The remainders
We find ourselves
In the green hills of north-eastern Armenia
We pass through a village
Close to the border with Azerbaijan
On the way to Samarkand
Almost fairytale-like and as if suspended in time
Populated by inhabitants so real they seem fantastic:
The soldier, the carpet-weaver, the babushka
Lives of everyday simplicity that run on interwoven threads
Of restlessness and apparent calm, desire to fight and surrender
Stories of families marked by the loss of at least one
Family member or acquaintance in the conflict that has
Now lasted more than 30 years
Some tell us with their eyes
Others show us photo albums
Inviting us into their homes for a meal before leaving
They are what remains
They are the remainders