The lights of Sumgayit seemed distant now as we veered off the main road onto a muddy trail. Passing the abandoned railroad tracks an odd school bus coming from the opposite direction started to speed towards us. When our attempt to avoid a collision almost slid us into a ditch, I noticed the two large buildings looming in the distance. Getting closer we could make out the cracks on the exteriors of these non-descript structures, once meant to serve students, now sheltering hundreds of refugee families. As our car pulled up the drive way our driver announced he would rather stay inside and wait for us. My translator and I braced ourselves against the cold, and stepped into the caky mud. It smelled like an ancient gutter. And stepping down we also entered the lives of several families, Seker Hanim and others, who had to deal with poverty, neglect, and hopelessness everyday since they had to leave Karabakh.
Seker Hanim took us to a tour of the settlement. She also helped us build a bridge with a group of people who first frowned upon our intrusion. Later, as stories started to unfold, those of botched operations in city hospitals, or the plain struggle to stay alive, we realized that the original hostility which welcomed us at this end of the Lachin corridor was only a mask to cover the hurt from numerous hopes laid on false promises. And as we prepared to leave Seker Hanim was still yelling behind us: "all we want is our land, our land, our land." |
