When Home Stops Being Safe

We first did an episode with Gayane Milonyan in 2023 - the day after she and her family were forced to flee Artsakh. But we wanted to talk with her again, to better understand her life in Artsakh and what she’s lived through since. Gayane sees a connection between struggles in her personal life, and those faced by her homeland: “Sometimes we think we love something, but it brings us only pain.”

If you haven’t listened to the first episode we did with Gayane, it’s called “Special Episode: My Land Feels so Sweet, but it’s Thirsty for Blood.” You can listen on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, and on our website.

Transcript

Before the ethnic cleansing that forced all the Armenians out of Artsakh in 2023, Gayane Milonyan had only left twice: The first time was when she was a child during the first Nagorno-Karabakh war, in the early 90s.

“The second time was the 2020 war,” she says.

She has only left during wars. Each time conflict forced her out of her native Artsakh, she went to the Republic of Armenia, and then she returned home as soon as the fighting settled down. But the third time she left was when Azerbaijan bombed Artsakh after the 10-month blockade in September 2023. Gayane, along with over 100,000 Artsakh Armenians – was never able to return.

When we met with her, in the summer of 2024, almost a year after she and her two children had been displaced, she toured us around their home in Yerevan.

“I really love it here. Because I quit being a perfectionist.”

In the nine months after she was forced to leave her home she moved six times, to different towns across Armenia. This is a common story for people displaced from Artsakh. It’s hard to find work, of course, but it’s also hard to find a place that feels like home.

Gayane doesn’t have too many things, but she has a bit of her own furniture that she’s moved with her. Every time.

“I like everything white. That's why if you see something white, I brought it with me.”

Any furniture that’s white is hers. She says that it makes her happy. Anything that’s big and old and soviet, came with the apartment.

Gayane’s 12-year-old daughter, Milana, loves Yerevan. Specifically Northern Avenue, the big pedestrian boulevard that’s lined with fancy stores. One of the six places they’ve lived since being displaced is Dilijan, a picturesque resort town in the mountains. It was not Milana’s scene.

“The reason that I left Dilijan,” says Gayane as she laughs, is “because Milana said that it's not a glamorous city.”

And Gayane’s 9-year-old son, Sergey, is obsessed with Rubik’s cubes. When he shows us and we time it, it takes about half-a-minute. His record is 11 seconds.

On their wall, Gayane has put up post-it notes with advice for herself. Like “meditate” and “keep boundaries,” And also one that says, every morning, to have a cold shower.

“Because it's the hardest thing you do. And after everything else, uh, seems too easy.”

So, start the day with something difficult to put everything else into perspective. Gayane is always trying to improve herself. Like, she made her own phone holder by the kitchen sink, so she can watch TED Talks while she washes dishes.

We first spoke with Gayane in September 2023 and put out an episode that featured her. I interviewed her on the side of the road, literally the day after she and her family had fled Artsakh, when they made the dangerous 48-hour drive on the one road out, right as the Azerbaijani military was sweeping over the whole region.

We wanted to talk with her again. First to understand what it’s been like for her since she had to leave. If you’ve almost never left home before, how does it feel to know you can’t go back? But also we wanted to know her better. Gayane has this calm steadiness, and a drive to keep on improving her life and her children’s lives. But that confidence was hard won.

For this episode we’re not going to focus on the 2020 war, or on the 10-month blockade of Artsakh in 2023, or on the ethnic cleansing that came after. You can listen to her talk about that in the first interview we did with her. That episode is called “My Land Feels so Sweet, but it's Thirsty for Blood" which is a direct quote from Gayane.

This episode is about Gayane - what made her, and how hard it has been to love her homeland. Her story is about the difficulties she’s faced and not just the kinds of challenges that make the news. Gayane’s story includes domestic abuse, but it’s also about how she’s taken control of her life.

This is a story about relationships. Relationships with people, and relationships with a place. How do those relationships shape us? What do we do when they hurt us? And how do we move on?

Welcome to Country of Dust, stories of a changing Armenia.

This episode: “When Home Stops Being Safe”

I’m Nyree Abrahamian.


IN ARTSAKH

Gayane grew up in Stepanakert, the capital of Artsakh. She didn’t just like it there, she was in love with it.

“I was really in love with Stepanakert. I was thinking that I can't live in any other place.”

It’s not hard to understand why. Stepanakert was this magical city. A capital, but small enough that everybody knew each other. It was clean, with rows and rows of neatly hung laundry in every courtyard. Urban, but surrounded by mountains.

“I really love the mountains, which are covered with many green trees. And in autumn they get yellow or red.”

Gayane grew up in a conservative family.

“When a man was coming to our house as a guest, me and my mother stayed in the kitchen. So I never communicated with any men. So so I didn't say hi to my neighbors because they are male.”

Even now, it can be hard for her to talk with men. In the back of her mind, there’s a voice that says she’ll be judged for it.

She has two brothers. They would go out on their own, but Gayane’s memories of going out are all with the family - when her father would take them down to the river to barbecue, or when they’d visit relatives.

So Gayane grew up quite sheltered, but she did go to university, and after university, she moved to her grandmother’s village, to work at the school there.

“I got the job of teacher there, and met a guy. So I got married.”

She was in her mid-twenties and he was the first man she dated, the first who held her hand. But it didn’t last.

“Պատճառը էն էր, որ ինքը մտածում եմ, եթե ինքը տղա ա, ինքը կարա  ա ոչ մի բան չանի, բղացի, ես էլ պետք ա համ աշպատանքի գնամ, համ երեխեքին պահեմ, համ տունը մաքրեմ, համ ամեն ինչ, ու ինքը էդքանից հետո իրավունք ունի ինձ ցույց տա իմ տեղը, որ ես ձայնի իրավունք չունեմ:”

He thought that because he’s a man he could just be in charge of her, put her down and put her in her place while she went, worked, and took care of everything.

And he was abusive.

“Physically, emotionally, mentally.”

“He was getting really mad when I was buying books when I was reading.”

Anything that was out of his control. He wouldn’t let her watch the BBC, because he didn’t understand English.

They were together for eight years. Several times she tried leaving. She took the kids and went to her parents’ house, but they told her that she should go back to him.

They said that, ‘For the kids, it’s important to have a father. That's the most important thing. You don't understand, It would be difficult if you get divorced.’ So they convinced me, and I went back.”

Then, one time, she was at her parents’ house and she had written a to-do list on her arm. In English.

“Խփեց բերանիս, բերանս տենց պատռվեց միջից ու սաղ արյուն արեց, որովհետև գրել էի ինչ պիտի վաղը անեմ: Ասում ա, դա ինչ ես գրել, քո սիրածի անունն ես գրել, չգիտեմ ինչ ես գրել:”

He said, “What did you write? Is that your lover’s name?” He hit her, split her lip.

“Ու պապաս ասեց արդեն վերջ, պրծաց ես, քո հետ էլ ոչ մի հարց լինել չի կարող:”

Her father asked “Why did you do that to her?” and he said “Why didn’t she write in Armenian?” After that, her parents agreed that she shouldn’t go back to him.

The last time she saw him was in court when they got divorced. He has another family now.

“And he never called to know what the children are doing, even during the war. He never called to know.”

Throughout the tumultuous years of her marriage and separation, Gayane had a story in her head that kept her going. It was about a lion.

“When I was still married, I went to the library and took a book about a lion. A lion living in the circus. And his dream was getting back to the forest. Freedom. At the end of the book, he was free. But in the freedom, he died. And I was thinking that it's better to die than live in this prison, in this cage, in this circus. So it was my motivation.”


DEMINING

To the lion, freedom was worth the risk of death. And it was to Gayane too.

“I was really in a very bad financial condition. I was trying to get a job as a teacher and it wasn't possible, sadly. My husband was saying that I will beg to get back to him, because I will have no money, because I will have no job.”

At 32, Gayane was single, with two young children. It was scary, but she was at a point in her life where she needed to make her own decisions. There was no turning back.

“The circumstances for me were so extreme that I was ready to get any job. Any well-paid job.”

Well-paid so she could have full control over her life, without answering to anyone.

“I wanted some job where I will be treated like a person, not like a woman. I wanted to be respected. I didn't want someone to yell at me only because I'm a woman, and only because he's a boss.”

There weren’t many jobs in Artsakh. But someone she knew told her that a humanitarian NGO called the HALO Trust was hiring. Their work is to clear explosives from conflict zones. Her job would be removing landmines leftover from the first Nagorno-Karabakh war in the 1990s.

“I was really afraid of that work, of the work of deminers.”

She went online and found articles that called demining the most dangerous job in the world. And her parents definitely did not want her to work there. But it was her path to freedom. Just like the lion escaping the circus in that book she read - getting this demining job was her way out.

“When I decided to be a deminer, at the same time, I overcame the fear of death. I was ready to lose my hands, lose my legs, and even die. But I wasn't ready to live in the way I was living before.”

First she worked in the field, sweeping a big, heavy metal detector back and forth across the ground to find mines and other explosives.

But soon, she was working in many facets of HALO’s work: as an interpreter, and in mine education - teaching the public about the risks of encountering land mines. One day, she was talking to a group of kids in a village.

“One of the kids asked, ‘Are you looking for a mine?’ I said, ‘Yes. Do you know any? Have you seen any?’ And he said, ‘Yes, I can show it. The mine is near our playground.’”

It was a large projectile sticking out of the ground, right by the place they played every day. It could still go off at any moment. The team came and cleared it out. It’s instances like this one that make Gayane especially proud. She could feel the direct impact of her work, saving lives.

But generally, her work was surprisingly calm. When they took a break, they would sit in the field and have coffee and chocolates from the back of their van, surrounded by mountains.

“I was enjoying my work with helping the land. And also I was enjoying being in nature. I just remembered I felt, ‘Is a job? I'm just having a good time. A picnic in the nature. Doing some little job and getting money for it. This actually is a joy, not a job.’”

A joy, not a job. Also, HALO was supportive, a good place to grow, especially once she started working in the office. It was all new to her, but she was eager to learn. The HALO staff were patient with her, and let her take her the time she needed to learn new skills.

“I remember Toby, he was my first manager. He was waiting two hours for me to type a few sentences on his computer, and he didn't say a word.”

Gayane says that getting this job was the first step into her “mature life.”

“It changed everything, actually. I became more confident, less shy. I had really bad problems with communicating with men. When I had the de-miner training, I was the only woman with 48 men.”

There were other women at HALO, but most of the deminers were men. And especially at first, it was uncomfortable for her to be around so many men. But she faced her discomfort.

Thinking back to that time reminds her of something that happened when she was a kid.

When she was a child, she almost drowned. A guest at a neighbor's house ran over, pulled her out of the water and saved her. She was scared of the water after that, but she wanted to swim, so she made herself get over it.

“I decided to learn to swim. No one taught me - I just jumped into the water and swim to the other side.”

She literally jumped in the deep end of her family’s swimming pool. It was an idiom come to life: Sink or swim. Working for HALO was just like that.

“It was the same thing. After being so isolated from the world - go to HALO and work with many, many men there. Feel that it's normal, it's okay to meet people, I'm not doing anything bad. It was a big deal for me.

It’s in her character, when there’s something she’s afraid of, there comes a point where she just goes for it.


AFTER THE 2020 WAR

The period after the 2020 war but before the complete ethnic cleansing of Artsakh in 2023, was a deeply uncertain time for Gayane, and for everyone in Artsakh. Especially during the 10-month blockade imposed by Azerbaijan.

Gayane had returned to Artsakh after the 2020 war because she had been promised that it would be safe for her family. Now, she felt guilty for bringing her children back somewhere that wasn’t safe, and where they couldn’t leave.

But during this period, Gayane was certain of one thing: she wouldn’t invest her time or money in anything material, anything she couldn’t take with her. Instead, she invested whatever she could in expanding her knowledge, and in her children.

“I was trying to improve my English. I was trying to invest everything in things that I can take with me when I leave Stepankert. If the situation changes I can take my children, I can take my brain, and go to Armenia.”

There was a point when she realized that she had to make a decision between her homeland and the lives of her children.

“When Vagif Khachatryan - I am not sure if you know about him - when he was taken to Baku.”

This was in 2023, in the middle of the 10-month blockade. Azerbaijan had set up a military checkpoint on the only road out. It was almost impossible for any goods or any people to enter or leave Artsakh.

An elderly man named Vagif Khachatryan was granted permission to get heart surgery in Yerevan. But at the checkpoint they detained him - based on the fact that he had fought in war in the 90s. He’s still in prison in Azerbaijan.

Virtually every man from Artsakh has served in the military, so there was a fear that Azerbaijan could use the same excuse to imprison any Armenian man, including Gayane’s family members.

“And so that made you feel like nobody is safe. That my dad, my brothers would not be safe.”

Two of her cousins had already been killed in the 2020 war. When Khachatryan was detained, this was the point when she realized that there was no future in Artsakh for her or her family.

“I couldn't sleep normally, I couldn't eat normally, I couldn't work normally. It was impossible actually to act like a normal, ordinary person. All the time feeling that you can be killed, your loved ones can be killed, you are a bad parent, you are a very bad parent, because you made that decision. You went back to Artsakh. And now you can't protect your loved ones. Because I can't risk my kids' life only because I love Artsakh that much.”

“Artsakh as a home stopped existing for me during the blockade. If you think about home, it's supposed to be safe. When home stops being safe, it's not a home anymore.”

She couldn’t stay in Artsakh anymore. At this point there was a blockade, so she couldn’t leave. But as soon as she could, Gayane knew that she would.

“Yes. I love this land, but sometimes we think that we love something, but it brings us only pain, and requires so many sacrifices.”

“When you get over after a toxic relationship with a person, it's almost the same. The parallel between a toxic relationship with a man and toxic relationship with your homeland, is something that is close to your heart and something that can kill you one day. You know that this land is good, you love this land. But it will kill you - if you stay it will kill you.”


EXODUS

The blockade had stretched on for so long that when Azerbaijan attacked Artsakh on September 19th, 2023, Gayane was actually relieved.

“I was first scared, and then happy. Because I knew that this will change something. This unbearable situation will end. We will survive or we will die.”

During the forced exodus, over 300 civilians died. Some during the attack, many on the road, and over 200 were killed in an explosion at a fuel depot.

Gayane spent two days stuck on the one road out of Artsakh, a road that should have taken 90 minutes to drive. When she passed through the Azerbaijani checkpoint - that was it. She was out.

“Բառեր չկան որ ես դա բացատրեմ, ընդհանրապես բառեր չկան, բայց ոնց որ ինչ որ գռուզովիկ, քարերով բեռնած քո մեջքից հանեին, որ դու բերում էիր էդքան վախտ, մի տարի բերում էիր քո գլխում քո մեջքին, ոնց որ էդ քարերը էդ բեռնատարը թափեին քեզանից, այ էդ զգացողություն էր, ու ես հանգիստ քնեցի: Առաջին անգամ մի տարում ես հանգիստ քնեցի:”

She says there aren’t words to describe it, but the moment they passed the checkpoint, it was like a really heavy truck filled with rocks that you’ve been carrying on your back for years has suddenly been taken off.

“We crossed the border and after so long period of time, after a year, I was feeling so free, so light. Because everything was so heavy for me. I was really, really, really dirty. I was hungry. So I slept for seven hours in the car - that was the most peaceful dream. That moment was the most incredible moment in my life.”

It’s a paradox. Gayane could never go back to her home, where she was born and raised. Where she raised her kids. Where she literally removed explosives from the ground to heal the land. Her home that she loved so dearly, that she had barely ever left in her life.  She was out, she couldn’t turn back, and she was relieved.

Her work at HALO had meant a lot to Gayane. But she had to leave all that behind now. Does it feel now like all the work was for nothing?

“I guess not. Maybe what I'm saying is not so correct, will not be accepted for many Armenians. But Azeri children that will live in the area are also children, are also human, so I wouldn't like them to be injured or killed.”

Beyond her work though, Gayane’s feelings about the land, and the sacrifices Armenians have made to keep it, are different. 

What about all the people over the years who she knows personally, and the thousands and thousands of others who have lost their lives. Now that Armenians have lost Artsakh, does it feel like that was for nothing?

“I think, yes. Sadly.”

It's a hard question to have to answer.

“Many Armenians, many 18 and 20 year old guys gave their lives to protect that land, to keep it Armenian. But it was too much. I don't think that that land should take more lives to be Armenian. It's my opinion.”

Her views are not typical. I’ve never heard anyone else from Artsakh express it this way.

“I appreciate the time I was there because I had really great moments there with my family, even though my family was controlling. But I know that they really love me. Especially now, they really appreciate me. Especially my dad says, ‘You are my lion daughter.’”


IN ARMENIA

There are just a few things that Gayane and her kids brought with them from Artsakh. Her daughter Milana brought some glow-in-the-dark star stickers from her bedroom. Gayane brought a plastic orchid that she says always makes her happy. And they brought their TV:

“It's a small one but it means a lot for us. We have a nice tradition, with my kids. I love watching movies with my kids, hugging my kids, and spending the evenings with them. So that's why we - me, my children - wanted the TV to take with us. As an important thing for us, emotional thing.”

Gayane and her kids have moved again and again through a series of homes. For one month the government paid for the three of them to have a hotel room in Goris - the Armenian city closest to Artsakh. Then they moved to Ashtarak, then Artashat, then Dilijan, then Gyumri, then Yerevan. Since they toured us around their apartment in Yerevan, they’ve moved back to Artashat, where some of Gayane’s family members are nearby for support.

Each time they move, the kids need to adjust to a new school. The transitions are especially hard on Milana, who misses her tight-knit friend group from Artsakh. She still has video calls with her friends from home, who are now scattered across Armenia and Russia.

Gayane has been struggling to find steady, well-paying work. For the first several months after being displaced, HALO Karabakh still had work for her, mainly administrative tasks, like filing reports. But eventually, they shut down operations completely.

Gayane’s work at HALO had brought her so much satisfaction, but also personal growth and financial stability. She hopes she can find something similar, so she can keep growing.

For now, she and her kids are staying in a small apartment with several other family members. Gayane is determined to find a job - or two jobs if needed - that will allow her and her kids to move out. She wants to focus on their future.

“But I don't want my grandchildren to feel the same, to go through the same things that we went through.”

She wants Milana and Sergei to be the last generation to have to live through this conflict.

“I would like my children and my generation, my family, to live in a place where they can be safe. For instance, in New Zealand.”

She’s serious. New Zealand.

“Because it's it's really far and it's not affected by war and probably will not be.”

It has more sheep than people. “Yeah,” she laughs, “I know. I researched.”

“I think I will be happy there.”

The last few years in Artsakh she couldn’t plan anything, nothing beyond the next day. But here, now, she can dream of going to another country.


COMPANIONSHIP

When we talked with her right after she left Artsakh in October 2023, she said she was hoping to find companionship.

“I went through a toxic relationship, so I would like to have someone in my life that will respect me, and I can respect, and love him so. Those are my plans for future.”

But a year later, after she was more settled, she gave a different answer. She said that it wasn’t at the forefront of her mind.

“Maybe I need some time to just enjoy my comfort zone?”

For now, she didn’t want to lean on anyone.

“Usually in the mornings, I feel strong. A strong girl who is able to solve her problems.”

She wakes up, takes her cold shower, and starts her day.

“But it would be a good bonus.”

Life has thrown a lot at Gayane, but with all the things that are out of her control, she’s developed an ability to stay present, to pay attention, and to grow.

“I think life gives you lessons. If you learn the lesson, you live better. If you don't learn the lesson, life gives you more lessons.”

 
CREDITS

Country of Dust is created and produced by Nyree Abrahamian, Jeremy Dalmas and Gohar Khachatryan. Sound engineering and music by Jeremy Dalmas. 

This episode was made possible with generous support from the H. Hovnanian Family Foundation, and the Swiss Agency for Development and Cooperation.

To the supporters of our crowdfunding campaign: we couldn’t have made this season without you. Thank you for backing us. 

And we’re grateful to YOU for listening. To help us keep making the show, you can donate at Country of Dust dot com. And help spread the word! Share our podcast with your friends and family.