One Year Later: The Stepanakert Explosion
By Persecution.org | September 13, 2024
9/13/2024 Armenia/Azerbaijan (International Christian Concern) — When 26-year-old Ashot Beglaryan regained consciousness following the explosion on Sept. 25, 2023, of a gasoline warehouse near Stepanakert, the capital of Nagorno-Karabakh — known to Armenians as Artsakh, he was shocked by what he saw when he opened his eyes.
The only way his mind could make sense of his harsh new reality was to assume the absolute worst had happened.
“I thought I was dead and had descended into hell,” Beglaryan recalled. “I found myself in a vast hole, surrounded by fire and people burning in that inferno.”
Surviving Hell
A soldier, Beglaryan was in position on Sept. 19, 2023, when Azerbaijan launched a large-scale attack on Nagorno-Karabakh/Artsakh. He had already been there for several months, following the blockade of Nagorno-Karabakh, which began on Dec. 12, 2022.
During the closure of the Lachin Corridor between Nagorno-Karabakh and Armenia, the struggle for food turned into a desperate fight for survival. Azerbaijan’s starvation tactics and military intimidation forced 120,000 Armenian Christians from their ancestral homeland, prompting many to charge Azerbaijan with ethnic cleansing.
Following the Sept. 19 attack, Stepanakert was flooded with thousands of hungry and terrified people who had hastily abandoned their homes and sought refuge in the capital. With fuel supplies dwindling, many residents from border villages fled on foot through the forests, some without proper footwear. Stepanakert transformed into a vast open-air shelter where people desperately searched for food, warm clothing, and medicine. Their primary concern, however, was finding their relatives. In the absence of communication networks, people frantically ran from one basement to another, seeking information on their loved ones as Azerbaijani forces advanced to the outskirts of Stepanakert. Although the fighting ceased after a day, peace remained elusive.
Beglaryan also focused his efforts on ensuring his family’s safety. During Azerbaijan’s blockade of the Lachin corridor, it was also challenging to find fuel. Accompanied by his father, father-in-law, and uncle, Beglaryan ventured to the fuel depot in search of gasoline. Like many others, they scoured several locations for the precious resource but ultimately found themselves near the fuel depot. The explosion occurred in an intact Local Ministry of Defense warehouse designated for use in the event of renewed military operations. However, this supposedly secure area proved to be anything but safe for the thousands of desperate citizens who had gathered there.
According to the investigative committee of the Republic of Armenia, more than 10,500 gallons of fuel were stored in the warehouse. The blast resulted in at least 219 deaths, with 22 people reported missing and more than 290 people injured.
At least half of the victims of the explosion were military personnel and their brothers, fathers, or other relatives who had survived Azerbaijan’s attacks just days earlier. Many families had more than one member affected by the blast, with some losing as many as four loved ones. Four women died during the explosion, including one who died next to her husband. The youngest victims were only 14 years old. One died near his father, the other with his grandfather.
Despite all he lost in the blast, which includes his left leg, Beglaryan considers himself fortunate.
“People were just lying on the ground, burning,” he recalled. “One person was trying to rest his head on me to avoid burning his face. I had no idea I could be saved. The only thing that came to my mind was my child, and with the urge to see him, I somehow summoned the strength to pull myself free from the burning debris.”
After the explosion, Beglaryan went to the hospital, where he received inadequate first aid for two days before being transferred to another hospital in Armenia. His entire body was severely burned. His father also was injured in the explosion.
Beglaryan is currently undergoing intensive treatment in Yerevan and is awaiting a leg prosthesis, as he is classified as a first-degree disabled person. Although he has not fully recovered, he wants to learn a new craft and find employment.
Originally from Shushi in Nagorno-Karabakh, his family was internally displaced after the 2020 war and moved to Stepanakert. Following the forced displacement in 2023, they now rent a house in Mughni, Armenia, where rent is more affordable than in Yerevan. However, disability benefits and government support for displaced individuals are insufficient to meet the family’s needs.
After his recovery, Beglaryan plans to pursue computer work while his wife is considering starting a small business. They hope they can soon find support programs for their family.
“I accept my situation, but at least I am with my family,” Beglaryan said. “I know the hell I survived, while hundreds around me did not.”
Surrounded by Death
Before the explosion, the Stepanakert hospital was relatively quiet. Some of the wounded from the military attack on Sept. 19 were already being transferred to health centers in Armenia, while most doctors and medical staff had either fled or were preparing for forced displacement.
“When I heard the explosion, my first thought was that there should be no more war,” said Grigory Arstamyan, who once led the Emergency Medical Care Department at the Stepanakert Republican Hospital. “What I witnessed was something we had never seen, even in a horror movie. Treating patients with such extensive burns required significant resources, which the hospitals in Artsakh lacked after nearly 10 months of blockade.
“The burns were so severe and deep that even my fingers, despite wearing gloves, were burned after just a few hours. Their bodies were boiling.”
Dr. Arstamyan said the few remaining medical personnel were physically and psychologically exhausted. In addition to fatigue, they were burdened by the consequences of the blockade and the unbearable thoughts of leaving their homeland. They did their best to assist with limited supplies. The hospital had been overrun by patients caught in the explosion.
About 100 patients were admitted in the first 40 minutes, and the number continued to rise. Many arrived on foot. The large influx of patients exceeded the resources available to care for them. Soon, volunteers and relatives of patients flooded into the hospital, offering to help in any way they could.
“One elderly volunteer was seen washing the floors, as water was poured over patients with buckets and containers until they could receive first aid,” Dr. Arstamyan recalled. “We just taught strangers how to break an ampoule and give injections.”
Due to the overwhelming number of wounded, patients were placed on every floor, and water covered the entire area. Citizens desperately ransacked the city’s half-empty pharmacies, hoping to find necessary medications and painkillers to bring to the hospital. From the outset, it was evident that most of the wounded would not survive.
“If there had been only one or two patients with such severe burns, we might have been able to fight for their lives with intensive treatments, but given our conditions, it was impossible,” Dr. Arstamyan said. “Some died in the hospital yard before even reaching the entrance or in the hospital itself. In our presence, someone died every 15 minutes. It’s an unbearable feeling for a doctor.”
Those with minor injuries understood their conditions, went home, and returned only the next day. Various people brought medications from their homes, even those they no longer needed. Under these circumstances, several doctors who had already begun to flee left the line and returned to the hospital.
“It was impossible to recognize them with that face; I didn’t even recognize my own relatives and friends. Given the situation, we did what we could,” Dr. Arstamyan said with a deep sense of helplessness.
He recalled with difficulty the moment his nurse, Bela, realized one of the wounded was her brother. Another one of her brothers had been killed during the military attack on Sept. 19. When her second brother was brought to the hospital, Bela had tried to insert a catheter, only to realize who he was. Then, her third brother arrived at the hospital.
It is hard to determine the exact number of those injured in the blast. According to official data from the Artsakh Ministry of Health, there were 290 wounded. Dr. Arustamyan said he believes the number is more than 400. Starting on Sept. 26, those in serious and critical condition were airlifted, with help from the International Committee of the Red Cross, to specialized hospitals in Armenia.
According to information from the RA Ministry of Health, around 240 patients received care in various hospitals, with most continuing their treatment in outpatient settings. Many of the wounded are still recovering and receiving therapy from specialists in Stepanakert and at the reopened Caroline Cox Rehabilitation Center in Yerevan.
Although hundreds of citizens managed to leave the explosion site and reach the hospital on foot or with help, most died from their injuries in the hours and days that followed, suffering from burns that were too severe to survive. In addition to the hospital’s overwhelmed resources, road closures also contributed to the high death toll as patients were delayed in getting care from specialized hospitals.
“It was so terrible that at that moment, I decided I would no longer practice medicine. No one can handle such psychological trauma,” Dr. Arustamyan added. “There were families where all the men died. It is incredibly hard for a doctor to feel so powerless to help.”
Endless Grief
In a dimly lit apartment in Yerevan, 63-year-old Natella Ghahriyan tries to soothe her newborn granddaughter to sleep.
“All my life, I have tried to save the lives of others, but I could not save the lives of my two sons,” said Ghahriyan, who worked as a nurse in the village of Khndzristan, Nagorno-Karabakh for 40 years. Both of her sons died in the gas station explosion.
Her granddaughter is the second daughter of her eldest son, Abgar. She was born after her father died in the blast. Ghahriyan now lives in the same apartment with her two daughters-in-law and three grandchildren.
At the time of the blast, Abgar was 30, and Ghahriyan’s other son, Karen, was 27. Both were in the military. Due to a lack of communication following the blockade, the women had no news from them for three days. They trekked on foot through the forests to reach their village. Their arrival brought joy to their families and Ghahriyan.
Unable to imagine living safely in Artsakh, the blockade and war imposed by Azerbaijan, they prepared to leave their village. The seven packed everything they could into a car and set off to start a new life elsewhere. On their way, they stopped in Stepanakert to refuel.
While Ghahriyan waited with her daughters-in-law and grandchildren at a relative’s house, her sons went to the gas station hoping to find fuel. A few hours later, upon hearing about the explosion, the three women rushed to the hospital to search for Abgar and Karen.
It took two months for Ghahriyan to confirm her sons’ identities through DNA. They were buried in the Kharberd cemetery in Yerevan. Ghahriyan still struggles to accept that her sons are gone.
“They gave me two relics in a closed coffin,” she said. “How can I believe that these are my sons? I still hope that one day they will return, even from an Azerbaijani prison.”
Relatives of victims of the explosion have written numerous letters to the Armenian government, the military leadership, and the office of the human rights defender, requesting special status to receive monthly support after losing their sole or primary breadwinners. They argue that the explosion was not a typical incident; it was a consequence of the 10-month siege, war, and ethnic cleansing. However, even a year after the explosion, they have received no positive response. Families affected by Azerbaijan’s siege and attacks continue to face many social challenges and often feel abandoned by Armenian authorities.
“We may not have been wealthy in money while living in Artsakh, but we were rich in family, and now that wealth is gone,” said Ghahriya, grieving as she gazed at her sons’ photographs.
Holding Out Hope
The number of people missing from the fuel warehouse explosion on the Stepanakert-Askeran road is now at 22. Their relatives cope with their pain in various ways, many holding onto the hope that their sons may still be alive — even with the harsh reality of Azerbaijani captivity.
This captivity is an endless cycle of suffering and uncertainty, but it also brings a glimmer of hope that their relatives are still alive. Meanwhile, some parents prefer to believe that their sons passed away without pain rather than ending up in captivity. Armenians are well aware of the horrors of prisons in Baku, which are known to be terrifying dungeons of suffering.
Gayane Aghayan has waited 10 months for confirmation of her son’s death. However, even the latest forensic samples did not confirm a connection to her only son, Robert Aghayan. Robert, 32, was a soldier. Before looking for fuel, he found some flour and gave it to his mother to bake bread. He and his sister’s husband searched for gasoline in different places before heading to the fuel depot.
“When I heard the sound of the explosion, my hands were in the dough,” Gayane Aghayan recalled. “I thought it was lightning.”
Aghayan said that when the first call from her son was out of reach, the ground seemed to disappear beneath her feet. Unable to contact her son and her son-in-law, Sergey, who was with Robert, she ran to the hospital.
“What I saw in the hospital was indescribable,” she sighed. “It was as if God had abandoned us, and we were in hell. Everywhere I looked, there were burnt, blackened faces, and everyone’s eyes were closed. I hoped that I would at least recognize my son by his physical appearance. Then I called, hoping I would recognize him by his voice. But I couldn’t find him.”
Aghayan went to other hospitals looking for Robert and Sergey. Two days later, Sergey died while in a coma in Yerevan. Aghayan, along with her husband, daughter, and grandchildren, took the unbearable forced displacement route, which they covered in two days. They had also heard rumors that Azerbaijanis could capture men, which made her afraid for her husband, who had participated in all the wars.
Aghayan taught at Stepanakert School Number Three for almost 30 years. Now, she works in one of the schools in Yerevan to distract herself from her pain. She and her husband live with her daughter, who lost her husband, and her three children.
The only thing left by Aghayan’s son, which she took with her, was his wooden cross. It is now near the tombstone of her son-in-law in Yerablur. Gayane does not give up hope that she will find at least her son’s remains and will be able to bury him.
Unlike the relatives of many missing persons, Aghayan does not believe that her son could be alive in an Azerbaijani prison. She cannot imagine him enduring the horrific ways Armenians are tortured in Azerbaijani prisons.
Although official data states that Azerbaijan is holding 23 hostages, including former political and military leaders of Nagorno-Karabakh, various sources suggest that this number may be much higher. According to the Artsakh Human Rights Defender’s office, the fate of 21 individuals from the September 2023 aggression and 22 individuals from the explosion at the fuel warehouse remains unknown.
Aghayan and her family hope they can reach an agreement with the Azerbaijanis and, with the support of international organizations, gain access to the explosion site to find Robert’s remains.
“When you have a military son and live in a war-torn country, you expect the worst,” Aghayan said, “but no mother can imagine such an end for her son or endure that pain.”
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