Destruction of Karabakh by Armenia:
Our elders say to the first person who turns on the light in the dark room, be in the light. We are going to thank those who have illuminated our room, which has been closed for 30 years. Our road is in the direction of Fuzuli-Hadrut-Shusha.
It is both a long and a bright journey. A deep voice inside me scolds me for being late. Where?! Fuzuli has no stone left to hang the flag of freedom. To Fuzuli, who has been sleeping with eyes open for decades, whose stones have remained side by side, not on top of each other. To Fuzuli, who had Araz in from chest. Or a longing for time, to Fuzuli, whose lights we are now shooting.
Liberation of Fuzuli:
I look at the clock, it’s early. So what is the reason for all this anxiety? I don’t even know, even though it’s early, I’m days, months, years late. No more, no less, two years have passed since the liberation of this city. True, I was late, maybe I didn’t have the courage, maybe I didn’t have the heart. My heart didn’t come, but now my feet did. My feet, braver than my heart, are now in Fuzuli, just as they went to the plain of Cdır a year ago.
We pass slowly by the houses that were victims of Armenian vandalism. We act lightly so as not to hurt the souls. Even the leaves do not move so slowly in Aran in summer. Speaking of Aran, a house was being built in the neighborhood when I was a kid, I knew some parts of the house were pre-empted for doors and windows. In Fuzuli, this space was either opened with rockets or only space was left.
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Ruins of Aghdam:
In Fuzuli there was a void within an emptiness. As soon as I get off the bus, I take a deep breath. There’s no destruction just in the sky here. Homeland, where we suffered for 27 years and did not see its fruit, only the sky remained for us. I hugged Fuzuli, where the sky was moaning and the night was mixing with the day. I press on my chest, which is as painful as the ruins of Aghdam. I caressed him until the saint Shusha, maybe it will be a balm for their troubles.
Destruction of Fuzuli:
There is destruction among demolitions in Fuzuli. How did God accept this tragedy?! I wonder whose home it is, whose soul still sleeps here. When you touch the stones, you will feel the absence more deeply. Didn’t the world come out of nothing? It will come into existence out of nothing, I believe, I have to believe, otherwise one can go crazy at this hour right now.
All the houses were pierced by bullets. We saw this from our grandfathers, we close the doors and windows so that the sleeping person does not get cold. Isn’t it cold for babies rocking in empty cradles, mothers waiting for them, and fathers leaning their elbows on the couch while their world is turned upside down? There are snowy and stormy winters ahead of us.
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In the distance is a house with white lights. Inside is a little girl with long hair and a white dress. She calls us with a smile with traces of tears from years ago on her cheek.
They say that one’s heaven looks like another’s hell. In the report prepared last year by “Ria Novosti” from Fuzuli, these places were called “nightmare cities”. This scene, which seems like a nightmare for foreigners, is actually Fuzuli’s cry and pain for over thirty years.
Rehabilitation by Azerbaijan:
It’s autumn now. Fuzuli leaves turn yellow. Yellow is the color of both separation and reunion. We left Fuzuli in autumn and reunited in autumn.
Fuzuli literally rises from the ashes. New facilities and infrastructure are being built at every step. There are lights on the winding roads and we go on those roads, pass Hadrut and go to Shusha. All streets are illuminated from Fuzuli to Vagif’s tomb.
Now autumn has come, and the leaves are turning yellow in Fuzuli. Yellow is also the color of waiting. Fuzuli is waiting for the day when its owners will set foot here forever. Maybe that day is closer than tomorrow. The planes landing at Fuzuli Airport will return to Baku without passengers…
A report from Fuzuli, a victim of Armenian vandalism by Gunel Abbasova