Ali Doğan is a journalist who has been a live witness and professional chronicler of events related to Azerbaijan since the 1990s. Ali Doğan, who was among the foreign journalists who came to Baku after the January 20 events of 1990, visited the front lines multiple times during the First Karabakh War and prepared reports as a war correspondent. After the TRT Baku office opened in 2002, he worked as a correspondent, and in 2006, he resumed his activities at the TRT Baku office. Returning to Turkey in 2010, Ali Doğan currently works as an editor at TRT.
This article contains his journalistic reflections written after his visit to Karabakh again after 34 years.
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I was impatient to see Karabakh, the Turkish homeland where Azerbaijan ended the Armenian occupation with the 44-day Patriotic War in 2020. As soon as the opportunity arose, I made my way to Karabakh…
This was not my first visit to these lands. Years ago, during the First Karabakh War, I witnessed this geography very close to the front lines, in the shadow of gunfire. In those days, Karabakh was the name of pain, destruction, and unfinished destinies. Today, however, it greets one with a completely different emotion: pride mingled with sorrow, a revival emerging from silence.
Destroyed cities, walls riddled with bullet marks still speak. But now, in these lands, there is not only the pain of the past but also the light of hope for the future. After 34 years, Karabakh is experiencing the heavy but honorable tranquility of its reunion with itself.
I do not look around merely with a journalist's eye; I walk as a person who has directly witnessed the story of these lands. And with every step, I feel this: Karabakh is no longer silent, Karabakh breathes again.
The feeling I experienced when I first stepped onto these lands was not ordinary joy; it was an ancient call passing through my veins.
In the years I covered the First Karabakh War as a correspondent, when I came to the Aghdam front, we would stay in a simple house behind the mosque. In the shadow of the war, that house was not just a shelter for us; it was a living witness where fear, hope, and expectation gathered under the same roof.
When Armenians occupied Aghdam in 1993, not only a city but also our memories were silenced. For a full 27 years, Aghdam existed on maps, but not in life.
In 2020, that silence was broken with the 44-day Patriotic War; Aghdam regained its freedom.
When I returned to Aghdam after 34 years, only the standing walls remained of the house where we stayed. No sound, no trace… But every stone, every crack whispered of the past. That place where I once took notes and set off for the front had now turned into a bare memory left behind by the occupation.
Today, the Azerbaijani state is rebuilding Aghdam. From amidst the ruins, a new city, a new life rises. And I, as a correspondent who once witnessed pain, this time witness revival. Aghdam is no longer just a front-line memory; it is the name of resistance, patience, and return.
The Juma Mosque, a symbol of Aghdam, is today a witness to silence and revival…
The traces of occupation have been erased, the walls restored, but the memories remain in place.
In this mosque, where I prayed in the shadow of gunfire during the First Karabakh War, today my head was bowed, and my heart was full. This time, I prayed for those who were martyred in the 44-day Patriotic War.
Time had changed, destiny had changed, the land had regained its freedom.
But Karabakh had never forgotten what had happened.
The name Khojaly is not merely a place name; it is a mourning etched into Turkish memory. As I walked there, I felt the presence not of innocents buried beneath the soil, but of a nation's honor that had not fallen. The Turkishness within me silently rose — not with anger, but with patience and faith.
In 1992, I spoke with survivors of the Khojaly genocide, interviewing them while looking into their eyes. I did not merely hear the pain they spoke of; I lived it in my heart as a Turk, a journalist, and a human being. Years later, looking at Khojaly, the trembling voices of those who lived through that night echoed in my ears once more. They stood not before my lens, but squarely in the center of my conscience.
At that moment, I once again remembered with deep respect and sorrow the late Chingiz Mustafayev, who sacrificed his life to convey Khojaly to the world, Irfan Sapmaz, a soldier in the same struggle for truth, our devoted, fearless Turkish comrade Mahmud Kəsəmənli, and my esteemed institution TRT, which recorded this crime against humanity in history. Khojaly was etched into my memory not merely as a place, but as a testament, a sacrifice, and an unforgotten wound to humanity.
In Khankendi, I raised my head and looked at the sky. That sky was the same sky stretching from Central Asia to Anatolia, from the Caucasus to Rumelia. In this city, held alien for years, the line of Turkish destiny was once again visible. The pride I felt was not a shouting victory; it was a dignified stance declaring, “We are here and have always existed.”
“Two states, one nation” here is not a slogan, but a truth written in blood and destiny.
Upon reaching Shusha, history spoke. This is one of the fortresses not only of Azerbaijan but of the entire Turkic world. Standing on Jidir Duzu and looking down, I saw a resistance inherited from Oghuz — the spirit of Alparslan, Nuri Pasha, and countless unnamed heroes. Shusha was breathing again with a Turkish voice.
At that moment, the swelling emotion in my chest was not the liberation of a city, but the reawakening of the Turkic spirit.
As I advanced on the Lachin roads, the mountains did not seem alien to me. They were stern, silent, and honorable; as if they had broken away from Orkhon. These roads, closed to Turks for years, had not been forgotten. In every turn, there was patience; in every stone, expectation. Now, those roads seemed to recognize their owner.
To see these cities is not merely to recognize geography for a nationalist; it is to answer the call of history. My eyes welled up, but my head rose even higher. Because in Karabakh, I saw this:
The name of the Turk was not erased, its flag did not fall, its prayer was not left unfinished.
Today, Karabakh is entirely a construction site.
But here, not only concrete is poured, nor only roads are built.
The unfinished history of the Turk is being resurrected.
Bulldozers, excavators, and trucks work day and night. Cities devastated by the occupation are being rebuilt by the will of the Azerbaijani state. Roads, bridges, arteries… The Turkish homeland is being brought back to life.
I traveled Karabakh in this environment.
I walked through cities where the call to prayer was once silenced, where the Turkish trace was sought to be erased. The land still carries the memory of the martyrs; history speaks with every step.
Today, what rises in Karabakh is not just buildings —
It is the memory, honor, and will of Turkicness.
As these lands once again became a Turkish homeland, I traversed this geography not as a journalist, but as a son of Turkic heritage sharing the same destiny.
