JOURNEY TO MY STOLEN CHILDHOOD

Do you know the feeling of a child who lost his favourite toy? You’ll be right if you find the question rhetorical. But do you also know what it was like for a whole generation of children who lost not only their toys, but also their cosiest homes, the most beautiful schools in the world, their favourite teachers, their most faithful friends and pets? Some have even lost their parents and loved ones. They have lost them forever, having grown up overnight.

We’ve never lost hope

The journey back to our stolen childhood has followed a long and winding path. Hundreds of thousands of Azerbaijani children have walked to it never ceasing to believe in a miracle. Nothing could make us deviate from this path. Even the traps set by the enemy at every step. We have dreamed of starting all over again. Just like in a game which went wrong not because of our fault.

Today the slopes of Murovdagh are not so difficult to cover. Pass after pass we conquer the peaks in the footsteps of the valiant Azerbaijani warriors, leaving behind huge balls of white clouds.

I feel my eyes watering. Once again I remind myself how many young people gave their lives to end the war and to make sure that children never lose their childhood once and forever. Fortunately, both Kalbajar and Lachin were returned without a single shot thanks to Azerbaijan's diplomatic victory.

We leave Kalbajar behind the Mount Murovdagh. And Lachin is a stone's throw away.

We're back!

Lachin! May 18, 2022. The day when it was occupied by neighbouring Armenia exactly thirty years ago. We are fortunate enough not to commemorate the black anniversary of this tragic event any more. It has been two years we remember this date as victors. Paying tribute to those who fell for the liberation of our homeland, we are moving along narrow mountain roads towards home.

We promised that we would come back. We definitely would. And Lachin promised us it would be waiting for us. It couldn't take care of its neighbours who stole our childhood.

We were weak and helpless then. But we were growing and getting stronger every passing day. We united into an iron fist, pushed the invader back, and now we are returning home.

Childhood village

The village of Hajisamli. The locals used to call it ‘Zavod’. The same title is on the road sign at the entrance to the village. In Soviet times, there was a woodworking shop here. According to Azerbaijani Ministry of Environment and Natural Resources, Armenian invaders have violently exploited the forests of Lachin. Hajisamli forest is home for the most valuable type of oak trees, red oak, which Armenians used to sell to France for the production of cognac barrels. They also cut the walnut woods to make furniture.

With the liberation of these lands, Azerbaijan has not only returned peace to the region, but also prevented an ecological terror committed by Armenian invaders.

There is nothing left here of that workshop. No building, no sawmill, no huge power generators. Everything has been stolen by the invaders.

Welcome home!

Here it is, our childhood home. Rather, all that is left of it. All my school essays on how I spent my summer holidays have been associated with this house.

This is where our tandoor was. Imagine burning your fingers with fragrant tandoor bread with real country cheese on top.

Here was a cattle stall, apple and cherry trees. I remember how my friends and I used to sneak off the unripe fruit and run away to the mountain river to bathe.

Then adults would call us to hay fields to help them mow grass and pile it with pitchforks. What a pleasure it was for the tired children to have lunch under a tree near a babbling spring!

The terrifying view of the ruins of my father's house suddenly interrupt my pleasant memories. Just as the war once interrupted our happy childhood. Like awakening from a nice dream, when you want to fall asleep to watch the sequel.

Children who turned gray

We go further, into the village. I can see Ehtiram Huseynov sitting where his house once stood. The same knavish lad from my interrupted childhood. Now he is a famous mugham singer, Honoured Artist of Azerbaijan. He has grown old. His health has also deteriorated. He was just 12 years old when Armenians occupied Lachin. Even his fame could not console him while his native village was under occupation.

"Here it is, my stolen childhood!" the 42-year-old honoured artist says showing me the spot. There is not a single stone left from the home he was born and spent the happiest years of his life. "But praise be to Allah that we have returned. May the souls of the fallen, who gave our people this moment of happiness by sacrificing their lives, rest in peace! I thank every soldier of the Azerbaijani army, I thank the Supreme Commander-in-Chief for bringing back our nation's treasure!" Ehtiram says.

I ask him for photos of his childhood to add to my collage Before and After. "There is nothing left. They burned all the photos with this house," he says again and waves his hands in bewilderment.

School of life

Chirping of birds shimmers in bright colours amid the murmuring of the river. Ruins of our small village school can be seen from the densely grassed site where Ehtiram Huseynov lived 30 years ago. We approach it.

We remember our teachers. “My father was the toughest teacher,” says Ehtiram. That’s where his singing teacher discovered Ehtiram’s talent. "It was the biggest and most demanding stage for me," Ehtiram says, recalling how he performed on holidays at school events.

He remembers how his classmates and him often skipped the school to swim in the river, to shoot birds with a slingshot, to play football on the lawn. Visits to the nearby mulberry orchard were worth the trick!

Pasha-bey's garden

At that time we had no idea whose garden it was. There was a guard from the local kolkhoz (collective farm) who usually turned us away. Neither did we know that the first military minister of the Azerbaijan Democratic Republic, governor-general of Garabagh Khosrov-bey Sultanov and his brother, national hero Sultan-bey Sultanov grew up in the huge house next to the garden. When we got older, we learned that it was the bravery and courage of the sons of Pasha-bey from Hajisamli, who in the early 20th century saved many villages of Garabagh and Zangezur from being exterminated by Armenian gangs claiming these lands back in the day.

We hoist a flag over the house of Pasha-bey. This was a winter residence of this famous family. In summer, they lived in the neighbouring village of Gurdgaji, a couple of kilometres away.

By the way, there is a cemetery in Gurdgaji, which is now a resting place for people from the nearby villages who died before the war. There is also the grave of my grandfather, Bahman Zeynalabdin oghlu Mayilov. His tomb, and some others, were lucky to escape the hands of vandals. The rest suffered the same fate as other cemeteries in lands previously occupied by Armenia.

When you don't want to leave

We were assigned two days to make a report from our stolen childhood. Time flies fast here. Everything is in full bloom. We don't have time to enjoy this paradise enough before we have to leave. We don't want to leave our childhood. We don’t leave the village anyway. Just like when we were children. Summer holidays are over, so we have to go back to Khankendi, where I was born and grew up.

All the way back, I have the feeling that I travelled across the clouds into a completely different spatial dimension using a time machine. Our past and future combined. This is where a new life returns. There will be a new childhood here, and now no one else can steal it again.