to walk another 5 to 8 kilometers on foot to reach Stepanakert’s School No. 1. After the war, when the family was preparing to leave, there was almost no food left in the house. Whatever flour remained — every last handful — was sifted and mixed, and bread was baked in the tonir so that at least on the road to Goris they would not go hungry. In those days, bread was quite literally all they had. Yet that bread was more than food. It became a symbol of their fear, their hope, their strength and their stubborn will to survive. Each loaf carried their home within it — the pain of loss, but also the faith to go on. Chapter 5: From Vanadzor to Yerevan — the hardships of a new life Crossing into Armenia was salvation, but not peace. For the large Yakhshibekyan family, a new, unfamiliar and difficult phase began — the status of being displaced. Their first stop was Vanadzor. They were given rooms in an operating college building, far from comfortable conditions. “We were sleeping on the floor again, on mattresses. But people were helping us, and we were grateful even for that,” Narine recalls. However, for such a large family, finding a permanent home became a true ordeal. For a while, they lived at their aunt’s apartment, but she herself was renting, and the landlord gave an ultimatum: Either everyone would leave or Narine’s family would have to go — they simply could not all fit in that small space. In the rental market, they were often refused with the explanation that “the family is too big.” But Narine had a clear goal — not to let the war steal her future. In Artsakh, she had studied pedagogy; in Armenia, she resumed her education. Today, Narine has graduated and is ready to dedicate her knowledge to children — becoming a teacher who understands not only textbook truths but also the harshest lessons of life. The other family members are also trying to adapt. The father, who for years had carried a weapon, now uses the strength of his hands in metalwork. The mother has created a small, fragrant “Artsakh” at home. Even today, the scent of traditional tonir bread spreads from the Yakhshibekyans’ apartment — not just food, but a bridge between the lost homeland and their new reality. Although the family has been living for quite some time in areas adjacent to Yerevan, they have not yet obtained Armenian citizenship. Narine explains that this is not due to state bureaucracy, but rather psychological barriers and technical complications. “We were afraid that if we received citizenship, my brother and father would be called up for service again. They had seen so much pain — they needed rest. After coming back from the positions, my father would remain silent for days... he had carried the bodies of his fellow soldiers with his own hands,” she says. Beyond the psychological factor, there is also a serious documentation issue. When leaving Martuni, by official order, her father had to burn his military booklet and all service-related archival documents. Without them, his long years of service officially “do not exist,” making it difficult for him to return to the security system or receive the benefits he is entitled to. Today they live with hope — that time will heal their wounds and allow them to face official paperwork without fear. Epilogue: Artsakh — in the heart and in the scent of bread The Yakhshibekyans’ story reflects the experience of many families from Artsakh. They left behind two homes, their gardens and the graves of relatives. What remained intact was the cohesion of their large family. The father’s military uniforms and documents burning The military uniforms they burned had been worn by the father during 12 years of service. In the fire were also his medals, certificates of honor and letters of appreciation — documents that recorded his work and dedication. The family had no choice but to destroy them. The father did not watch. “Burn it somewhere I won’t see,” he said. The fire consumed more than clothing. It erased official records of a professional life — years of service reduced to ashes. What remains now is memory. When Narine speaks about their experience, she does not present herself as a victim. There is a sense of dignity in her words. The family still lives in a rented home and continues to work toward stability. Their door, however, remains open to guests. “We will treat you to our tonir bread one day,” Narine says. For them, homeland is no longer only a physical place. It exists in memory, in family ties and in everyday traditions — even in the scent of bread prepared far from where it once belonged.