We will be presenting a series of interviews with Armenian and Azerbaijani refugees. Some are people who have not throughout these years been able to normalize their lives and adapt to new conditions. Others have managed to find a way to survive.

Region Centre

The Shame of Being Displaced

An interview with Babir Zeynalov

- What were you doing before you were displaced? What property did you have (a house, business)?

- I was born in 1972 in Shushi. My father was the city's main architect, my mother taught piano at the music school.  There were two children in the family, my sister, two years younger, and I. Till the end of the 1980s we lived in a happy, carefree life and were making wonderful plans for the future. Now all of that seems like a fairy tale. Everything suddenly turned bad in 1988 when Armenians in Karabakh started to actively protest, demanding independence for the autonomous region. Of course, at the time, we were naïve and we didn’t realize what we were facing; we thought of the situation as a misunderstanding that would soon blow over. It later became clear that everything was a lot more complicated and tragic. I studied in a Russian school, and there were many Armenian teachers there. Many Armenian children studied with us. Our class monitor was an Armenian girl. And before the famous movement became more prominent, we lived in peace. But I have to confess that at the time there were already reasons for concern. For example, I remember how Armenian children in our class would talk about how Armenians were collecting money every month for some kind of a fund. I even remember that I once asked the teacher about it and she didn't take it seriously and ignored the question. I also remember how my father repeated my grandfather's words " We should never forger 1905," but probably our fathers had forgotten these words. At that time we didn't know what awaited us.

- How many people are there in your family? Where did you live after you were forced to leave your home?

- As you know in May 1992, after the treacherous surrender of Sushi, we became refugees. The first year we lived in Pershagi (the Absheron Peninsula - ed.). At that time we thought it was temporary, that everything would go back to normal. But now, years after the military actions, under the influence fanfare and hype from our entertainment industry, the “displaced person” metaphor has become an everyday thing. Nothing is more humiliating then having the status of a displaced person. Do you now understand the ugly moral state of a society in which people who have residence in the capital envy displaced persons because they are free from communal taxation?

- Who helped you and how?  How did the future of your family members unfold?  -Compare your situation to your neighbors or compatriots who were better or worse off than you.

- No one helped us. If they had helped us, we wouldn't be in such a shameful situation. I want you to write down my thoughts on this subject, because I'm sure that we started to lose our lands from the moment that aid started to enter the country. It would have been better if instead of sending potatoes and onions they would have helped us get rid of the Armenian military forces. The same thing can be said about the current situation. Instead of returning the lands, the government is bravely issuing reports on resettling the displaced persons from their tent camps to other places. By the way, the situation here isn't much better than it was in the tent camps. Bur one is forced to live despite all of this. We work intermittently, with few rights. And life goes on like that. Regarding your last question, life is different for everyone, including displaced persons. One person finds a good situation in Baku; another is poor, and the majority of us are poor, just like in the society in general. But in essence we are all displaced.
 
- Do you ever think of returning to where you lived?  If you had the chance, would you go back?

- I think your question is absolutely inappropriate. If we do not think about that, it means we have become like cattle. I think about it all the time. Does anyone seriously think that Shushi won't be ours? Of course we will return. The question is when. Maybe that depends on us, what do you think?

- How has this situation affected your children?

- I do not have any children, and at 35 have not started a family yet. I think the reason is obvious; I have no house and my salary doesn't permit me to buy a house. And I am forced to live like this.

- What kind of problems concern you the most now?  Are they different from the ones faced by the other refugees?

- I believe we all should have a single goal - the liberation of the occupied territories. But we are forced to wait. Regarding material and social problems, everyone has these problems, including the wealthiest in our materially imbalanced society. One person thinks about his daily bread, the second thinks about a penthouse in the best Bohemian style hotel with a sea view.

Interview by Zaul Rasulazade

 

Nobody Understands the Value of Helping the Hungry…

An Interview with Refugee Nina Bejanyan

- Where did you live and what kind of life did you lead before you became a refugee?

- We used to live in the center of Baku, at 23 Agha Neymatula Street.  We had a three-room apartment, where the eight of us lived - my parents, my elder brother with his wife and two children, my younger brother and I.  But we weren't cramped at all and we never even thought that one of us should move away.  We were peaceful and harmonious living in a large family; we were happy and had no problems.  I can't say that we were rich, but our financial situation was above average.  My father and brothers were well-known tailors in the city; my elder brother was the deputy manager of a cooperative.  They learned this trade from their forefathers.  Our ancestors are from Artsakh, from the Hadrut region, from the family of ashugh (bard) Arustam.  He was a bard, a tailor and also a scientist - he had books written in different languages, even Arabic and Farsi.  My father moved to Baku when he was 16, my mother when she was 14 years old.  I was born and brought up in Baku, but studied in Yerevan, at the Bryusov Institute.  I am a teacher by specialization, but started working after graduation in the Baku City Council, as head of the human resources department.

- How big is your family? Where did you live the first year after you were ejected from your home?

- When the incidents we all know too well unfolded, we moved to Yerevan - it was December 1988.  People helped us here and my brother managed to exchange our house with the apartment of an Azeri who was leaving Yerevan.  But our house was much better.  That one had only two rooms, both very small with uneven floors.  The whole family - all eight of us - moved into that apartment and later registered under that address.

- Who helped you and how?  How did the future of your family members unfold?  Compare your situation to your neighbors or compatriots who were better or worse off than you.

- You could say that nobody helped us - we were left alone with our problems.  We did not receive a cent from the state for years.  No matter how much people insist on the contrary, it's true that society discriminates between refugees and non-refugees.  They say that after the Armenians left, a new saying started going around Azerbaijan - "the ones with the good heads and the golden hands have left."  But the state here neglected us, despite the fact that the majority of refugees had university education and were professionals in their work.  My elder brother worked at his trade, as a tailor, in Yerevan.  He fed the whole family.  But he had a heart attack 7 years ago - it was a miracle that he survived.  Now he has first-degree disability status and cannot work.  His wife is incurably ill - she has cancer.  My younger brother got married and then separated; he moved away, rented an apartment and had a child.  But fate separated them too - his wife took the child and went to Russia to her relatives.  My brother rents an apartment to this day and barely makes enough money for food.  I met a young man from Artsakh in 1989 and we married.  But the Artsakh movement had begun and he left for Stepanakert, leaving me at my brother's house.  I lost my first child in 1990 as a result of stress and my emotional situation.  My husband would come to Yerevan to visit me between battles.  I was expecting a child again in 1992.  I went to Artsakh to my husband.  I lived in inhuman conditions for six months, in the basement of a rundown building, under shelling.  As soon as the child was forty days old, my husband sent us to Yerevan.  It was the cold and dark years; we would go to sleep hungry.  My husband kept in touch until my child was a year old, but then he forgot us.  I don't know why - I guess he didn't need us anymore.  A few months after we had come to Armenia, in 1989, my mother had died due to the emotional experience.  In 1993, my father left this life too.  If I don't count the day my child was born, I can't think of one happy day back then.  It's true what they say - if someone leaves his native "nest", then misfortune takes over.

- Do you ever think of returning to where you lived?  If you had the chance, would you go back?

- It is impossible to go back to Azerbaijan and live the way we once did.  Why should I think about something which is not going to happen?  But I would love to see my beloved city, Baku, at least one more time.  I see our old life, my native city, in my dreams all the time.  I don't know what it's like now, but Baku was a multinational city then.  All of us, even the Azeris, spoke in Russian.  We had very good neighbors.  I can recall almost all of them.  Oh, those years...

- How did your situation affect your child?

- Very badly.  We lived in my brother's house up to 2002.  We did not receive any aid.  We went to a number of organizations and state organs on numerous occasions asking for support.  We didn't even get an allowance.  They said that we were registered at my brother's house, so we were not eligible for an allowance.  It was December 2001.  I went to the Nansen school and asked the principal for a job.  Naturally, I could not teach in my emotional state and nervous condition; I asked to work as a janitor.  My son was with me.  When the principal learned that he was eight years old but did not go to school, he got angry.  He took him under his wing and admitted him to the school after the New Year vacations.  He is a very smart child - he completed the whole program for the first grade in only half a year.  The principal wrote letters to different state agencies with us.  Finally, we were allocated this room in the Nor Nork hostel in 2002.  We also got an allowance after that.  Today, we get 12,000 drams from the state, along with the money that is due to the child.  But the older my son gets, the less money they allocate.  As if he doesn't need to buy shoes or eat anymore.
I used to be in better health before and would work, cleaning people's houses.  I can't do that anymore - I fall ill and stay in bed often.  My son works.  He goes to different places and helps laborers, making 1000-2000 drams.  He doesn’t even go to school regularly.

- What kind of problems concern you the most now?  Are they different from the ones faced by the other refugees?

- I am not concerned about having an apartment.  Around 60 refugee families used to live in this building.  Since 2005, 20 families a year got ownership certificates through lotteries.  I am going to get one too.  I took part in the lottery for three years but did not win.  Now there are 19 of us left and they are going to give us all certificates of ownership without a lottery.  The only thing that concerns me is the issue of having enough to eat, we are struggling to survive.  My son is working and that is damaging his future - he is not getting an education.  My son and I have led very tough lives.  I have raised him with great difficulty.  There were times when I asked other people for money.  But I went to people who were more or less close to me, those who would not take advantage of it later.  Even now, in this difficult state, if someone asks me for help and I can spare something, I do all I can to provide some sort of aid, I don't refuse them.  Nobody understands that value of helping the hungry, unless they've been in that situation.