Gor Arustamyan, the boy who died from fear
Images by Ani Gevorgyan
Editor’s note: This interview is one of five in a series conducted by Shushan Papazyan and Ani Gevorgyan documenting the stories of children killed by Azerbaijani aggression in Artsakh. The series will be featured in the Armenian Weekly throughout the coming weeks.
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From 2016-2023, various phases of the Artsakh conflict—from the Four-Day War to the mass displacement—claimed the lives of many civilians, including children.
The exact number of children killed is difficult to determine due to conflicting reports. According to a report compiled by the Tatoyan Foundation, 21 civilians, including six children, were killed as a result of Azerbaijan’s attack on Artsakh on Sept. 19, 2023.
Documenting the stories of children killed by Azerbaijani aggression in Artsakh reminds us that behind every statistic is a human life—with dreams, hopes and visions of a future cut short by violence.
Zvart Arustamyan shared her heartbreaking story in an interview conducted by the author.
“I named Gor myself. After my first child, I couldn’t get pregnant for nine years. Hospitals, surgeries…finally, I got pregnant. My husband saw how much I was suffering and said, ‘You’re suffering so much, you can choose the name.’ And I chose Gor,” Arustamyan said.
On September 19, 2023, at noon, when the shelling of Stepanakert began, Zvart lost her eight-year-old son, Gor. A forensic examination found the cause of the child’s death was cardiac arrest. On the way home from school, Gor’s heart stopped from fear—from the sounds of shelling and explosions.
Zvart’s family has moved through several apartments since their forced displacement from Artsakh. “The children’s voices coming from the playground cause me anxiety. I can’t rest,” she said.
Zvart recalls her last morning with her younger son in detail, as if trying not to miss a single moment. It was early morning. Gor didn’t want to get out of bed and go to school. Zvart hugged him, persuading him to go. Per habit, Gor would usually cry when going to school, but that morning, he said: “Mom, look! I’ve grown up, and I’m not going to school crying anymore.”
“I kiss my children every morning. That day something happened—something distracted me, and I didn’t kiss Gor. When he left the house, I approached the window to call him back, but I didn’t manage to—he was already far away. I will never forget his look that day.”
Until noon, the situation seemed calm. Zvart was doing housework when her mother called: “[She] said that shooting had started. It would be good if I went to bring Gor home from school.”
Zvart called several people, then the school, asking if parents needed to pick up their children. She was told no and assured that classes were proceeding normally. “When there was shelling, children were taken to the school basement, so I always knew that if something happened, children were safer at school than anywhere else. But apparently, at that time, children were not sent to the basement, but home.”
Zvart was at home with her older son, 15-year-old Gurgen. Her husband, Mayis, was at work in Hin Shen village. After resting a bit, Zvart began preparing lunch. She planned to go to the school when Gurgen said he would bring Gor home.
“I kept looking at my shoes, thinking, I need to put them on and go after Gor. For a moment, I put them on, then took them off again. My conversation with my older son was interrupted by the sound of shelling. I somehow put on my shoes. I ran out of the house. I couldn’t feel my feet, but I was walking. I saw a parent and asked if they had seen Gor—they said no. I saw Gurgen had run ahead. I heard him shout, ‘Gor!’ I thought he had found him. I waited, but he didn’t come back. I shouted then went forward to see men gathered, Gor lying down. I thought he had fainted. People were trying to help. At that time, there was continuous shelling. People were calling an ambulance, trying to give artificial respiration to my child. I remained frozen in place. I couldn’t do anything. He was already dead.”
“Oh no, my Gor stayed at school”: Zvart’s last exclamation
The mother still hoped that her son had only fainted. One of those gathered suggested taking the child to a nearby hospital by car.
“My older son had embraced his brother and was holding him tight. He was sitting in the back of the car. I was in front, next to the driver. At that moment, I was thinking—if they bomb the car, let it hit me. I only remember that I was asking to sit next to him, to hug him a little. They didn’t allow it. I got on my knees and started begging. They said they were bringing wounded people—at least, they could live. I never returned to my home again. They took my child to the morgue,” Zvart recounted.
Next to new graves, a small place for Gor
At the hospital, Zvart was told they could not admit the child, as wounded people were brought in continuously and there was no space. Gor was transferred to the Stepanakert hospital, where his death was registered: cardiac arrest.
“At the hospital, to calm me down for a moment, they said that Gor had opened his eyes. I wanted to believe it, but it was a lie. I had no phone connection to call my husband or brother. Gurgen somehow managed to call. My relatives came, then they started crying loudly. I realized that Gor was no more, but I was petrified. I only heard Gurgen talking to my husband while crying and weeping,” Zvart remembered.
She clutched Gor’s school bag the entire time. “Many wounded were being brought to the hospital. The doctors came and said that the resuscitation room had to be freed.”
Gor’s body remained in the Stepanakert morgue for four days, as Mayis had to come from Hin Shen village to see his son for the last time.
Zvart recalled how she and her husband searched for a small grave for their son’s funeral. She said she had become numb: “There was no one to transport the bodies. Many cars came from Yerevan to do that. My brother and husband went to participate in that work. They said, ‘We’ll help, but we also need to take our child.’ For several days, they arranged bodies. The whole family would sit and discuss where we were going to bury my little Gor. Can you imagine? Even now, I don’t understand how we didn’t go crazy.”
“The whole family would sit and discuss where we were going to bury my little Gor. Can you imagine? Even now, I don’t understand how we didn’t go crazy.”
After a long search, the family found a small place in Stepanakert’s Brothers Cemetery, next to newly dug graves, under one of the trees. Two days after the funeral, on September 25, when Zvart already knew they would have to leave their home, she decided she wouldn’t go anywhere without her child. The family exhumed Gor’s body and buried him again in Armenia, in the city of Abovyan.
“I wasn’t at the second funeral. My heart couldn’t bear it. Only a few days later was I able to go.”
On September 27, Gor’s body was sent to Armenia along with other bodies. Gor’s father was in one of the cars.
The family left Stepanakert the same day. Zvart said they couldn’t take anything with them. After their son’s death, everything had lost its meaning.
Taking Gor’s longing from pictures torn from the wall
Zvart described how she waited for her second child. She was 33 years old when she learned that she was having another boy. She said she raised Gor more consciously, following every detail, as she had fought for a long time to become a mother again.
The mother cannot talk about Gor in the past tense, but forces herself to. He drew well, loved animals and did well at school. When recalling episodes from Gor’s childhood, Zvart touched the portraits and nature pictures drawn by her son’s hand.
These, Zvart carefully keeps in Gor’s memorial corner: childhood toys, Gor’s portrait, several photographs and his favorite toy.
“We buried the school bag in Stepanakert, with some clothes. I regret that I could save only a few things from my son’s memory. These pictures were torn by my son from his room wall at the last moment and taken with him. We were able to print the photographs here. I have nothing else,” she said.
The family had been preparing for October 4, Gor’s birthday. That year, he was going to turn nine.
“He was making a guest list, saying what we needed to prepare, what gifts he wanted. He was waiting so long.” Now, the family spends that day at the cemetery.
Zvart no longer prepares Gor’s favorite pastries. She says she lives for her other son, so that at least Gurgen’s dreams do not remain unfulfilled.
“I constantly go back in my thoughts. And from those thoughts, both my husband and I keep our pain inside us. We don’t even talk to each other about it. I think, if God loved me, he would take me, but then I remember: I still have a child.”
This piece is translated from the original Armenian, which was published on MediaLab.am.
Shushan Papazyan
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Poor woman.