The complexity of war and displacement as poignantly as those of Tatevik Khachatrian and Vasila Mammadova. These two women, whose lives have been shaped by the decades-long conflict between Armenia and Azerbaijan over Nagorno-Karabakh, embody the human toll of war, hope, and loss. For Khachatrian, the recent conflict marked yet another painful chapter in her life as a refugee. For Mammadova, it symbolized the possibility of returning to a homeland that had been lost for more than 30 years.

Their divergent experiences capture the enduring wounds of a conflict that has been fought on the battlefields of the South Caucasus since the collapse of the Soviet Union. On September 19, 2023, Azerbaijan launched a military offensive to reclaim Nagorno-Karabakh, a region it had lost to Armenian forces in the 1990s. Within 24 hours, the Armenian de facto leadership in Karabakh surrendered, prompting the mass exodus of nearly the entire ethnic Armenian population, including Khachatrian, a journalist, along with her husband and young son.

This was the second time the territory had been emptied of its native population, marking a tragic parallel to the events of the 1990s when victorious Armenian forces drove out over 600,000 ethnic Azerbaijanis from both Nagorno-Karabakh and surrounding regions. Mammadova, then a farmer from the village of Xocali (or Khojaly), was among those displaced. Her home village, notorious for the Khojaly Massacre, one of the most brutal episodes in the first Nagorno-Karabakh war, remained in her memory as a place of death and destruction.

A Long-Awaited Homecoming

For Mammadova, now in her 60s, the last year has been transformative. After living for decades in a settlement for displaced persons in Pirsagi, north of Baku, she recently had the opportunity to visit her native Xocali on a government-sponsored trip, part of Azerbaijan’s broader campaign to resettle areas it regained in the 2020 and 2023 offensives.

“I imagined Xocali as a city of ghosts, where people’s bones might still lie beneath the ground, victims of the war,” she reflected. “But my first visit was different and mostly positive. A lot of new buildings have been constructed in the past year. Everything has changed.”

This reconstruction effort is part of Azerbaijan’s ambitious plans to rebuild the territories it regained. Cities and villages that had been almost entirely razed after the first war are slowly being rebuilt. The town of Xankendi, known to Armenians as Stepanakert, is being repopulated by Azerbaijanis, and institutions like Karabakh University have been established, replacing Armenian-built infrastructure. The new Azerbaijani settlers are laying down roots in a region where, just a year ago, over 100,000 ethnic Armenians lived.

Mammadova hopes to return to Xocali for good in the next year, although the resettlement process has been far from straightforward. “My son visited after the September 2023 offensive and found the foundation of our old house still standing. But on our next visit, it was gone, replaced by a construction site.” The government offered her family a new plot of land in another part of the village, but the changes have left Mammadova feeling conflicted.

“The new town is beautiful, but they are not letting us live the way we used to. I want to have chickens like I do here, but they say we can’t. We didn’t live in a city; we lived in a village. It’s hard to adjust to the new reality,” she said, gesturing to her yard filled with chickens in Pirsagi.

This tension between the desire to return and the reality of resettlement is a theme across Azerbaijan’s reconstruction projects. While the Azerbaijani government has made significant strides in rebuilding infrastructure, critics point to corruption, inefficiency, and a lack of consultation with the returning residents. For Mammadova and others, the emotional toll of seeing their homes transformed into modernized, sanitized versions of the past is profound.

A Life in Limbo

For Khachatrian and the ethnic Armenians who fled Karabakh, the past year has been marked by uncertainty and disillusionment. Along with six members of her extended family, she now resides in a small, outdated apartment on the outskirts of Yerevan, Armenia’s capital. The apartment, unrenovated since the Soviet era, is far from ideal, yet it strains their limited budget. Despite the Armenian government’s efforts to provide some support, Khachatrian feels they have been largely forgotten.

“After all these tragic events, not even a day of mourning was declared in Armenia,” she said, visibly frustrated. “There’s no day of commemoration for Artsakh [an Armenian term for Nagorno-Karabakh]. It feels like they are trying to close the book on us entirely.”

The Karabakh conflict traces its roots back to the waning days of the Soviet Union. The Nagorno-Karabakh Autonomous Oblast, part of Soviet Azerbaijan, was home to a 75% Armenian population. As the Soviet Union dissolved, ethnic tensions escalated into full-scale war, with Armenian-backed forces seizing control of both Nagorno-Karabakh and seven adjacent Azerbaijani districts. This victory came at a human cost: over 600,000 Azerbaijanis fled the region, including Mammadova and her family.

After the 2020 war and the brief but decisive 2023 conflict, Azerbaijan regained control over much of Nagorno-Karabakh. For Armenians like Khachatrian, it marked the beginning of a new chapter in a seemingly endless cycle of displacement and exile. One year later, the Armenian government is cutting back on subsidies for refugee housing, leaving many, including Khachatrian’s family, in limbo. While a program has been launched to help refugees buy homes, Khachatrian won’t be eligible for support until 2027.

“This has led many to give up hope and emigrate,” she explained. “For some, it’s cheaper to live in places like Tikhoretsk [in Russia] than here in Armenia.” Indeed, over 10,000 Armenian refugees have already left Armenia, seeking refuge in Russia and other countries. Despite the hardships, Khachatrian intends to stay in Armenia, if only to remain in her homeland. “It’s easier to find your place in a culture and language you know,” she said, though the social stigma facing Karabakh Armenians makes it difficult to feel entirely welcome. “There is obvious discrimination. People see us as a burden on an already struggling country.”

As Azerbaijan pushes forward with its reconstruction and resettlement efforts, Armenia faces a different reality. The influx of refugees, who now make up around 4% of Armenia’s population, has stretched the nation’s resources thin. Furthermore, Armenian authorities appear to have largely abandoned any hope of asserting the right of ethnic Armenians to return to Nagorno-Karabakh.

The rights of Karabakh Armenians to return have been mentioned by foreign governments, including the U.S., Europe, and Russia. Yet, within Armenia itself, officials seem reluctant to pursue this possibility. Armenian lawmaker Artur Hovannisian dismissed the idea as a political distraction, aimed at destabilizing the country. “Those who try to convince the people of Nagorno-Karabakh that there’s a chance to return are adventurers,” he said.

Khachatrian believes that this governmental disinterest has emboldened Azerbaijan to accelerate its resettlement efforts in Karabakh. “If Armenia hadn’t closed the door on the idea of return, maybe Azerbaijan wouldn’t be settling Stepanakert so quickly,” she suggested.

Yet, despite the grim reality, Khachatrian and many other Armenians still hold out hope that the region may one day be reclaimed. “None of us know what will happen in the future. Maybe geopolitical shifts will make what seems impossible today possible tomorrow,” she mused. “That’s the dream I have and the one I’m teaching my son.”

For Azerbaijan, any hint of revanchist sentiment from Armenians is seen as a threat to the fragile peace in the region. President Ilham Aliyev has made clear that the goal is to erase all vestiges of Armenian separatism from Nagorno-Karabakh, and the rapid resettlement of Azerbaijanis in the region is seen as a critical part of that strategy.

Mammadova, for her part, is no longer interested in the possibility of peaceful coexistence with Armenians. “Before the first war, there was plenty of friendship between Armenians and Azerbaijanis,” she said. “But not now. My husband was killed in 1992. My children grew up without a father. How can I be friends with them?” As the region rebuilds, the scars of the past run deep. For now, both Armenians and Azerbaijanis must navigate an uncertain future, shaped by the wars of their shared history and the dreams they still carry.