Karabakh is a homeland where the very soil speaks. Each district, each village was distinguished by a unique characteristic. One was renowned for its teachers, another for its mugham masters, and yet another for the art woven stitch by stitch by its carpet-making women. Until February 1992, Khojaly was also like this - it was known for its soldiers, its hardworking and cheerful people, the majestic Asgaran fortress, the turbulent Gargar River, and its educated teachers. And also for its almond trees…
The almond tree is the first tree to welcome spring. It is as if it cannot endure the harshness of winter and is the first to rejoice in the Sun. In Khojaly, too, the almonds would bloom early. Pure white petals would settle on the branches before the soil had fully warmed. The village's weddings and celebrations would also be as joyful and bright as those flowers. Sounds would emanate from every house, and every yard would glow like a hearth.
Sometimes, one does not know that the moment they are living is their last. February 26, 1992, was such a day for the people of Khojaly... On that day, there were infants embracing their fathers for the last time, women seeing their husbands off to work for the last time, and fathers kissing their children's foreheads for the last time. Grandparents, who had seen much in their 70-80 years of life, inhaled the cold, clean air of Khojaly for the last time that day. There were children playing in their yards for the last time, and families sitting comfortably at the dinner table for the last time.
After that night, the name of Khojaly was no longer uttered as before. On that day, the fate of unborn infants remained incomplete. The sighs of children whose feet were frostbitten while hiding in the forest, the gazes of captive mothers and sisters, the blood of brutally murdered soldiers, and the shadows of elderly grandparents who remained in the fire because they lacked the strength to leave their homes, all remained in the name of Khojaly.
The Asgaran fortress was no longer remembered for its grandeur, but for its testimony to the tragedy. The Gargar River was no longer the river of childhood memories. The feet of those who crossed that river sank not into water, but into ice-cold pain. The trembling bodies of children who fell into the waters while fleeing their villages, and the corpses scattered along the riverbank, also changed Gargar.
Khojaly was now known differently. It became known through a five-year-old child sleeping in the Alley of Martyrs, through the fate of Rafkhan who froze while fleeing in the forest, and through the pain of eight-month-old Salatin, whose mother suffocated her by pressing her to her chest to prevent her from falling captive.
Mushgunaz Ahmadova, who suffocated her child to prevent her from falling captive and was left helpless in the forest, spoke about this to Modern.az.
Mushgunaz Ahmadova is the wife of martyr Yelmar Ahmadov. She had moved to Khojaly as a bride a short time before the war:
“I had moved to Khojaly as a bride from Lachin. I was young, and going to an unfamiliar place was difficult at that time. But the people of Khojaly supported me from the very first day. My husband Yelmar, his family... I did not know that this happiness would not last long. Two daughters were born to us. The elder's name was Vusala, and the younger's name was Afsana. Yelmar wanted both of them to become teachers. My husband had been working as a police officer at the airport since 1990. Alif Hajiyev, Tofig Huseynov, Fuzuli Rustamov were his closest friends.
Although we lived in wartime conditions, my husband always looked positively towards the future. We never thought such a calamity would befall us. Now I blame him for thinking that way. For 34 years, I have been thinking that everything could have been different. But I can never imagine Yelmar as an old man. It was not my destiny to grow old with him, to raise children, or to bring up grandchildren. After a tragedy like Khojaly, I bore the entire burden of my children alone...
In 1991, our third child was born. At that time, when Salatin Asgarova was going from Khojaly to Lachin, she asked Yelmar about his children and family. He had said that he had 2 daughters and another one was on the way. Salatin Asgarova also said that if it was a girl, he should name her Salatin, and if a boy, Jeyhun. Our daughter was born, and Yelmar named her Salatin. But he could not see the girl go to school or how she grew up.”
"Khojaly felt like a cage to me after that day"
“From 1988, after the events flared up, Yelmar was at work all day. Like all Khojaly residents, he prioritized his homeland over his children and family. He did not think about having daughters. Yelmar had died in December 1991 during the shootings. Salatin was 5 months old then, and I didn't know what to do. Khojaly, where I had lived for years, felt like a cage, a prison to me from that day on. My mother's family came to us after that day to take the children. They knew that the situation in Khojaly was very bad. My mother-in-law did not want to leave her child there, and I could not leave her alone. I sent my elder daughters with my mother to Barda, while I, Salatin, and my mother-in-law remained in Khojaly. I couldn't bring myself to leave the elderly woman alone there. But on that day, my mother-in-law, three brothers-in-law, three sisters-in-law, one of my brother-in-law's sons, my brother-in-law's grandchild, my husband's cousin, and my cousin became martyrs. Neither their dead nor their living bodies were found.”
"I suffocated my 8-month-old baby to prevent her from falling captive"
"On the night of February 25-26, we understood that if we stayed in Khojaly, we would all die. Like our neighbors and villagers, we were forced to flee into the forest. At that time, the only forest path remained to get to Aghdam. The Armenians had blocked all other roads. I was trying to get to Aghdam through the open forest with my 8-month-old baby in my arms. When we entered the forest, Salatin was crying. I was afraid that we would be captured. At that time, there were more than 30 people with us. Aydin, the father-in-law of my husband's cousin, had a weapon in his hand. I told him to kill both me and the child. In my heart, I would not agree to either myself or any other girl or bride being captured. He said that he could not take a life given by God. I pressed the child to my chest with my hand; she stopped crying, her breath was cut off. First, I thought of leaving the child in the forest, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. My husband Yelmar had named her after Salatin Asgarova. She was his last trust to me, I said no matter what, I would take her dead p with me. There was an old woman named Mahira, I told her to tie this child to my back. My heart was burning, I was in the snow, but I felt as if my p was on fire, I couldn't cry, my throat was knotted, I couldn't breathe. At that time, I had a knitted shawl that I had made with my hands, I wrapped Salatin in that shawl."
Image: Mushgunaz Ahmadova's knitted shawl and outerwear in which she wrapped her daughter Salatin after suffocating her
"The Armenians said, 'We are taking you, but if you fire a shot, we will kill all of you'"
"When we descended to Dehraz village and then climbed back up, the Armenians saw us. They said, 'We will take you.' Then a shootout occurred. Our people were wounded. They took us to a place like a stable. In captivity, Mahira, the old woman, told me that the child was moving. I was so happy I didn't know what to do; she was indeed moving. We stayed in the ice-cold stable for a day; I couldn't walk. I had no strength to carry the child. Our villager said, 'Give me the child, I'll carry her.' I said, 'She has died and come back to life; I won't let her out of my sight.' He took my arm and led both me and baby Salatin with him. When the Armenians asked who the child was, he said her parents were dead, and they simply allowed it. The Armenians said, 'We are taking you, but if you fire a shot, we will kill all of you.' We went from Khojaly to Aghdam, and from there to Abdal-Gulabli. My two daughters wouldn't let my mother come and take me from there. Later, my mother told me, saying, 'They thought you were all dead, and if I came, I would die too...'"
"I cried for the first time after that incident"
“When we were in Aghdam, we heard gunshots again, and I couldn't put Salatin down from my side. I didn't give the child to my mother either; my legs were in a bad state, I couldn't walk. When I heard the gunshots, I got scared, and when I tried to run, my late brother grabbed me and hugged me tightly. We both cried there; it was the first time I cried after leaving Khojaly.”
"Whatever happens to me after that, I cry for Khojaly"
“After everything improved, the state supported us greatly; all my daughters studied and are now working. Yelmar's wish came true; both my daughters are teachers. But he did not live to see these days. He knows neither that his daughters are teachers nor that Khojaly is liberated.
In 2023, after Khojaly was liberated, I visited his grave first alone, and then with my grandchildren. The first time I went, I was afraid that I might not even find his grave. I thought that this happiness might not be destined for me. When I went there, I felt as if life had not existed in Khojaly for 30 years; I thought Yelmar had passed away a few months ago. But I lived without him for more than 30 years. If you ask if we have gotten used to his absence, both my daughters' and my answer would be "no." Even though my daughters are now older than the age at which their father became a martyr. It has been difficult for us to find solace. But for 2 years, I have promised myself that I will no longer cry for Khojaly. Because those lands are free; at least I, my daughters, and my grandchildren, who never saw their grandfather's face, have a place of solace, a grave to visit...”
