Behind every martyr lies a memory, a trust. Someone's watch, someone's letter, someone's first or last gift to their children or parents remains as a trust. But sometimes, after a martyr, only photographs of the last farewell taken at their funeral remain. Like martyr Sabuhi Ahmadov, who grew up in a children's home.
For some time now, as Modern.az, we have been trying to keep the memory of our martyrs alive through the “Legacy of Martyrs” column. Until now, in every martyr's family we spoke with, there was a legacy. These legacies can be called a material trace of the life given to the earth, of the soul left behind. While preparing articles for this column, I always thought there was no greater helplessness than finding solace in objects instead of the person who was once dearest to you. Until I spoke with Sabuhi Ahmadov's brother, Sanan bey..
"None of us had our own room or personal belongings"
“You know, let me put it this way, there weren't many things in our house that could be called my brother's personal belongings. We never divided anything between "his" or "mine." There would be one shirt or one pair of trousers, and both of us would wear them; our p sizes were the same. If I bought something for myself, he would wear it too,” – when Sabuhi bey started his words this way, it wasn't difficult to understand that this time everything would be different.
"That orphan would come for a 30-day vacation once a year, and he wouldn't let himself buy anything. From the day he arrived until the day he left, he would only sit and watch movies, and he would have a 2-liter cola and cigarettes next to him. Sometimes I would say, 'Let's go out to the city, let's go down to the yard.' I would somehow convince him, with a bit of a struggle. We would go and watch movies and such.
Whatever I gave him, he would wear it; since my taste was good, I usually chose his clothes. I knew his favorite foods: “McDonalds” and tabaka. If we were going to a restaurant when we went out to the city, we would go to places where we could eat those foods.
At home, he would quietly say: "It's good that you're here, brother." Even though I knew he liked it, I would always ask again: "Did you like it?" He was never dissatisfied; his eyes always smiled.
Therefore, I cannot show you any personal belongings related to him, because we were not like standard families. None of us had our own room or personal belongings. The difficult conditions we lived in taught us that if you have something in life, whether it's food or household items – it belongs to you and your loved ones. That is, not "yours-mine," but "ours." Whatever we had. We only had personal phones, and we knew their codes. I am older, he wouldn't look at my phone, but I would look at his, so that others wouldn't use it or bother him.
Again, I say, today I cannot show you any personal belongings related to him. He has his boots, his military uniform, and they are covered in blood...
He had bought a gift for my wife for her dowry. That is, we had bought it together. Since we didn't have a house, we had put it in the house in the district. When my child was born, he paid the doctor's 1000 manat for the operation. You know, my wife is not someone who likes expensive things. My brother had bought my wife a phone, or chocolate, or, I don't know, plums in winter… Things like that.
Our most beautiful investment was the wonderful days we spent together. We spent our money on traveling, eating, and drinking, creating memories. We never accumulated worthless worldly possessions. Our existence, our health, was a gift to each other. We didn't expect anything from each other either. Even on birthdays, we would give each other money. The memories left behind from him are his uniform, his phone, his messages, and 3 cigarettes.”
I couldn't intervene with Sanan bey, nor did I have any comfort to offer him. After talking for a while, I asked for Sabuhi's own pictures. Sanan bey mostly had Sabuhi's childhood photos. And that was all that remained of him for us – pictures taken in the children's home and at his funeral.
Sometimes, life gives a person nothing to test them. But there are also people who create themselves from this nothingness. Sabuhi was one of them. Everyone's destiny begins in a home, with a family, but his destiny began in a children's home, and he became a hero of the homeland.
Sabuhi became a martyr at the age of 27 in Kalbajar. Life had given him neither a father nor a mother, but he became the "son" of the homeland.
Today, his name lives on in the highest state awards. Sabuhi Ahmadov was posthumously awarded the "Brave Warrior," "Azerbaijani Flag," and "For the Homeland" medals. With his martyrdom, he became a brother to all of us, a member of every one of our homes. Fate decreed that Sabuhi could not gather his family around a single table, but he united this country. May your soul rest in peace, our brother.
