Demir Sönmez and Nora Sahakyan: A story of survival and reunion
A mother’s gaze, etched with the scars of four wars, meets the lens of a son she never bore. In a quiet nursing home in Yerevan, nearly five years after their first encounter in a bomb-shaken church basement, Nora Sahakyan and Swiss-Armenian photojournalist and documentarian Demir Sönmez are reunited.
Their story began on October 30, 2020, in the cold, uncertain hours of the second Nagorno-Karabakh war. On the ground floor of Holy Mother of God Cathedral in Stepanakert, Artsakh, Sönmez first met Sahakyan. She was celebrating her 84th birthday, not with family, but in the company of fellow refugees—her only light, the flicker of a church candle.
Sahakyan hails from Maryamadzor village in the Hadrut region. She was forced to flee when Azerbaijan occupied her hometown. “Some people carry the traces of the lands they come from. Nora was exactly like this, resembling the land of Artsakh. The deep lines on her face reflected her scars and the painful history of this land—the traumas it had endured,” Sönmez told the Weekly. In Sahakyan, he saw the living memory of Artsakh itself.
Sönmez’s book, The Wounded Eagle: The Nagorno-Karabakh (Artsakh) War, is far more than a collection of photographs—it is a powerful document of survival, memory and a challenge to collective amnesia.
Sönmez traveled to Artsakh as an independent photojournalist and documentarian to chronicle the war’s events. He sought out stories that would not only record the chronology of the conflict but also the humanity that persisted in its midst. His lens followed funerals in Yerevan, protests in Switzerland and the daily struggles of the displaced.
Through its pages, Sönmez not only captures the devastation and resilience of Artsakh’s people from 2020 to 2023, but also interrogates the world’s response to their suffering: “Who were the friends of the Armenian people? Who were their enemies? Who stabbed them in the back? How did the international public react? How did international institutions and states respond to the war?” he asks.
For Sönmez, the crimes against the people of Artsakh are not history—they are ongoing. The book documents the crimes against humanity and genocide committed against the people of Artsakh in the 21st century. This work is also personal for the author, who was born in Turkey, “where the genocide has continued for over a hundred years.”
After the 2020 war, Sahakyan went back to Artsakh, clinging to the hope of returning to Maryamadzor or at least rebuilding her life in the capital city, Stepanakert. However, history repeated itself. After Azerbaijan’s 2023 offensive, she was forcibly displaced a second time, joining the exodus of Artsakh’s entire Armenian population.
Even amid the blockade of Artsakh, Sahakyan could be found in the same Stepanakert church, lighting candles and praying—a ritual captured in a photograph I took during a Christmas ceremony. When Sönmez saw this image, he recognized Sahakyan instantly—the same woman whose portrait had graced his book.
Five years after their first meeting, Sönmez found Sahakyan again—now 89 years old—in a Yerevan nursing home for forcibly displaced Artsakh residents. Their reunion, he said, was “truly like a meeting between a mother and a son.” Despite the language barrier, their connection was immediate and profound.
Their reunion, he said, was “truly like a meeting between a mother and a son.” Despite the language barrier, their connection was immediate and profound.
Sahakyan, though frail, carried herself with quiet dignity. She insisted on serving coffee, just as she would have in her own home, had she the chance. When Sönmez offered her chocolate he had brought from Switzerland, Sahakyan didn’t hesitate to first share it with her neighbor—another elderly person, also uprooted from Artsakh. Even in displacement, Sahakyan’s instinct for hospitality and care for others persisted.
Despite her age, Sahakyan’s memory was sharp. She recalled her home, her garden, the cherry trees and the mulberry trees from which she made jam and vodka. “I left everything full and abundant,” she said.
She remembered the horrors of the four wars she survived. When Sönmez showed her his photograph, Sahakyan reflected, “I was not aging. I walked 40 years on foot from Maryamadzor to Togh village for work, raised my children alone and built a house.” Her white hair and wrinkles, she seemed to say, were not simply markers of age, but of survival.
As Sönmez prepared to leave, the weight of that farewell was unmistakable in his eyes. For him, photography is never just about freezing a moment—it’s about stepping into someone’s world and feeling their pain. “I parted ways with a heavy heart. It is impossible to forget someone like her,” he said. In Sahakyan, Sönmez found the face of survival and a living memory of everything lost and still worth fighting for. “I seem to have found my deceased mother in her,” he said, promising that every return to Yerevan would begin with Nora Sahakyan.
Siranush Sargsyan
