The stolen childhoods of Artsakh

In the wake of repeated cycles of Azerbaijani violence, from the 2016 April War to the 2023 mass displacement of Artsakh Armenians, the scars of war in Armenia and Artsakh are often measured in maps and geopolitical shifts. Yet, the most profound devastation lies in the quiet, empty spaces left behind by those who never reached adulthood. Journalist Shushan Papazyan and photographer Ani Gevorgyan have spent years traversing the delicate landscape of grief to document the lives of children killed in these conflicts. Their collaboration, “Childhood Under Fire,” recently moved from the printed page to the walls of the Institute for Contemporary Art (ICA) in Yerevan, transforming journalistic testimony into a visceral, immersive experience. By focusing on still lifes,school notebooks, favorite toys and carefully preserved clothes of the deceased, they offer a haunting look at presence through absence. Personal belongings of an Artsakh child killed during the conflict. In this interview, Papazyan and Gevorgyan discuss the ethical weight of documenting loss, the power of a cold journalistic gaze in preserving dignity, and why the artifacts of a child’s life can sometimes speak louder than a portrait. Milena Baghdasaryan: How did the two of you decide to collaborate on this specific project? How do photography and journalism complement each other when documenting something as sensitive as the loss of a child? Ani Gevorgyan: This collaboration emerged naturally because both of us have long been working with themes of memory, loss, and the consequences of war, simply through different languages. Journalism makes it possible to preserve testimony, to give facts and voices precision, context, and a historical framework. Photography, in turn, works with what often cannot be fully expressed in words —- silence, absence, pauses, traces. When dealing with such a painful subject, it is essential not to exploit someone else’s grief. The combination of journalistic research and visual observation helps maintain that ethical boundary. One language supports the other and prevents the story from becoming either a dry archive or a purely emotional statement.  Shushan Papazyan: My collaboration with Ani has gone very smoothly. We complement each other. However, in the textual version, there are more descriptions about the death, because we didn’t want to include photos containing blood or other sensitive content. Baghdasaryan: The title “Childhood Under Fire” is visceral. Was there a specific moment or image that solidified this name for the exhibition? Gevorgyan: There was a moment when I was photographing children’s belongings left untouched after loss: school notebooks, toys, clothes, objects that still seemed to hold the child’s presence. At that moment, it became especially clear that war destroys not only lives, but also childhood itself as a space of safety, play and future. The title “Childhood Under Fire” emerged as a precise definition of that condition —- when not only individual lives are attacked, but the very idea of childhood. Papazyan: I remember we were at a family’s home, flipping through the child’s photos, when we saw the kindergarten photo in the corner of her memorial, which read “Happy Childhood.” This was a blow for both of us, realizing that these children’s lives had been cut short, and they never even got to enjoy their childhood. When we were thinking about the project’s title, such images were swirling in our heads. Settling on it, we wanted to show how the war had stolen these children’s lives.  Baghdasaryan: Ani, your photography often focuses on the objects left behind: a suitcase, a small plot of land, toys. Why did you choose to focus on these “still lifes” rather than just portraits? Gevorgyan: A portrait is always very direct. It immediately demands a reaction, and sometimes even imposes an emotion. It was important for me to find a more delicate way of approaching this subject. Objects speak differently. They preserve presence through absence. A toy left on a bed or a small piece of land where a child once played, can tell us just as much about loss as a human face. I am interested in that space between memory and disappearance. Through these quiet images, the viewer is not given a ready-made emotion, but is invited to arrive at an understanding on their own. Personal belongings of an Artsakh child killed during the conflict. A toy left on a bed or a small piece of land where a child once played, can tell us just as much about loss as a human face. I am interested in that space between memory and disappearance. Baghdasaryan: Working with [ICA President] Ruben Arevshatyan, how did you decide to structure the physical space of the exhibit hall to reflect the timeline from 2016 to 2023? Gevorgyan: It was important for us that the exhibition be experienced not as a collection of separate stories, but as an unfolding process stretched across time. At the same time, we consciously avoided a strictly linear chronology. We wanted it to feel less like moving through dates and more like entering a recurring experience of loss that continues to return within Armenian reality.  Baghdasaryan: You cover the span from the 2016 April War to the 2023 displacement. Did you notice a change in the way families spoke about their loss or their hope over these seven years? Gevorgyan: Yes, very much so. In the earlier stories, there was often an attempt to find meaning or explanation, sometimes even a belief that such sacrifice might lead to change. Over time, the conversations carried more fatigue and a stronger sense of repetition. At the same time, what deeply moved me was that even after so many years, many families still speak not only about pain, but about the dignity of memory. It is not hope in the usual sense, but rather a quiet inner resilience.   Papazyan: Naturally, changes have occurred, but these families still can’t come to terms with their loss, and every time they talk about it as if it happened yesterday. I think we, as a society, share some blame too, because they don’t receive the proper support and empathy from us. And this project was another way to amplify these families’ voices and draw society’s attention.  What deeply moved me was that even after so many years, many families still speak… about the dignity of memory. It is not hope in the usual sense, but rather a quiet inner resilience.  Baghdasaryan: Who is this exhibition for? Is it a way for the Armenian community to process collective trauma, or is it a message aimed at the international community? Gevorgyan: For me, it is both an internal and an external conversation. Within Armenian society, we often live alongside this trauma without always allowing ourselves the space to reflect on it. The exhibition creates an opportunity to pause and encounter it not through the flow of news, but through human experience. For an international audience, it is a reminder that behind every political conflict there are specific lives, specific children, and specific families.  Baghdasaryan: How do you balance preserving the memory of these children without defining their entire existence solely by their tragic deaths? Gevorgyan: This is perhaps one of the most important ethical questions of the project. We tried to speak not about death as an event, but about the lives that came before it — their habits, favorite objects, dreams, and the details of everyday life. It is important to me that viewers see them not as symbols of tragedy, but as children —- each with their own character, presence and unique world.  …These families still can’t come to terms with their loss, and every time they talk about it as if it happened yesterday. I think we, as a society, share some blame too, because they don’t receive the proper support and empathy from us.   Papazyan: Unlike the journalistic section of this project, the exhibition tries to show these families’ present lives —- how they live after the child’s death. No matter how much we tried to describe in detail the moments of these children’s deaths, we avoided it in the exhibition because we wanted to present their lives, their beloved toys, school uniforms, or clothes.  Baghdasaryan: Documenting the deaths of children is an immense emotional burden. How has working on this project changed your perspective on your craft? Gevorgyan: This project has made me much more attentive to the responsibility of being a photographer. It reminded me that photography is not only about images, composition or visual aesthetics. Above all, it is about relationships: trust, time and the ability to be present without intruding. After this work, I feel even more strongly that documentary photography should not speak for people, but rather create a space in which their stories can be heard. Personal belongings of an Artsakh child killed during the conflict. Papazyan: Writing about a child’s death fundamentally differs from covering other aspects of the conflict. When recounting these children’s deaths, I realized how much power a single word can hold while still avoiding pathos. These five stories are written in a way that creates a vivid image of what these children were like at home, at school, while also describing the moments of their deaths, funerals, or the transport of their bodies. In all of this, it was very important not to overwhelm the reader with pathos. Baghdasaryan: If a visitor walks out of ICA Yerevan having seen only one image or read only one quote, what is the single most important realization you want them to take home? Gevorgyan: Probably a very simple but important realization: war never truly ends when documents are signed or when headlines disappear from the news. It continues in the memory of families, in empty rooms, in objects no one will touch again, and in childhoods that were never allowed to fully exist. If a visitor leaves with a sense of personal responsibility to remember this, then the exhibition will have fulfilled its purpose.  Papazyan: Perhaps it’s that these children’s stories aren’t just their families’, because their deaths are unacceptable. I know how clinical my texts in this exhibition seem, but I wanted them to sober everyone up to see that side of the war that’s often not talked about, because it requires more psychological preparedness.  Probably a very simple but important realization: war never truly ends when documents are signed or when headlines disappear from the news. It continues in the memory of families, in empty rooms, in objects no one will touch again, and in childhoods that were never allowed to fully exist. The individual stories  Baghdasaryan: In the article about 8-year-old Victoria Gevorgyan, we see her life “preserved in a suitcase.” How do you navigate the ethics of asking a grieving family to open these private archives for the public eye? Papazyan: Usually, when I write about such sensitive topics, I prepare these families for the theme through my questions, then proceed. Once the conversation starts, I listen carefully and note the important moments, including how these families preserve their children’s memory. In this story, it was the child’s clothes that the mother would iron and arrange with care every time.  Personal belongings of an Artsakh child killed during the conflict. Baghdasaryan: Gor Arustamyan’s story is unique because it discusses a child who “died from fear.” In a conflict often measured by physical shelling, how important was it for you to document the psychological toll of war? Papazyan: When we decided to write these stories, we didn’t choose them; this is very important in conflict coverage, because as journalists, we have no right to pass judgment on any death. However, while working on these stories, we realized we wanted to show all possible sides, for example, how the yard of a house is shelled, then the school, then focusing on one child whose death was caused by fear. It was very important to approach these families without judgment, which I think we succeeded in doing. Overall, these stories also document the psychological side — for mothers, fathers, and other children — how they coped with the loss of a family member. We tried to show this through the experiences of the mothers, how they managed to care for their other children, who had also been injured at the same time. Baghdasaryan: Sergey Hovoyan’s and Vagharshak Grigoryan’s stories both touch on the physical “paths” mothers take to cemeteries. Shushan, as a writer, how do you manage your own emotional state when walking these paths with these families? Papazyan: Usually, when I start an interview, I highlight the important themes for myself, so to speak, identifying the thread I want to follow with the interviewee. With these women, I spoke from the very beginning, starting with questions like how they chose the child’s name, their favorite food, color, object, and so on. I tried to awaken the life of their children in these women’s memories, then asked about the moment the war started and how their child died. During these conversations, building trust is crucial because I’m touching wounds they carefully hide. I had a separate question about when they last visited their child’s grave, to show that the war has even taken away the right to visit the grave for some families. Baghdasaryan: With Eduard Aleksanyan’s story*, you were dealing with many “unknowns.” Why was it important to document this case despite the lack of clear answers? Papazyan: The peculiarity of this story was that there were many unknowns and incomprehensible parts, because the children had died from a possible diversionary attack. From a journalistic perspective, this was also an important commitment to give the reader the story and the opportunity to ask questions. * Editor’s note: The bodies of Eduard Aleksanyan, 11, and his  friend Davit, 14, were found two months before the start of the 44-day war in 2020. Their families say the boys were tortured and killed in an Azerbaijani military diversionary attack. The post The stolen childhoods of Artsakh appeared first on The Armenian Weekly.