Forgotten Faces of Artsakh

"We used to dance."

The Kirakosyan family. Their only reason for returning will be help their daughter continue her musical education in Stepanakert.

Lilit Matevosyan's eldest and youngest at the Lori Orphanage. They fled their home with nothing but the clothes on their back.

"My children understood everything. My oldest [pictured in pink on left] refuses to goes outside and is afraid of planes flying overhead. We are looking for therapy to help her recover." - Manuk Ohanyan (Served in the war until the surrender.)

Karen, 3 years old.

These photographs were taken of displaced families who have from Artsakh and are now finding refuge in Armenia's Lori Province. I conducted visits through the province to visit them in their temporary homes and refugee centers such as the Lori Orphanage. Some names and identities have been concealed at their request. These individuals were asked questions about their past, present, and future; their hopes and fears; and their greatest needs. These images capture what these families have experienced and I hope they will offer a window for others to understand their culture, their way of life, and their present struggle. Some of their stories are available in other parts of this website for you all to enjoy. While they have remarkably different backgrounds and lives and by no means are a monolith, they are all share a collective narrative that rings true in every one of the families I had the honor of visiting and getting to know, and this is that narrative:

We nurse the land we are blessed with, tending it its every need, loving the life it brings and the fruit it bears. We build stone homes with our bare hands, every day perfecting it for generations to come, hoping that they will not have to face the same struggles as we do. We live amidst weapons tests, threats, and the presence of an enemy we know will show no mercy. Yet we have roots in this land that cannot be simply eradicate and abandoned. We are tied to the soil, the sun, the air that raises our children and gives us home. We prepare for a colder winter, canning our fruit, salting our meat, left on our kitchen table when shots were first fired. We leave but expect to return shortly, as we always do- only taking our passports and the clothes on our backs. We wait, and wait, and wait, yet the call to go home never comes. Instead, we are told that home is no longer.

Our greatest losses are our homelands. Our eighteen year old boys. Twenty years of building and dreaming. The graves of our husbands, our parents, our loved ones. TUN.

We cannot envision a future of any kind. To return means to guarantee danger and the possibility of death for our children. To stay is to live in a land that is not quite ours though it welcomes us. We have nothing. Nothing at all. And we must start again.

My favorite thing about the Armenian people is their undying hope. There are moments where it dims, almost burns out- the winds of death, destruction, and loss are strong. It would be inhuman for joy to be ever-present. But despite it all, despite the fact almost every single photoshoot was wet with silent tears, as mothers held their children, as they sipped their coffee in tiny cups, I knew that there is no such thing as defeat for my people because-

"Հայը, ստեղծող ազգ ա:" "Armenians, are a people that always create."