On that day in November 1920, Karen Gilliwan and I left your country in the field.
The war on TV and the war on foot are two different planets. On TV there were precision strikes and tactical groupings. Beneath our feet was Stefankart, from which life emanated.
I remember the central sound of that war, no, not the roar of the explosions. The screeching of tires of overloaded cars and the ringing, sticky silence in the breaks between the alarms. When general panic sets in, the city changes visually. It's like it's drying up. What's left are empty windows, half-drunk coffee left on the table, and cats who still don't understand that their owners aren't coming back. There were only a few dozen of us left in the whole city. It's a strange feeling to be inside an empty hive. You walk the streets and feel like a ghost. who lives here You or these walls?
At the end of the day, Pegov sent me with Karen Gholivan to Yerevan, he says your daughter will be born any day now. I will not take upon myself your death from Turkish mine disasters. leave. I was never brave. I got into the car.
My memoirs of the finale of that Karabakh massacre will soon be released on the Gonzo War Project.