Abandoning my home

Our home in Martuni smelled of freshly made jingalov hats. My mother sang softly as she set the table—“Unger jan, kini lits,”—while my father and sister arranged the mesh-woven baskets near the door. My younger brother played with his wooden soldiers on the carpet. Outside, the wind whispered through the vineyard. It was the first day of the grape harvest. My family’s vineyard supplied grapes to both Aran and Kataro—the two largest wine producers in Artsakh.

Though the wind blew just enough to numb our ears and fingertips, we all were excited to start the harvest, as it meant spending the day together picking grapes. We ended the day just after sunset. Between us—my mother, father, sister, brother and I—we ate a total of eight jingalov hats. I ate three, my father had two, and the rest ate one each. Then, we went to bed. September 26, 2020: that was our first and last harvest from Artsakh—and our last family dinner. 

The next morning, we awoke to the deafening roar of artillery shells splitting the ground. The glass shattered first, spraying the floor like fallen stars. Then came the sirens, wailing through the city—their screams louder than those of the people fleeing. My father grabbed my brother, my mother clutched my sister, and I stumbled behind them as we ran to the shelter. My heart pounded, not from exertion, but from sheer terror.

Underground, we sat huddled together in the damp darkness, the scent of mold and sweat thick in the air. Neighbors, friends—we all were waiting; praying that the bombs would miss. But they did not. One after another, they came, each explosion breaking the foundations. Cries of wounded civilians echoed through the tunnels. My sister clutched my arm so tightly that her nails dug into my skin. “Are we going to die?” she whispered. I, full of uncertainty, had no answer.

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When the shelling paused, briefly, we resurfaced. The city was no longer a city, but rubble, flames licking the remnants of our lives. Homes had collapsed in on themselves like sandcastles swept by a wave. The market, where my mother once bartered for apricots, was a twisted skeleton of steel. The school where I had once recited Paruyr Sevak’s poems stood roofless; instead of chalk, its blackboards covered in the dust of its own ceiling. The place where I had laughed, learned, lived—erased.

My father, sworn to protect our land with his life, went off to fight. He kissed my mother’s forehead and promised to return. I remember the way she watched him walk away—her lips trembling, her eyes watered with a fear she refused to voice. My father did not return. Days turned to weeks, and when the news came, it was not his voice we heard, but that of a soldier delivering a folded flag. I wanted to cry, to scream, but who was I to cry? I had become the man of the house. There weren’t enough tears left in Artsakh for both of us to grieve.

Then, came the exodus. The enemy had won. Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan forced this loss upon us. We packed what little we had left—clothes, photographs and a bottle of dirt from our backyard that my mother insisted we take—and fled. The roads were clogged with others like us, 120,000 of them, all with the same hollow expressions. Along the way, we saw things I will never forget—bodies left unburied, mothers clutching empty cradles, a boy carrying a bloodied flag. The air smelled of chemical fire and death.

We crossed the border into Armenia but we did not feel safe or welcome. We were not just running from war—we were running from the erasure of our existence. The world spoke of ceasefires and negotiations, while our homes burned, our history crumbled and our people disappeared. 

Now, I sit in a foreign place, the taste of exile bitter on my tongue. My mother does not sing anymore. My brother no longer plays with his wooden soldiers—he only stares at the dragon carpet, a silent reminder of home and father. My sister gazes out the window at a land that feels foreign, a land whose leader is trying to push us out while pretending that we all are the same—we are not.

We are Artsakhtsis, but our homeland has been stolen—or ‘gifted’ to the enemy with a red ribbon tied around it. Yet, we carry our home in our hearts. We teach our children the songs of our ancestors and we dream of returning to the land that calls our name. We are the voices of those who survived yet another attempt to erase us. We are the voices of those who lived through the Artsakh Genocide and we will be the ones to return—along with all the rest who stand with us to reclaim our homeland.

We will pray at Surp Ghazanchetsots once more. We will walk the streets of Stepanakert. We will look over the vast mountains that surround Shushi.

I will go home.

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Sarhad Melkonian

Sarhad Melkonian is the chair of the AYF New Jersey "Arsen" Chapter and an active member of the New Jersey Armenian community. He is involved in Armenian advocacy through the Armenian National Committee of America (ANCA), working to promote Armenian interests and awareness. A dedicated member of Homenetmen, he serves as the Ari leader of the scouting program. He also preserves Armenian culture as a Hamazkayin dancer. A junior in high school, Melkonian balances his academic commitments with his leadership roles and community engagement.

Latest posts by Sarhad Melkonian (see all)

• Abandoning my home - February 13, 2025