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.