Eleven-year-old Vrej and his family live in Artsakh, a territory between Armenia and Azerbaijan. It’s primarily populated by Armenians, its independence is unrecognized, territorial disputes are tense. The documentary begins with footage from 2008: it’s a time of celebration, 700 new families were formed in Artsakh, newly-weds are dancing (Vrej’s parents are among them), doves – a universal symbol of peace – are flying. Several years later, we can see Vrej holding a female dove in his hands. She is older than Vrej, her feathers are falling out, she is fragile, as is peace.
Vrej’s parents and grandparents have experienced war several times. According to the grandmother, it’s only a matter of time until Vrej will participate in one, because “living in Artsakh means that one day, there will be war”. Their village is peaceful, the dilapidated buildings are in harmony with nature, people are doing their jobs, and the rural landscape is generally calm. However, Vrej points at the mountains in the distance. There are military posts behind them, he says. The constant threat of war is literally around the corner, lurking behind the mountains, as the Azeris can attack anytime. In 2020, they do.
My Sweet Land demonstrates that once war breaks out, it’s everywhere: the songs on the radio are about war, the children are pretending to be soldiers with wooden rifles, and they can hear the gunshots in their dreams. These things indicate that even the mundanity of everyday life mirrors the aggression of such a violent conflict. Vrej and his family, with the exception of the father, are forced to flee. Once there is peace again in the form of an uneasy ceasefire, they return. But their return is met with Russian peacekeepers, and the closer they are to their homeland, the more their car is engulfed by the mist. They can’t see very well, and the fog symbolizes that their life has become even more unclear and uncertain.
Doves and the mist are not the only symbols the documentary uses. In one scene, it is pointed out that the storks have returned. Indeed, we can see them nesting on top of a lamppost. Similarly to these migrating birds, the family keeps returning, no matter what. As the grandmother says: “I don’t know what’s in this land that is so sweet … We always come back.” But their return is different, because the aftermaths of war are clear: there are pieces of a missile in the backyard, there are abandoned military posts in the woods, there can be landmines and bombs anywhere, and the children – both boys and girls – are taken to military camps to be prepared to defend their land.
Towards the end of the movie, Vrej – now a trained teenager whose assault rifle is not made of wood anymore – turns to the camera to ask what will happen to him. There are no answers, only questions. The future is uncertain. In 2023, his family was forced to flee again, after Azerbaijan launched another military operation. Independence is gone, Artsakh is internationally recognized as a part of Azerbaijan, the sweet land is occupied.
The conclusion of Sareen Hairabedian’s documentary might seemingly be bleak and hopeless, but the movie itself is full of humanism. Its approach finds comfort in the everyday life of the family. My Sweet Land sheds light on those tiny things that can help one overcome the anxieties of uncertain times: the family might be away from home, but they can still celebrate birthdays, the children can play, they are not alone. Nevertheless, the film does not sugarcoat with false hope. No one knows what will happen next. Only war seems to be certain.
Ádám Fónai
