Thirty-six hours without fear in Nagorno Karabakh (In)

Three years in a row I tried to enter Nagorno Karabakh. Last spring I finally got it. I was short and very curious. I wanted to know that small province of the South Caucasus between Azerbaijan and Armenia. And know of his war.

Three years in a row I tried to enter Nagorno Karabakh. Last spring I finally got it. I was short and very curious. I wanted to know that small province of South Caucasus between Azerbaijan and Armenia. Without international recognition, but with three different names: Republic of Artsakh, Upper Karabakh and Nagorno Karabakh. And know of his war. Feel it and recognize it through others. A war waking up to spasms every so often.

In the middle of last May, I entered Nagorno Karabakh, a fragile kaleidoscope in the middle of Asia. Reminded me of ireland, New Zealand and Switzerland together. In a day and a half I drew a road puzzle - Azeri pieces, Armenian pieces- and I did not notice a single sign of a war between the three neighbors.

In a day and a half I cleared a road puzzle and did not notice a single sign of war

My first contact with the conflict was on an old closed border between Armenia and Azerbaijan. According to the press, it is one of the areas of greatest international tension. It is near Khndzoresk, tiny village in Syunik province. After crossing a small square dominated by a military vehicle covered in rust, a ridiculous metal door is reached. It closes the way to a flimsy wooden suspension bridge that runs over a rugged ravine. For him they circulated in peace, for decades, Azeris and Armenians. Today, suffocated by vegetation, it is difficult to see. Silence flies over the bustle of birds, rain and wind.

A few kilometers, a military camp is set up that is distinguished by its relaxed and festive atmosphere. While some soldiers are preparing to have breakfast, others play soccer. From the ravine where it rises, a row of caravans can be seen, trucks and jeeps. There are also civilians and military. I go down to them and ask if they are relatives of the soldiers in the camp.. It is a film set that wants to reproduce the war situation between 1991 and 1994, I clarify. Without giving explanations, they refuse to answer any more questions and won't let me take photos.

In the military camp there is a relaxed atmosphere. While some soldiers get ready to have breakfast, others play soccer

A few kilometers from Nagorno Karabakh, the situation is momentarily animated. Half a dozen military vehicles circulate peacefully along a road lined with riots., we run out of electricity and procedures are paralyzed. Although it is prohibited, I secretly take photos of the little traffic between Armenia and the Republic of Artsakh.
Behind the border, they begin 180 km filled with sinkholes and rugged slopes, although not very crowded and of exceptional beauty. On the verges, old cars with the hood up and the smoking engine get the attentions of their drivers. At the entrance of the villages, A rosary of modest workshops awaits you patiently.

The scarcity of human beings, gas stations and canteens is the most common feature of this road. Occasionally, small herds of cows emerge from the hills led by horse riders with their ears glued to their cell phones. Also sporadically a lonely being appears on the edge of the road walking with city clothes and shoes. It seems to come out of nowhere, Well, neither houses nor roads are seen around. As, flocks of bearded vultures plow through this intensely blue sky, Eagles, hawks and azores. Much more numerous than the military vehicles we are supposed to cross paths with in a country at war.

The scarcity of human beings, gas stations and canteens is the most common feature of this road

After passing through Martakert, reminiscent of the Amazon rainforest, you access the Gandzasar monastery, the most respected by Orthodox Armenians. The most attacked also by Turks, Mughals and Azeris. It is said that he has in his possession the head of the Baptist, that cousin of Christ with whom Salome became obsessed, and relics of other saints. Loneliness spreads across this insignificant piece of Asia. A souvenir saleswoman, a priest eating porridge facing the wall in a dark cell and a woman diligently cleaning the courtyard are its only occupants.

The monastery stands out on the most photographed landscape in the country. It's hard to escape their fascination. And to which they exercise their crosses carved in stone - khachkars, they call them–, living for centuries in the open.
On one of its slopes, a cemetery gives rest to soldiers and militiamen killed by the country, according to some inscriptions. Below this level of burials, there is more. The deepest, occupied by settlers of a few millennia ago. For what country should they have died?
Suddenly, a jeep appears. Three men in camouflage uniforms get out of it. After crossing the gate, respectfully bow their heads at the temple access door. They cross themselves and move their lips. Pray killing. Or dying.

Three men in camouflage uniform cross themselves and move their lips. Pray killing. Or dying

Vank, four km. de Gandzasar, has become a tacky vacation colony. Nobody circulates in the streets and the silence is distressing.
On the way to the hotel - shaken from a Mississippi steamboat -, a woman with an aged face peeks around a bend in the road. Almost in a whisper and with a painful voice, he starts to tell me about his four children. The oldest, dead; the second, missing; the third, without legs; the escaped room. Because of the war. «Of what war?», wonder. Sighs, turns the head to the side and points with the index finger at a distant and imprecise point.

Before an intense and aromatic Turkish coffee in the "southern steam", I observe the unusual activity of three waiters. Soon four men appear. They are burly and speak loudly. They sit at the freshly prepared table. One of them wears uniform. Also camouflage. He speaks Spanish and has lived in Seville, Barcelona and Madrid. He likes Spain and wants to come back when he finishes his military service, he says smiling. His receptive attitude invites questions about the war. Nothing. To each question he answers another about Spain. You are curious to know what has brought me to your country. Its gastronomy and its stone crosses, answer. You have understood that my answer is a consequence of your lack of collaboration.

He starts to tell me about his four children. The oldest, dead; the second, missing; the third, without legs; the escaped room.

Far, I have only come across half a dozen military vehicles and four men in camouflage uniform. Although we are only five km. what is supposed to be the most virulent war front in the country, they do not show any type of alarm.

A few minutes later, the three men from the monastery appear. They greet me with a welcoming spirit. The most talkative tells me that they are guerrillas and invites me to eat. He is the first to speak openly to me about the war and his daily life. Confirm the proximity of the front. They usually come down to Vank daily to eat and rest and, when they don't sense danger, come home a few days. They never give up surveillance, says.

My interlocutor was military, although he became a guerrilla because he did not like to receive orders

The largest is the son of an Armenian from the diaspora. My interlocutor was military, although he became a guerrilla because he did not like to receive orders. They look tired, but not worried. More and more volunteer fighters arrive. Its objective is not to attack, but flatten the enemy. I express my surprise at the lack of military activity, despite the proximity of the adversary. As a reply, roll your shoulders and smile.

Since they don't count for much more, I wish you luck and I'm leaving. I have an hour until I get to Martakert and stroll through its old cobbled streets, that still preserve interesting 19th century buildings.

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