Dreams after Karabakh

The Forth episode of the “After Karabakh” series.

Excerpts from conversations we had with Armineh, Silva, Hasmik, Srbuhi, Marineh, Lida, Alvard, Madlene, Zara, Araqsya, Nara, and Gohar.

 

Some dreams are true, others aren’t. Reading a dream as a sign that we’ll return to Karabakh—That’s not true, for now.

In my dream, I’m in our village. I’m hanging bed sheets out in the sun. I’m putting my clothes out in the sun. I wake up sweating. It was just a dream. 

If you see a coin, it’s a bad sign. If you see a banknote, it’s a good sign. A wedding is not a good sign. If you see yourself in a coffin, it’s a good thing. Seeing yourself dead means your life will be longer. If you see a horse, you will achieve your ambitions. If you see a tree, your family will have a new birth.

I had a dream. Someone gave me a bag of money as compensation for the house I lost. He said, “It’s over. Take the bag and go buy yourself a new house in Karabakh.”

After 2020, for a long time, I had dreams of wandering around my house in Karabakh. Opening all my drawers, including my dowry, which was left untouched. I had this silly habit. I’d stock up on things, on good things. 

Since I moved to Armenia,I haven’t had a dream about it. All my dreams take place in our village—our school, our hospital, our collective, our house. Me in our garden, working.

I had a dream just a week ago. I’m in America, sitting in a room, wearing a crown. But I’m surrounded by black snakes. Even now, I wonder—if I’m a queen, why are the Turks around me? 

In my dream, I was arguing with Nikol. I was taking him to the mass grave, would strip him naked—and so on. And no one would say, “What are you doing?”

A week ago, I had a dream. I’m in Karabakh as a tourist. And I’m with Turks, but I try to act so they don’t realize I’m Armenian. I’m trying to take photos of what’s happening, of our house.  

I left a bag with clothes behind. I often dream of going back to get it. But I never make it. I packed everything, but I didn’t take it—or the photographs.

In my dream, I’m living in a hotel. Two families in one room. Beds lined up, green outside. Whatever she sees in a dream comes true. She dreamt of open gates, a woman riding a black horse. The woman was wearing a mask.

She thought about what the dream meant. She had that dream before the war. Then, when we came here, we understood why she had dreamed of a hotel. But the meaning of the woman in the dream? We still don’t know.

I have dreams where I’m dressed up. I used to be a fashionable woman. But here, I’m given second-hand clothes to wear. It’s a shame. 

My yard used to be a real paradise, with flowers in full bloom. Now, when I drive to Dvin, I see flowers by the roadside. But the plants here are smaller. Back home, they were lush.

Twice in a dream,  I was in my house. But it didn’t feel like my house. It was as if I’d been given an hour to grab things that were valuable to me.

I had another dream. I’m in my house, but I’m surrounded by Azerbaijanis, by Turks. I often have these dreams.

My psychologist asked me to tell him my latest dream during a session the other day. And I realized, I just don’t remember my dreams. I wake up and forget them.

Once, I had a dream about a yard. I was going to gather the harvest. But they wouldn’t let me.

I often dream about my child. Different kinds of dreams. Sometimes I dream about our village, where my father built a house. My children and my brother’s children are all buried there. We were deeply connected to that village.

Even now, when I wake up, for a moment I think I’m in Stepanakert. Then, after a few seconds, I realize I’m somewhere else.

I dream of my flower garden in Karabakh. But there are few people around. I wonder, why doesn’t everyone else come back? I’m the only one who went. I see things scattered around. I see acquaintances passing by, but they don’t speak to me. I see strangers in my dreams, and it feels like we’re still in Karabakh.

In my dream, I decided to run away from my father. I took the wrong road and ended up at our village house. I didn’t notice there were Azerbaijanis around me. I passed by the living room, and they didn’t notice me. I told our neighbor about this dream the next morning. She asked, “Tell me, did the village house change at all?” I said, “It was a dream. I don’t know if anyone lives there now.”

 

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