On Watermelons and War
East of Armenia is an area known as Nagorno-Karapagh, or by its more historic name of Artsakh. Travel to Artsakh is relatively easy from Armenia, the currency is the same and visas may be obtained at the border. In reality, it is more an extension of Armenia than the independent republic it claims to be.
Artsakh has much in the way of history and beauty. A single visit can make one understand why wars are fought over it; fantastical mountains, broad endless fields, quiet streams, and life giving rivers and more.
The further east one goes the closer to the Azeri border one gets. This is a dangerous place where skirmishes may break out and death may ensue. One of the easternmost points controlled by the Armenians is the former city of Aghdam.
During the Soviet times Aghdam was renowned for its black market and the wealth of its citizens, a living contradiction to Soviet ideology. Now the city now barely exists. It is a skeleton, its walls torn down and used elsewhere, deep ditches along the road where the canalization used to be, beautiful bus stop mosaics shattered by machine gun, empty foundations that used to be homes.
Aghdam is a corpse stripped of its organs.
Once, during a visit, we came to a crossroads. There was nothing left in any direction, save for a century old mosque. A small table was set up at the corner, and as we approached, an older woman, large and sour faced, came out of hiding to sell us watermelons in the middle of this ruin. We bought two.
We made our way to the mosque, breaking open the watermelons with a rock. As we threw the rinds away a cow appeared from out of the mosque, then another, and another, until there was so many that the path to the mosque was blocked.
When I think of Aghdam, I think of the mosque turned cowshed, the city absent with life, of the people who once lived there, of the battle fought and the lives lost; but I also recall the serenity of its emptiness, the beauty of the imagery, and how delicious that fruit was.
Artsakh has much in the way of history and beauty. A single visit can make one understand why wars are fought over it; fantastical mountains, broad endless fields, quiet streams, and life giving rivers and more.
The further east one goes the closer to the Azeri border one gets. This is a dangerous place where skirmishes may break out and death may ensue. One of the easternmost points controlled by the Armenians is the former city of Aghdam.
During the Soviet times Aghdam was renowned for its black market and the wealth of its citizens, a living contradiction to Soviet ideology. Now the city now barely exists. It is a skeleton, its walls torn down and used elsewhere, deep ditches along the road where the canalization used to be, beautiful bus stop mosaics shattered by machine gun, empty foundations that used to be homes.
Aghdam is a corpse stripped of its organs.
Once, during a visit, we came to a crossroads. There was nothing left in any direction, save for a century old mosque. A small table was set up at the corner, and as we approached, an older woman, large and sour faced, came out of hiding to sell us watermelons in the middle of this ruin. We bought two. We made our way to the mosque, breaking open the watermelons with a rock. As we threw the rinds away a cow appeared from out of the mosque, then another, and another, until there was so many that the path to the mosque was blocked.
When I think of Aghdam, I think of the mosque turned cowshed, the city absent with life, of the people who once lived there, of the battle fought and the lives lost; but I also recall the serenity of its emptiness, the beauty of the imagery, and how delicious that fruit was.
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