{"id":29755,"date":"2021-09-29T14:42:13","date_gmt":"2021-09-29T14:42:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/media.am\/?p=29755"},"modified":"2021-09-29T14:42:13","modified_gmt":"2021-09-29T14:42:13","slug":"it-was-sunday","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/media.am\/en\/crossroads\/2021\/09\/29\/29755\/","title":{"rendered":"It Was Sunday"},"content":{"rendered":"

We were half-awake drinking coffee in the morning when my mother came into the kitchen and among the noise of my children informed us that a war had broken out. We continued talking, thinking that the eighty-year-old woman had misunderstood something in the news. Minutes later I picked up my phone myself to check the news\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n

And life was divided into before and after. The after was like a disassociated reality. Did the war not announce its plans in advance, or did our inner life unwaveringly ignore the calls for obvious danger and cling to its illusion of peace?<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"

Martakert, park.<\/span><\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

Both during and after the war, I documented the ever-changing realities, when border security issues arose, when the fermented metamorphosis of burning houses, lost lives, and values that were turned to dust did not allow us to say goodbye to the very recent past and meet the collapsing present again.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"

Nerkin Khndzoresk positions, the soldier is resting.<\/span><\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

\"\"

Martakert region, bombed truck.<\/span><\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

The war is over and continues.<\/span><\/p>\n

The profile of the young girl on the map of Armenia is distorted with a creeping consistency, at the same time distorting our perception of reality.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"

Fields on the edge of the Stepanakert-Red Market highway. Azerbaijan is 300 meters away with the newly changed border.<\/span><\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

The questions that bothered me over time became the reason for continuing this visual diary. I document the post-war traumas, the unknown present with which we seek coexistence today.<\/span><\/p>\n

How will we deal with our grief?<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"

It is the village of Tandzut in Karvachar, which was handed over to Azerbaijan after the war.<\/span><\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

\"\"

In the village of Nor Getashen in Karvachar, which was handed over to Azerbaijan after the war. The villagers set fire to their houses before leaving.<\/span><\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

Where does the pain of a survivor accumulate?<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"

Erebuni Masiv district, the image of a killed soldier.<\/span><\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

\"\"

The bombed school of Karvachar.<\/span><\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

How do we perceive ourselves in this distorted reality, which is squeezed between yesterday and tomorrow?<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"

In the room of Raphael, the dead son of Anna.<\/span><\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

\"\"

Positions of Nerkin Khndzoresk.<\/span><\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

Vaghinak Ghazaryan, documentary photographer<\/b><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

We were half-awake drinking coffee in the morning when my mother came into the kitchen and among the noise of my children informed us that a war had broken out. We continued talking, thinking that the eighty-year-old woman had misunderstood something in the news. Minutes later I picked up my phone myself to check the Read the full article…<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":29725,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[27],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-29755","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-crossroads"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/media.am\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29755","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/media.am\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/media.am\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/media.am\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/media.am\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=29755"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/media.am\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29755\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":29756,"href":"https:\/\/media.am\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29755\/revisions\/29756"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/media.am\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/29725"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/media.am\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=29755"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/media.am\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=29755"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/media.am\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=29755"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}