Residents shelter from continuing rocket attack in the basement bunker of damaged apartment blocks
Credit: JULIAN SIMMONDS
Named in honour of those who helped Nagorno Karabakh win independence from Azerbaijan 30 years ago, Freedom Fighter Street no longer has homes fit for heroes.
A plaza of Soviet-style housing in the breakaway republic’s capital, Stepanakert, the street’s crumbling flats have barely had a facelift since Communist times.
Now, though, the four-storey blocs are in need of more than just a lick of paint after a missile crashed into them during a round of shelling on Friday night.
The missile — one of scores that have hit Stepanakert since war resumed again with Azerbaijan a week ago — killed an elderly woman living on the third floor and wounded dozens more.
Yet the casualty count would probably have been far higher had most of the residents not already been sheltering in the flats’ basements, which double as makeshift bomb bunkers.
David Sargissian, the mayor of Stepanakert, surveys the damage
Credit: JULIAN SIMMONDS
The residents have had plenty of practice in emergency drills: although the conflict with Azerbaijan officially "froze" after a ceasefire in 1994, it has simmered ever since, leaving Stepanakert’s 50,000 people in a state of constant readiness for war.
Nearly every building with a cellar or basement doubles as a bomb shelter, and the city has a system of graded air raid warnings.
A long unbroken siren means an enemy plane has crossed the border, which can then reach Stepanakert in just three minutes. An intermittent noise can refer to a drone, which flies more slowly.
But no warning is available at all for the missiles that are now landing in the city, many of which have hit civilian areas. "The missile has half-destroyed this block," said Nelson Adamyan, 65, a retired electrician, as he showed The Telegraph round the wreckage of his bottom floor flat on Saturday morning.
Nelson Adamyan, 74, a retired electrician, cleans up his apartment after a missile attack
Credit: JULIAN SIMMONDS
"Why are they shelling civilian areas and killing old women? Real warriors fight against each other in the fields, not in villages full of civilians."
As he spoke, two more loud explosions rang out, forcing him to sprint again for cover in the block’s basement, which is equipped with mattresses, tables and a dining area.
"We don’t even know if this place is safe, it’s just a basement rather than a proper bunker," said Tamara Hayrapetyan, 60. "But there would have been even more casualties if we hadn’t been down here when the missile hit."
The shelling became even heavier on Sunday, with missiles crashing into several downtown streets and sending up large plumes of smoke.
Azerbaijan also claimed on Sunday that Armenian forces had fired rockets at its second city of Ganja, killing one civilian and wounding four.
Armenia_Azerbaijan conflict
But while the war is showing every sign of escalating, older residents like Mrs Hayrapetyan take the bombardments in their stride.
They endured far worse in the war for independence in the early 90s, when Nagorno Karabakh’s Armenian Christians fought to secede from ethnically Turkic Azerbaijan.
Back then, Azerbaijani forces in the nearby hilltop town of Shushi rained stockpiles of Soviet-era ordnance down onto Stepanakert, at one point firing 150 shells per day.
As such, the residents of Freedom Fighter Street feel no great need right now to summon up much Blitz-style spirit.
In the bunker at night, there is no Vera Lynn-style singing of patriotic songs, and no soothing the nerves with vodka, despite Mr Nelson having three different home-made strains in what is left of his kitchen.
Firefighters extinguish fires around central Stepanakert
Credit: JULIAN SIMMONDS
"We’re fine, no need for songs, no need for vodka," he said. "That is why Nagorno Karabakh, with just 150,000 people, can survive against millions of Azerbaijanis and their Turkish allies."
Down at another basement bunker near the town centre, where the Harutyunyan family and their neighbours were staying, a few more creature comforts were on offer.
A makeshift mini-bar had been set up with Heineken, Martini and brandy, along with supplies of fresh walnuts, chewing gum and paracetamol.
"We’ve been sleeping here every night for the last six days since the fighting started," said Hayk Harutyunyan, 18. "There’s a dozen of us here in this one room, but we Armenians are very close as family so we get on well together."
Hayk Hanityunyan shows a photo he took of a missile attack in the city
Credit: JULIAN SIMMONDS
The mood was again defiantly upbeat, although his neighbour Marine Manukyan , 57, wished for a time when sirens and bunkers were no longer part of normal life. She has already lost one son to illness five years ago, and has another now serving on the frontlines.
"This is the third generation of our people who are seeing war," she said. "When you wake up at seven in the morning and hear explosions, at first you want to believe that it’s our own forces just doing test firing. But then you realise that you’re just lying to yourself, and that it’s war once again."
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