Peace is a desirable state for human life and flourishing, and people are often willing to pay a high price for it. But what if the price of my peace is measured by a small minority losing theirs?
A man, his hair silvering, is pushing his little daughter on a swing. Another daughter stands nearby waiting for her turn.
“We are from Artsakh,” he says after a brief introduction.
His voice grows heavy, as if mentioning a ghost city.
I nod and ask how his family settled in Yerevan after 2023.
“We had to start from nothing,” he says. “We had a house. We had work.”
His story echoed in the experiences of several displaced people I met during my time in Yerevan.
Ano used to be a nurse in Artsakh. Once she realized she had found a willing listener, she began sharing memories of the garden she once tended and the fruit she gathered every season. Born there, raised there, and grown old there, she suddenly had to start over in Yerevan, searching for cleaning jobs.
But what weighed most heavily on her heart was something else: she could no longer visit her parents’ graves.
And alongside the knowledge that they may never honor their loved ones’ resting places again comes another recurring pain. Many displaced people from Artsakh regularly wake to troubling news: another church damaged, another cross removed, another khachkar (Armenian stone cross) destroyed.
In international news, Artsakh is more commonly known as Nagorno-Karabakh, a disputed territory internationally recognized as part of Azerbaijan but historically populated predominantly by Armenians. Until 2023, Nagorno-Karabakh remained a majority-Armenian enclave governed by the self-proclaimed Republic of Artsakh. In September 2023, Azerbaijani forces regained control of the territory, prompting the exodus of more than 100,000 Armenians.
Two different cultures, shaped in part by religion, meet in this small corner of the Caucasus. Armenia became the first nation to adopt Christianity as a state religion in the early fourth century, and Azerbaijan is a majority-Muslim country. Religion is not the only reason for the conflict, but it is impossible to separate it from the history, identity, and memory of the people who live there.
It may be one reason Armenians feel such a strong connection to their Christian heritage. Khachkars decorate streets and parks, churches and museums. Crosses hang from necks, while Bibles and other Christian books are treated with deep respect.
The issue of Artsakh remains politically sensitive in Armenia. During the June 7, 2026 parliamentary election campaign, candidates filled the streets with leaflets and shouted their promises from loudspeakers mounted on cars. For many voters, however, the deeper question was not economics or local politics but Armenia’s future direction.
Since the loss of Artsakh in 2023, Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan has pursued a policy of normalization with Azerbaijan and closer ties with the West, arguing that Armenia must focus on securing peace and protecting its internationally recognized borders. Supporters see this as a necessary adjustment to political realities. His critics view it as acceptance of defeat.
Among the displaced people I spoke with, many expressed anger toward Pashinyan and his handling of the conflict. Several said they planned to support almost any candidate but him.
For them, the issue was deeply personal. Many felt that the people who lived and died in Artsakh had been forgotten. Their cemeteries, khachkars, churches, and homes were swept into political attempts to secure peace at almost any cost.
The words of Armenia’s leaders often sound very different depending on where one stands. To many in Yerevan, peace with Azerbaijan offers a chance to avoid another devastating war. To many displaced people from Artsakh, the same language sounds like the acceptance of a loss they are still living through.
And that is a very high price to pay for peace that may still prove fragile in the long run.
Meanwhile, concerns continue to grow over the fate of Armenian cultural heritage in the territory now controlled by Azerbaijan.
This spring, satellite imagery and subsequent reports confirmed the demolition of two churches in Khankendi—known to Armenians as Stepanakert—including Holy Mother of God Cathedral and the Church of St. Jacob.
Separate pieces of Armenian historical and cultural heritage in Artsakh have also been damaged, altered, or destroyed. Independent monitoring groups have documented changes to Armenian cultural sites in the area since the 2020 war.
In some cases, the fate of churches has taken a different turn. The Holy Resurrection, or Surb Hambardzum, Church in Berdzor was reportedly being converted for Islamic use.
The erasure extends beyond churches.
Satellite imagery has revealed the removal of tombstones and damage to burial grounds, raising concerns about the disappearance of Armenian cultural traces in Nagorno-Karabakh.
The pattern echoes what happened in Nakhichevan, where Armenian monuments, including the famous medieval cemetery of Julfa, disappeared over previous decades. Many Armenians fear Artsakh is following the same path.
Armenians continue trying to draw international attention to the destruction of their cultural and religious heritage. For them, this is not merely a question of stones and crosses but of destinies, memories, and stories that helped weave the tapestry of the Armenian nation.
In the meantime, Azerbaijan’s government-affiliated Caucasus Muslims Board defended the demolitions, describing the churches as illegal structures rather than protected religious or cultural heritage.
To many displaced people from Artsakh, such statements—combined with the rhetoric of their own political leaders—sound like betrayal. Yet amid fears of renewed war and the painful recovery from previous conflicts, many Armenians prefer not to discuss the issue at all or have resigned themselves to what they see as defeat.
The wars over Nagorno-Karabakh have claimed thousands of lives over the past three decades. The wounds remain fresh in a nation still recovering from repeated conflict and loss.
For displaced people from Artsakh, the pain is present in the rent they struggle to pay, the homes they lost, the children slowly forgetting the Artsakh dialect, and the realization that the places that shaped their lives may never be theirs again.
A few days ago, I was riding in a taxi in Yerevan when I noticed a familiar flag on the driver’s dashboard. It resembled the Armenian tricolor of red, blue, and orange horizontal stripes. On the right side, a white stepped pattern cut into the flag like a woven carpet motif.
“Artsakh?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied with a smile.
The land may have disappeared from global maps, and its name may appear less often in international headlines. Yet for many Armenians, Artsakh remains more than a political dispute or a lost territory. It is a memory, a heritage, and a home carried in their hearts.
No one can say what the future holds. Perhaps the churches will be restored. Perhaps families will once again visit the graves of their ancestors. Perhaps Artsakh itself will one day find its way back into the lives of the people who still long for it.
For now, its flag still hangs from taxi dashboards, its stories are still told, and its memory remains alive.
Artsakh: Land That Must Not Be Named
Holy Mother of God Cathedral in Stepanakert, a modern Armenian Apostolic cathedral, was finished and consecrated in 2019. Satellite imagery confirms the cathedral was intact as of March 3, 2026, but had been razed to the ground by April 2, 2026, leaving only a paved area.
Nathan868, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
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Peace is a desirable state for human life and flourishing, and people are often willing to pay a high price for it. But what if the price of my peace is measured by a small minority losing theirs?
A man, his hair silvering, is pushing his little daughter on a swing. Another daughter stands nearby waiting for her turn.
“We are from Artsakh,” he says after a brief introduction.
His voice grows heavy, as if mentioning a ghost city.
I nod and ask how his family settled in Yerevan after 2023.
“We had to start from nothing,” he says. “We had a house. We had work.”
His story echoed in the experiences of several displaced people I met during my time in Yerevan.
Ano used to be a nurse in Artsakh. Once she realized she had found a willing listener, she began sharing memories of the garden she once tended and the fruit she gathered every season. Born there, raised there, and grown old there, she suddenly had to start over in Yerevan, searching for cleaning jobs.
But what weighed most heavily on her heart was something else: she could no longer visit her parents’ graves.
And alongside the knowledge that they may never honor their loved ones’ resting places again comes another recurring pain. Many displaced people from Artsakh regularly wake to troubling news: another church damaged, another cross removed, another khachkar (Armenian stone cross) destroyed.
In international news, Artsakh is more commonly known as Nagorno-Karabakh, a disputed territory internationally recognized as part of Azerbaijan but historically populated predominantly by Armenians. Until 2023, Nagorno-Karabakh remained a majority-Armenian enclave governed by the self-proclaimed Republic of Artsakh. In September 2023, Azerbaijani forces regained control of the territory, prompting the exodus of more than 100,000 Armenians.
Two different cultures, shaped in part by religion, meet in this small corner of the Caucasus. Armenia became the first nation to adopt Christianity as a state religion in the early fourth century, and Azerbaijan is a majority-Muslim country. Religion is not the only reason for the conflict, but it is impossible to separate it from the history, identity, and memory of the people who live there.
It may be one reason Armenians feel such a strong connection to their Christian heritage. Khachkars decorate streets and parks, churches and museums. Crosses hang from necks, while Bibles and other Christian books are treated with deep respect.
The issue of Artsakh remains politically sensitive in Armenia. During the June 7, 2026 parliamentary election campaign, candidates filled the streets with leaflets and shouted their promises from loudspeakers mounted on cars. For many voters, however, the deeper question was not economics or local politics but Armenia’s future direction.
Since the loss of Artsakh in 2023, Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan has pursued a policy of normalization with Azerbaijan and closer ties with the West, arguing that Armenia must focus on securing peace and protecting its internationally recognized borders. Supporters see this as a necessary adjustment to political realities. His critics view it as acceptance of defeat.
Among the displaced people I spoke with, many expressed anger toward Pashinyan and his handling of the conflict. Several said they planned to support almost any candidate but him.
For them, the issue was deeply personal. Many felt that the people who lived and died in Artsakh had been forgotten. Their cemeteries, khachkars, churches, and homes were swept into political attempts to secure peace at almost any cost.
The words of Armenia’s leaders often sound very different depending on where one stands. To many in Yerevan, peace with Azerbaijan offers a chance to avoid another devastating war. To many displaced people from Artsakh, the same language sounds like the acceptance of a loss they are still living through.
And that is a very high price to pay for peace that may still prove fragile in the long run.
Meanwhile, concerns continue to grow over the fate of Armenian cultural heritage in the territory now controlled by Azerbaijan.
This spring, satellite imagery and subsequent reports confirmed the demolition of two churches in Khankendi—known to Armenians as Stepanakert—including Holy Mother of God Cathedral and the Church of St. Jacob.
Separate pieces of Armenian historical and cultural heritage in Artsakh have also been damaged, altered, or destroyed. Independent monitoring groups have documented changes to Armenian cultural sites in the area since the 2020 war.
In some cases, the fate of churches has taken a different turn. The Holy Resurrection, or Surb Hambardzum, Church in Berdzor was reportedly being converted for Islamic use.
The erasure extends beyond churches.
Satellite imagery has revealed the removal of tombstones and damage to burial grounds, raising concerns about the disappearance of Armenian cultural traces in Nagorno-Karabakh.
The pattern echoes what happened in Nakhichevan, where Armenian monuments, including the famous medieval cemetery of Julfa, disappeared over previous decades. Many Armenians fear Artsakh is following the same path.
Armenians continue trying to draw international attention to the destruction of their cultural and religious heritage. For them, this is not merely a question of stones and crosses but of destinies, memories, and stories that helped weave the tapestry of the Armenian nation.
In the meantime, Azerbaijan’s government-affiliated Caucasus Muslims Board defended the demolitions, describing the churches as illegal structures rather than protected religious or cultural heritage.
To many displaced people from Artsakh, such statements—combined with the rhetoric of their own political leaders—sound like betrayal. Yet amid fears of renewed war and the painful recovery from previous conflicts, many Armenians prefer not to discuss the issue at all or have resigned themselves to what they see as defeat.
The wars over Nagorno-Karabakh have claimed thousands of lives over the past three decades. The wounds remain fresh in a nation still recovering from repeated conflict and loss.
For displaced people from Artsakh, the pain is present in the rent they struggle to pay, the homes they lost, the children slowly forgetting the Artsakh dialect, and the realization that the places that shaped their lives may never be theirs again.
A few days ago, I was riding in a taxi in Yerevan when I noticed a familiar flag on the driver’s dashboard. It resembled the Armenian tricolor of red, blue, and orange horizontal stripes. On the right side, a white stepped pattern cut into the flag like a woven carpet motif.
“Artsakh?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied with a smile.
The land may have disappeared from global maps, and its name may appear less often in international headlines. Yet for many Armenians, Artsakh remains more than a political dispute or a lost territory. It is a memory, a heritage, and a home carried in their hearts.
No one can say what the future holds. Perhaps the churches will be restored. Perhaps families will once again visit the graves of their ancestors. Perhaps Artsakh itself will one day find its way back into the lives of the people who still long for it.
For now, its flag still hangs from taxi dashboards, its stories are still told, and its memory remains alive.
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