The pomegranate
‘Come on, I brought a pomegranate. I just picked it from the tree above,’ my sister said, slicing open the fruit. The seeds inside were neither large nor bright red, just as one would expect from the trees around us. A long silence settled between us, and only then did I realize— the pomegranate supposedly “picked from the tree above” was my sister’s joke. We were in Yerevan, 400 kilometers away from our garden of pomegranate trees.
Is it really possible, in just one year, to forget your habits, your preferences, the places you once loved and missed?
We lived in Martuni1, Nagorno-Karabakh, a town where pomegranate and persimmon trees filled every yard. There were only a few apartment buildings; most homes were private houses with sprawling gardens.
I never counted how many pomegranate trees we had. Now, I find myself trying to remember... The best were at the bottom of the garden—two trees, with the one on the right, though small, bearing the largest, darkest red seeds. Then there were the top two, and in the bottom row, maybe six, or seven, or eight... I can’t quite recall the exact number. I’m afraid of forgetting, not only the number of trees but everything that once made me happy.
Our garden was vast and filled with trees; we never bought pomegranates. In our town, pomegranates and persimmons were often barter fruits. We’d trade them for potatoes, carrots, or other fruits brought in by local resellers.
A year ago, the last time I stepped into our garden, not a single fruit was ripe yet. My father had planted a pear tree there. After his passing, the tree bore fruit for three years, and its last offering was those unripe pears I gathered on that final visit.
It is autumn again. In the 30th year of my life, I am learning to buy pomegranates.
The woman who had her tombstone
"‘They’ve opened a nursing home for the elderly. Maybe we could try placing Auntie Lena there,’ my mother says on the phone, her voice a mix of excitement and worry. ‘She could organize literary evenings, create artistic things, and she wouldn’t feel so alone.’"
Nursing home. The thought of taking Auntie Lena there echoes in my mind. I picture her neat two-story house, with rose bushes that towered above the fence, their smell, the sweetest in the entire neighborhood.
When we first moved to our neighborhood, I was just five years old. Beyond the small, gray gate lay a world full of mysteries. There lived a petite woman with completely white hair.
Auntie Lena knew best what war was. During the war in the 90s, she lost her only son, and shortly after her husband passed away.
I lived in that district for 25 years, and Auntie Lena had changed very little during that time. The woman who worked at the court always wore a stern expression and never wore makeup. Now I understand that she hadn’t dyed her hair out of mourning. The only noticeable change was her pace; she had begun to walk slowly.
Her two-story house was always kept neat, and she stayed attuned to the world, aware of all the news. Each evening, she would step outside and sit with her neighbors. Despite her respectable age, Auntie Lena often thought of the future.
Since she had no relatives in Artsakh, Lena arranged for her tombstone to be built with a picture. The only thing missing was the year of her death. The first time I saw the tombstone of my living neighbor in the cemetery, I was taken aback. Then it hit me: this woman had truly thought of everything.
In September 2023, Auntie Lena was compelled to leave her two-story house and the still-blooming red rose behind, without having added the year of her death to her own gravestone.
Today, her neighbors, now scattered around the globe, wonder where their old neighbor—who had her own grave yet was not fortunate enough to be buried in her homeland—would have found peace.
Mashtots 14
‘We’ve found a new house and plan to move in at the beginning of the month. It’s spacious—95 square meters,’ our friend says during a video call, and I can see a spark of joy in his eyes as he emphasizes the word 'big.
In this past year, it’s hard to count how many times the displaced people of Karabakh have changed apartments. They often find themselves comparing these new spaces to their lost homes, searching for houses that hold at least some resemblance to the places they once called home.
The war that erupted in the afternoon caught many by surprise. Bombs fell like rain, forcing people from border villages and towns to flee in their everyday clothes and slippers, desperately seeking shelter.
When 'everything was clear,' many found themselves unable to return home. Those who did manage to go back and bring something with them now sacredly hold onto their tangible belongings from their lost homes, clinging to the faint hope that one day, they might return to their true home.
My friend's family now resides in one of the distant districts of Yerevan. In their rented apartment, they hold a few cherished items sacred: a small statue of Themis, the goddess of justice, which belongs to my lawyer friend; a small vase brought from their home, with a row of palm trees planted inside—unofficially regarded as the defining tree of Martuni; a plaque engraved with their home address, 'Mashtots 14'; and a painting that has become sacred to them since last December, depicting their house—the best representation of the home they once knew.
Home in a suitcase
‘Put it back in its place, and don’t take it out of the bag!’ I hear my mother’s scolding voice as she talks to my daughter, who isn’t even two yet. My little one is rummaging through a bag with white and blue patterns with great curiosity.
My mother and my sister's family have been living in a small two-room apartment for a year now. When we gather together, we try to avoid discussing the war and our losses, but suppressing our feelings of longing becomes a challenge.
The autumn sun gently streamed in through the small balcony, warming the room. In weather like this, we wouldn’t sit indoors; instead, we’d gather under our mulberry tree, swinging as we listened to the rustling leaves of the old tree, often accompanied by the echoing voices of neighbors. There was always a faint smoke in the air during this season—the smell of collected leaves. Here, that smoke is absent; the neighbors don’t seem to make a sound, and I find myself longing for the familiar voices and conversations of our community. We, the people of Karabakh, have our own dialect, and many of us fear losing it after our displacement.
My mom is particularly sensitive about the loss of our dialect. As soon as she hears familiar words, she eagerly asks where they’re from, how they settled here, how they’re managing, and whether they have a home.
She genuinely rejoices for those who had the foresight and the capacity to buy an apartment in Armenia. Owning a home is a dream for many. The apartment where my mother and sister's family now live could easily fit inside the living room of our former five-room house.
My mom had a passion for new dishes, soft furniture, and tasteful decor; she loved to create beauty in every corner of our home. We had both a summer kitchen and a winter kitchen, and we stored the dishes we rarely used in the summer kitchen. My friend often jokes, ‘You could buy a house in Yerevan with the money spent on all those dishes.’
We couldn’t take anything from our house; there was no fuel for the car to make the trip back home and take something. When we first left Mama managed to take only some clothes from the home where she had spent both her best and, undeniably, her most challenging years.
Only memories and feelings remained from the house built with a salary earned over 30 years. After the displacement, people lost everything: beyond material possessions, they also lost their positions, jobs, and the opportunity to work in their chosen fields. Thousands were forced to change professions just to afford rent. Many of the teachers I knew became bakers, merchants, and those who once held positions as officers found themselves working as security guards in the service sector.
My mother, who once led the culture department for an entire region, now works in a museum. Sometimes I wonder how she copes with these changes, but I realize that, in many ways, she is 'happier' than most.
My daughter once again rummages through the bag and pulls out a glass—it's a piece of our household dishes.
‘Is that our cup? What else do you have in your bag, Mom?’ I ask her, surprised. I didn’t realize she had brought this cup with her and that it had been tucked away in her suitcase all this time, under the table.
“‘There are a few cups from our house,’ she says. ‘Maybe one day we will have a house again, and this will be a little memory of our home.’”
My mom carries our home with her in her suitcase.
- Azerbaijanis refer to as Xocavend ↩︎