WE SHOW
MoMo Cinema was a cinema on wheels. Momo, a van from the 80s, traveled to remote villages, refugee camps, orphanages, hospitals, and prisons with the purpose of screening cartoons to children—and those young at heart. The pit stops were mostly places where kids didn’t have access to cinemas and were living in difficult conditions.
WE TAUGHT
The MoMo Crew taught kids how to take photographs and how to create short films on previously selected topics (for example, Child’s Happiness). The artworks created by the kids who participated in the workshops along the way were later presented to the public as photography exhibitions, documentary films, and other art forms. The creativity of the children traveled alongside MoMo, and the MoMo Crew took full responsibility to inspire people and raise awareness.
WE HAD FUN
The main purpose of MoMo Cinema’s journey to Iran was to have fun with kids. To invite children into a world of imagination, where everything was possible and where they could forget—just for a little while. The MoMo Crew gave their best to understand what made children happy in each of the eight countries visited. Later, the knowledge gathered along the way was shared in more privileged countries, with the hope that viewers would learn from these children—open their eyes and hearts—and remember what truly matters in today’s materialistic world.
WHAT?
Our mission was to travel all the way from Slovenia to Iran, passing through 10 countries, with a renovated, upcycled mobile cinema van. On the way, we visited refugee camps, orphanages, asylum centers, and other critical zones (including borders), where we screened carefully selected cartoons and animated films for children.
Moreover, we organized free film and photography workshops to empower children to express their views, opinions, and stories on topics such as Happiness and Imagine Europe. The artworks created during these workshops traveled with the MoMo Crew, who took full responsibility to inspire and increase awareness.
Upon returning home, the art created by the children was presented to the public in Slovenia in the form of photography exhibitions and a documentary film. We hoped this act of art would raise awareness about cultural diversity, inclusion, empathy, and solidarity. Additionally, we organized presentations and joint activities in cooperation with partner organizations—such as public discussions and panels—addressing rising racism and promoting inclusiveness and human dignity.
HOW?
This was the fun part! In Slovenia, we say: If you go slow, you will get far. That’s why we traveled in an old Renault Trafic van from 1988, which couldn’t go faster than 100 km/h but was reliable and easy to fix. We installed a projection screen on the side of the van, allowing MoMo Cinema to set up in moments.
Most of the equipment had already been donated by the Berlin-based organization Schüler Helfen Leben, including a FullHD projector, screen, sound system, and power generator. Computers, hard drives, and Sony and Canon cameras belonged to the MoMo Crew. Local artists, Animateka festival, and independent animators had donated cartoons and animated films.
At the time, we were applying for European grants to complete the project, including a paint job for the van and additional workshop equipment.
WHERE?
The MoMo Cinema journey was circular: it started and ended in Slovenia and passed through 10 countries—Croatia, Serbia, Bulgaria, Turkey, Georgia, Armenia, Iran, Greece, North Macedonia, and Bosnia and Herzegovina. We planned our route based on the locations of refugee centers, asylum homes, orphanages, and border zones. At each stop, we screened films and ran workshops.
The total route covered approximately 15,000 km and took around 3 to 4 months to complete.
WHY?
This project empowered children to express themselves through art—a medium that helped them process their own experiences. But it also served to promote a powerful anti-racism and anti-exclusion message. Art is a universal language. It expresses emotion, identity, and experience—and because of this intimacy, it is incredibly powerful.
Our goal was to bring back smiles. To help children escape harsh realities, and to just be kids again—if only for a moment. Through colors, sound, movement, and imagination, we offered them joy, play, and creativity.
Every child has the right to this. Happy children inspire those around them—they give their families strength and their communities hope. The workshops offered a creative outlet, a way to express and heal.
And we learned from them too. We discovered what happiness means in the most difficult circumstances. If these children managed, even briefly, to forget the terrible, dehumanizing moments buried in their subconscious—then we consider our mission a success.
Simple as that.
“SELF” PROJECTION NO.1 and Frightened Artists //STOLIPINOVO, BULGARIA//
The moment we left Croatia, with our mobile cinema, and entered Serbia, at a place where it is impossible to miss the inscription that we are leaving the European Union, finally the anxious feeling that has been accompanying us in our “promised land”, has subsided. Our mobile cinema, 1988, barely underwent a technical inspection at home due to its peeling color, but suddenly it no longer aroused attention and stopped inviting blatant glances directed at it’s “inappropriateness”, which corrupts the appearance of the façade, which conceals the foundations and rots in the secret of egocentric self-images. Everything that makes us weird and different at home, has become something ordinary. Accustomed to being unburdened by unimportant things, that give others a sense of worth, we are brought to the Bulgarian border. We look at the board where it says welcome to the European Union. That anxious feeling reappears, but very quickly we find out that Bulgaria is far from what we imagined, when a blue signboard with who knows how many yellow stars pops past us. The Bulgarians are not trying to hide who they really are, and the senselessness of pretending is soon felt at the first gas station next to one of the many dilapidated and abandoned factories that during communism enabled the locals to earn a living. It doesn’t take long for a gas station employee to realize we’re tourists, which costs us an extra EUR10 for gasoline. When I asked where is the tariff written, he replies that nothing is written and he is the one to set the rules. Despite the bitter taste that we got deceived, there is not much we can do, so we continue our journey towards the second-largest city in Bulgaria – Plovdiv. A city boasting the title European Capital of Culture 2019 doesn’t look even a bit cultural. It is true that they have very old and well-regarded cultural institutions, but the city is just a huge construction site at every turn. When I ask a 37-year-old Nikolaj, a native who is a sociologist, if the reason for all these renovations is the money they received with this newly acquired title, he answers that this is not the case and that the title is just another opportunity for corruption. I didn’t drill ahead, we finished with this statement. Not far from the centre is the part of the city where the vast majority of the Bulgarians of Plovdiv has never set foot before. A place that evokes fear and horror, a place so dangerous that you are unlikely to come back alive is the place and home of 50,000 Roma living in inhumane conditions. So say the locals, full of fear and prejudice. According to a conversation with Nikolaj, who for the first time visited this dangerous neighbourhood Stolipinovo five years ago, more than 90% of the population are not Roma at all, but are, as they say, the original successors of the Ottoman Turks, who still speak old Ottoman Turkish. Because of their way of life and humanitarian aid funding, they are called Roma. The biggest ghetto in Europe is spoiling the look of the European Union, since the fact that most settlements still do not have sewage systems and the rules of a “modern and socialized” society do not apply there, throws a poor reputation on both, Bulgaria and the European Union, which devotes a good portion of its funds to the “development” of Bulgaria. Nikolaj and girlfriend Hannah, who had moved to Bulgaria from England, which is quite unusual given the fact that most Bulgarians want to emigrate to England, been visiting Stolipinovo with a mission to show the beautiful culture and surroundings of the neighborhood, with the desire to alleviate fear and prejudice, which in most cases are unfounded and unjust. I have to admit that our Momo Cinema blends in with the environment. For the moment it is not clear whether we are driving through the streets or through a dump. But it is immediately clear that Stolipinovo is full of life at every turn. Everyone is on the street, and all aspects of life can be seen. From smiling kids, to addicts, stray dogs barking freely at passers-by, “suspicious” young men standing proudly by their BMWs and especially those trying to make a living in various ways. Without unnecessary bureaucracy, inspections and norms of authority. We drive to the poorest area and when the kids see our van, which says MoMo Cinema in handwritten letters, they start running by the car and shout “Momo, Momo, Momo, …”. Since the wiring is very low, Nikolaj gets out of the van and checks if we can get under it. Unfortunately, we have to remove the bikes we transport on the van’s roof. As I tried to untie the gourd on the roof, a huge crowd gathered around the van and a whole lot of excitement could be seen. I gave the bikes to Nikolaj, he hands them to a middle-aged gentleman who takes them home with the promise that he will save them until we leave. He disappears with our bikes in the crowd, and we manage to continue our journey to the smaller square, just a few inches below the wiring. We have a hard time turning the van around as there is not much space, and we were accompanied by a large group of children. People are friendly, they help us every step of the way. We park the van and start preparing the cinema. Children are becoming more and more anxious. The shouting is louder “Momo, Momo, Momo …” and the situation gets so loud that our ears hurt. The locals borrow us electricity and the multimedia is ready. Only the speaker does not want to connect and the anxious young visitors get even louder. The street is full of screaming children, who await the start of the screening. The speaker is finally connected and the projection of Pat and Mat begins. The shouting calms down, the tension relaxes. Children surrender with a smile to moving pictures. Some leave, while others shoot a projection with their cell phones so they can watch it again later. Good thing we are in Stolipinovo so that some inspector does not accuse them of piracy. How nice to see children who are comfortable, satisfied with simplicity and modesty. How very little is needed to attract smiles and gratitude on their faces? Somehow, we cannot go beyond the bitter taste of the situation at home, where the content and purpose are becoming less and less important, and in the first place are self-promotion and position in society, as well as social approval. All just to keep the facade shiny and mighty. There is so much to be learned from the people who truly live in misery who, instead of building and maintaining their facades, live simply. And it is life that ultimately matters. We say goodbye, full of beautiful feelings and, above all, full of life. We are grateful for the experience that we were able to turn our backs to fear, at least a moment. We are returning on the same route and the gentleman who took our bikes is waiting for us to help us tie them back to the roof. We wave goodbye. On the outskirts of the neighbourhood, Nikolaj reaches to fasten seat belt with a sour smile on his face and says we are leaving the area of freedom. Momo Cinema, however, goes on a road towards a new “self” projection.
TEXT by MIHA MOHORIČ
ENGLISH TRANSLATION and PROOFREADING by ANA ŽEKAR
GALLERY (photos by NINA BEHEK)
“SELF” PROJECTION NO.2 AND NOTHING IS FAR ENOUGH //USHGULI, GEORGIA//
After a quick crossing of Turkey, for which we will take more time on our return, we enter Georgia. The chaotic border, it is not clear to us what the protocol is, and above all, that exciting feeling of a child’s expectation of something unknown, blood rushes through our veins and raises our pulse. As soon as we cross the border, a handful of middle-aged men jump in front of our van, with home-made ID cards hanging around their necks and supposedly convincing us they are officials. Of course, we believe them, I do not know how much we overpaid the obligatory Georgian car insurance. We continue our journey along a road that is much worse off than the roads we are used to from Turkey. We find out very quickly that the insurance, which we have been told is only possible to buy at the border, sells at every turn. And we would rather not mention the price difference. We arrive at the town of Batumi, which lies just off the Black Sea. We didn’t stay long in Batumi, so we can’t really write much, except that the city is a mix of all possible architectural styles, from old socialist blocks to modern glass buildings, ambitious attempts to follow modern trends and directions dictated by the West. After a long and hot Turkey, we need rest and, above all, escape from western reality. Escape from all that has been accumulated over the last year at home, and most of all escape from ourselves. And where else to escape, as in the most remote village in Europe. Ushguli village lies at an altitude of 2000 meters below the mighty mountains that are the border between Georgia and Russia. In the last major settlement Mestia, which is the starting point for Ushguli, about 50 km away, we ask if it is possible to drive to this remote village with our van. Locals all claim that we only get there with a 4×4 vehicle and suggest the only option is to rent a jeep, which would cost us around € 80. Not only is our van a means of transportation, but it is also our home and mobile cinema. We decide to try our luck. In the worst-case scenario, we will turn around and return to Mestia. We weren’t the only ones thinking in that direction. We meet a couple from Switzerland who has been travelling with their home on wheels for a year and is not planning to return home anytime soon. The Swiss couple also ignored the locals’ warnings and decided to try their luck. We became more numerous and the hope of success became stronger. We are in a situation where, if we get stuck in the mud, we pull each other out. United, we’re on our way. It was all too soon when we realized why all the warnings. The road was no longer road, it became everything else. We drove through mud, through rivers, through deep puddles, and along a very narrow road that the view from the passenger seat deep into the abyss, casts doubt on us, why driving this route was even necessary. When the road was narrowest, the muddiest, more jeeps drove towards us, which all had a 4×4 drive. We were on the side of the road where it was necessary, to move away and give space, towards a cliff. This adrenaline ride took us just under five hours before we saw the 800-year-old village with its characteristic stone towers, which made Ushguli today the only Georgian village never occupied. We felt relieved, but at the same time worried about going back the same route.
The view of the surrounding mountains is fantastic and we get the feeling that we have come to the end of the world. Until we drove to the village. There are accommodations for tourists, shops and restaurants at every step. And almost no locals. There were few tourists, so everything seemed empty and, above all, unnecessary. In one of the stores, we got everything we needed and headed for the valley leading to the 5200 m high Shkhara Glacier, which borders Russia. We were alone here with a view stolen from a postcard. A Soviet jeep in very poor condition, full of tourists, drove past us every so often, eager Georgians, mostly from Tbilisi, drove tourists under the glacier. Or they passed us on horseback, carrying two tourists at the same time. We somehow imagined that it would be full of natives who still live simple lives far from the world where simple, basic human values have long been forgotten and replaced by greed, selfishness and fear. We hoped that we would so far from civilization, escape everything that hurts and pushes us away from our essence. The village, however, was full of people who wanted to make a quick living. It is not easy for them, the decline of Russian tourists, due to poor relations between the two countries and conflicts over Abkhazia and Ossetia, has greatly impaired their earnings. Some children were seen in the village. For the most part, they sold souvenirs in modest stands or sat bored in the mountain sun. We decided to screen them an animated movie at our idyllic temporary home. In the morning, we headed to the village, a 15-minute walk from our location and let the children know the location and hour of the projection, our mobile cinema. Children were interested and gladly accepted the invitation. The projection time was approaching, it was really cold outside. One can feel the proximity of the glacier, the wind carries chill down the valley. We are not sure how many children will come at all, but at 8:00 pm we see 3 children approaching our mobile cinema. The popcorn is done, the projection is ready and the blankets are prepared as well. Smiling and curious children look forward to the projection. They grab the popcorn and, as they wait for the screening, explain to us how they spend their summers in Ushguli with their parents, coming together to serve bread. They are all from Tbilisi or the surrounding places. Every summer, work is switched for holidays. There are no children activities in the village, which is why, there was an additional enthusiasm for the projection and, above all, that someone has done their best and prepared something for them, the children. The projection begins, and despite the fact that only 3 are present, the laughter echoes through the valley and sweeps away at least a little of the cold that the mighty glacier sends us. It is nice to see that children are always just children and, despite being forced to swap play and childhood privileges for the adult world and work. They still know how to live in their children’s world. In a children’s world, that can teach us, what we came to look for in Ushguli. Even though, it was not as we had imagined. As we leave the village the next day, children and their parents, who usually see only the earnings in tourists, wave and smile of farewell. But we come back with the realization that wherever we land, even if it is the most remote village, we do not escape ourselves and to what hurts us at home. However, if we are open and look deeper through children’s eyes, we can only learn how to face and find our inner peace, wherever we are and whatever we do. Let’s keep the children honesty inside of us. With that in mind, we are already looking forward to the next “only” projection.
TEXT by MIHA MOHORIČ
ENGLISH TRANSLATION and PROOFREADING by ANA ŽEKAR
GALLERY (photos by NINA BEHEK)
“SELF” PROJECTION NO.3 and forgotten soviet solder //CHIATURA, GEORGIA//
Chiatura, a city, which resembles a setting in an apocalyptic film, is surrounded by tall, dark mountains, whose black shadow falls upon the lives of miners and their families, who look up to the sky, despite having quit dreaming about a better tomorrow. Here lies one of the biggest extraction sites of manganese. The extraction of manganese ore used to be a thriving business and represented 60 % of Georgian production. Today, however, it fails to supply a decent income for the miners and contribute to the development of their hometown, while also symbolizing fear of the miner’s families, questioning the safe return of the workers from the mines. Working conditions are inhumane and up until now, there hasn’t been a single year without fatalities. The former President of Georgia, Mikheil Saakashvili, abolished the inspectorate for the safety of the mines in order to attract foreign investors. Although the inspectorates have been re-initiated in 2013, there hasn’t been any improvement in the working conditions.
After a long and exhausting drive on the road, which resembled Swiss cheese, Chiatura welcomed us with a worn-out apartment complex, where a big statue of a Soviet soldier stood, looking upon the city, which lay in the valley, while literally counting down the days until it’s collapse. The statue seems like a sad reminder of the days, when the Soviet Union still invested in the development of Chiatura and the blossoming of the city, known in the Soviet Union by its production. These days, the soldier stands almost forgotten, lonely and mainly disappointed. It seems as if everything, that the soldier fought for is, nowadays, of no value. The surrounding blocks of flats appear to be abandoned and in very poor condition, but when looked at closely, you could see that they are full of life.
After the fall of the Soviet Union, the city stopped receiving any sort of financial help, which left its toll on the economic stagnation. Ever since, Chiatura practically hasn’t changed. Only time has left its mark on the city – what once represented progress and a decent life, is now left to break down, rust and decay.
The corruption and greed of politicians trample on the little dignity, that the people of Chiatura have left, despite the fact, that the mines are still the main source of livelihood for most of the 16000 inhabitants.
Every day, the miners would drive to work on old and worn out gondolas, which were built by Stalin in 1953, have never been renewed nor sanitized, yet they still manage to facilitate and shorten the long working days of the miners.
Shortly before our visit to Chiatura, these gondolas were stopped forever, due to the excessive pressure of the organizations for rights and safety of workers. Now, the workers have to drive around with busses, which prolongs their drive by two hours. In the meantime, the gondolas sway in the wind like metal coffins and like the forgotten soldier, remind the residents of Chiatura, that the inevitable end is coming. Scientist estimate, that the quantity of manganese should last another 15 years.
We decide to bring the soldier back to life – even if for a second – and to give the children a magical moment, despite their uncertain future. We parked the van by the big statue and MoMo looks ridiculously small and humble. Soon, a small crowd gathers, eager in what is to happen and interested in who dared to park their car by the statue. We quickly introduce ourselves and explain that as soon as the sun sets, we are preparing a projection for the children. Surprised and pleased, that something will happen in the sleepy town, they run into the buildings to spread the news among other children.
We prepare everything we need; the statue of the soldier has been encircled with the smell of popcorn and the children are slowly gathering. The growing crowd sparks with beauty of the eager children.
The expectations are of nothing more than a simple and humble as projection of cartoons on a wide-spread bedsheet, and a worn-out van, which blends in well with the surroundings.
It was not only the children that came. Among the crowd were also youngsters and those a bit older, who still remember gathering during the times, when the stationary soldier, who now served as shelter to our modest cinema on the wheels, still meant something. There were moments, when it seemed as if the laughter of the children entered the ears of the soldier, which drew a small smile on his face.
When the projection was over, some younger watchers approached us and asked, is they could watch a youth Georgian series, which is very popular at the moment. It was interesting to see what the youth of Chiatura could relate to, what they value and mostly, what they strive for.
The rather sad thing was, that their home didn’t enable them this and that they don’t really have a future in Chiatura. We watched until the engine ran out of fuel and we ran out of electricity. Then silence prevailed.
The soldier was still looking in the same direction, yet we felt transience, which came as a reminder that nothing was eternal and that it’s moments like this that count. Even if they don’t last long. All that matters is, that they are honest and come from the heart. Bearing this in mind, we parted ways and despite the fact, that they have a difficult future ahead, we recognized courage and hope in them.
As for the soldier – we bought him back to life, even if only for a moment, and he showed us the way onward to our next »self« projection.
TRANSLATED by EMA ODRA RAŠČAN
TEXT by MIHA MOHORIČ
GALLERY: (photos by NINA BEHEK)
“SELF” PROJECTION NO.4 and when your home is not home anymore //TSEROVANI SETTLEMENT, GEORGIA//
We are privileged, being able to cross the border whenever we wish to and explore other people’s ways of living by doing so. We live and move fairly free.
Our path is not laid out before us, so we never really know where home will be tomorrow. As we wander around and have everything we truly need within a hand’s reach, we’re rethinking about the concept of home.
It’s interesting, how the more time one spends on the road, fewer material things are really needed. Considering the fact that we currently live in a van, most of the things that we thought were necessary, just became excessive and unneeded ballast. We started to value those few really important things. Surprisingly that’s a fairly small amount of items.
At home, we spend a lot of time hoarding things, which represent the sort of comfort to us as is dictated by our surroundings. Yet, we tend to stop connecting them with the concept of home and we quickly realize that home are people and not material things nor comfort, with which we are safely distanced from confronting our fears.
Home are people, who mean something to us, who understand us, who accept us as we are and because of whom we want to be better and happier individuals. They are the people, that truly care for us, who don’t wish us harm out of egoistic interests and for whom we not only take care of, but also for whom we honestly care.
Most importantly, home are the people, who selflessly hold up a mirror when we need to see ourselves as we truly are. The more time we spend on the road, the clearer image we have of who those people are for us. And like with material things, we also realize how much we value certain people.
This is even more clearly seen by those, who are truly in need, as they had to leave everything they’ve ever known in a moment. The losses went hand in hand with wars and conflicts, which they didn’t create. They were forced to leave everything they had worked for and worked on behind – whether they were necessary items or accumulated ballast. And all of those items loose value even quicker, when there is loss of loved ones. The ones, who represented home and security. In war, namely, everybody becomes a victim of the Greedy, who don’t care for the welfare of the people and can’t see past their own personal interests.
A bit before the capital city of Georgia, we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, on the side of the highway we saw a village, made up of perfectly identical houses, built in a completely straight line. Red roofs and straight, poorly maintained roads gave us the feeling, that this place was not built by individuals hoping to live there, but that it was meant as a humble haven for all, who were forced to leave their real homes.
The refugee settlement Tserovani is currently the home of 5000 Ossetians, who fled Georgia in 2008 before the war for the largely unrecognized state of South Ossetia between Georgians and Russians. We will not go into the causes of conflict and the terrible war – we’ll leave that to others. The fact is that the war did happened and that the people drew the short straw. Inhabitants of both regions lost their homes, their loved ones and some even lost their lives. They were stripped of dignity and peace, the latter meaning much more to them than the interests of those, who had started the war. For the past 11 years they have lived in the settlement, which they call their new home. Their old home is gone, all that is left of it are memories.
The abandoned homes were torn down, they no longer host residents nor provide space for the echoes of children’s laughter. Even if their wish was fulfilled and they could go back home (which is, unfortunately, impossible as the border is only a few kilometers away from the settlement), the building of their former home would no longer be home. The reminders of what was once there would reopen all the wounds, which have slowly been healing.
Nowadays they live unpretentious and most of them work in the capital city, Tbilisi. Children are playing on every corner; despite their plain lifestyle they have each other, while being connected by the bitter-sweet memories and pain.
We felt a bit lost as we drove down the roads, asking ourselves where to put up the cinema. When we had finally found a suitable stop, we had trouble communicating with others as to what we actually wanted. After a couple of failed attempts, we managed to find an administrative center, where one of the workers spoke a little English.
It was only a couple of hours before our wanted projection, when we managed to get our intentions through to the people; they quickly stepped together and helped us accomplish our mission. It seemed as though it was in their great interest to see this through and instead of looking for reasons, why it was impossible, they managed to find more reasons as to how to make it possible.
We agreed on the location, were given electricity from a near-by sports hall, as well as found a pair, who put together an announcement in Georgian regarding the location and time of the projection for the children. The text was printed on more than 50 A4 papers and the secretary cut each one of them in 3 pieces with a ruler, so we ended up with around 150 fliers. We sat on the Momo and began with marketing. While driving, we handed a flier to whomever crossed our path.
As usual the children were very excited to hear about the screening and quickly shared the news with their friends and family. A good hour before the start, we returned to the venue and many children were already waiting impatiently. We didn’t even have to ask for help as the children began putting up the projection self initiatively. We started screening as soon as dusk fell. The audience was not made up only of children, but there were also many adults. As we saw them all together, we felt their connection and homeliness, which they share with each other, despite all the bad things they went through.
There seemed to be no end to their gratitude, as they walked up to us one by one in order to thank us and shake our hands, before helping us pack our things. It seems as though they were the ones that gave us something, not the other way around.
That night, the refugee settlement Tserovani became our home. Thinking about how home is not something to be taken for granted, we asked ourselves where home will be tomorrow.
TEXT by MIHA MOHORIČ
TRANSLATION by EMA ODRA RAŠČAN & ANA ŽEKAR
GALLERY by NINA BEHEK
“SELF” PROJECTION NO.5 and the silence that speaks //AGDAM, NAGORNO KARABAKH//
Dirty, tired and eager for comfort, we took a few days’ rests in Yerevan, the capital of Armenia. We washed our clothes, scraped the dirt from our bodies, a long and arduous journey has given us. We took the time to process and evaluate all the moments that happened along the way. Clean, rested and filled with new energy, we quickly craved for a life of travel. We went towards a country which is not recognized by the UN Member State, only recognized by three unrecognized countries, namely Transnistria, Abkhazia and South Ossetia. Nagorno-Karabach or Artsakh after Armenian is a territory between Armenia and Azerbaijan and is considered a self-proclaimed state. The fierce and bloody war that raged between 1989 and 1994 left deep scars. Even today, it looks as if the war has not ended. The conflict between Armenia and Azerbaijan is still present, and tensions are present in this military country. Nevertheless, entry into Nagorno-Karabakh is no problem for EU passport holders. A long serpentine route winds past many mines that mercilessly take what was once the property of nature. We crossed the border. There, a view of the soldiers fishing from the crystal clear mountain stream awaited us. One was holding a fishing rod, the other was breaking bread, the third was throwing that bread into the water, and the rest were watching and eagerly waiting for the fish to get caught. The soldier in the little booth took all the time in the world to check our passports. He thoroughly scanned our passports. He gave us the forms to fill. In addition to standard information, in capital letters were written places that tourists could visit. In addition, it said that all other places were strictly prohibited. Because we didn’t have an exact plan for what we wanted to visit, we ticked those places that we found most appealing. Who will check at all, we thought. After lengthy bureaucratic copying of information from one book to another, we got a visa to enter this self-proclaimed country. The visa was not glued to the passport, only inserted into it, because if we wanted to visit Azerbaijan, they would not let us there if they saw that we had visited Nagorno-Karabach, which they claim was forcibly taken away by the Armenian army. We drove into a narrow gorge full of patriotic monuments to war heroes, abandoned tanks, graffiti on the rocks – the land of heroes. It was bizarre that in addition to the military bases at every turn, this land offers tourists predetermined attractions, which magnify and support only one side of the conflict. Just a few kilometres from the old Armenian fortress, one of the attractions, where we spent the night, lies the city of Agdam, just off the Azerbaijani border. The city was home to more than 40,000 so-called Azer, and today it is considered one of the largest demolished cities in the world. It lies in the so-called “buffer” zone, which means that the border is still not fully defined. Given the proximity and we read that some bold tourists managed to secretly visit this place we also tried our luck. If we run into soldiers, we will just tell them that we got lost while looking for nearby tourist attractions. And we went on our way. Villages along the way were demolished and soldiers were seen guarding bunkers. There were no other people. We were on the road and the void around us was getting bigger. As we approached the city, everything was demolished and the road got worse. We saw a checkpoint in front of us and quickly accepted that we will not come any further. We have slowly driven in and saw a group of soldiers right in the middle of a meeting. We drove past them, wave to them and pretend to be there with permission. They looked at us for a moment and quickly return to their tasks. We look at each other and driven away with increased adrenaline. In the distance, we saw two minarets, which are part of the old Persian mosque, the only building in the city that has not been demolished. To visit the mosque was our goal. We drove into town and there is no end to the devastation. Demolished buildings, dug trenches, road barricades. At every turn, one can realise how cruel and senseless war is. We are trying to imagine what life was like here, living in peace. It is inconceivable how a person can do this to a fellow human being. The extent of the devastation is inexplicable. We reach the last intersection that separates us from the mosque. On the right, we see a military base. Just when we want to get into the intersection unnoticed as possible, the route crossed a convoy of military vehicles. The first car to drive past is a military police ATV. The seemingly strict soldier shows us that we shouldn’t be here and that we should turn back. Just behind him drove military trucks full of armed soldiers who kindly wave. What do they have to think about when they see our “special” van? So much for staying unnoticed. It takes a while for everyone to drive past us, and we hesitate what to do. As the last one passes by, we are left alone in silence and emptiness. A mosque is in front of us and we say to ourselves that if we have come this far, then drive across the intersection and take a quick look at it. We drive off, we don’t dare to look to the right, so the soldiers do not order us to return. A mosque is in front of us, we park behind the mosque, in a less noticeable street. We turn off the car, step out. We get a weird feeling because such silence in such a big city is not something familiar and common. Peace and silence are breaking through the city, despite the state of war. The mosque stands alone, it is only a memory of the faith and hope of the people who lived there. Minaret sadly observes the vastness of human stupidity. The door to the minaret is open and we climb the winding stairs. It is not often to have the opportunity to climb a minaret. We do not dare to step on the upper balcony, we just hang our heads through the fence and we are confronted with a horrible sight. No wonder Agdam is called “Caucasian Hiroshima.” Are we humans really capable of so much hatred to destroy the greatest value we have? Why do we destroy something we are most afraid to lose? Destroy lives. Shaken by what we have seen, we decide to give the city at least a spark of life. Even if there is no one else in the city. Let’s do this for those whom Agdam used to provide a home, provide a life. To those who lost their lives there, their loved ones, their homes and their memories, which faded into the emptiness and silence of the ruins. We decided to hide between the ruins and, at dusk, screen the cartoons onto one of the ruins in the city. For all those children who used to live here and for all those who could live here today. If only their future was not taken away. We parked behind the demolished house so that the van is not visible from the road and the border, which is only a few hundred meters away. The houses are surrounded by ditches, bunkers. There are traces of warfare everywhere. It seems like it happened yesterday. The pleasant afternoon sun has coloured the greenery that covers the city’s footprints. The sunlight seems ashamed and trying to hide everything that humans have destroyed. It’s peaceful, only the sound of nature can be heard. Only imagination brings back sounds from the past when the city was still alive. Despite the military, the destruction, the horror that surrounds us, waiting for gloom is meditative. For the first time on the trip, we feel at such peace. We relax quite well when the sound of military vehicles breaks the peace and quiet that has settled deep into our souls. More than 10 military trucks full of armed soldiers are suddenly in front of us. It turns out that bunkers still serve their purpose. The military vehicles are taken to deep trenches so they are not visible from the other side of the border. The same soldiers, who were waving and laughing at us at the intersection, came out of the vehicles. Without noticing us, they do their routine work. Like some kind of robots, they do what they were commanded to do. We realize when their routine is finished, it’s our turn. We wave to them and drive past them. They don’t stop us, surprisingly. We head out to find another projection location. On the road, we were stopped by the military police, who made it very clear, that we were not lost, that we were here for a reason. They took our passports and after some negotiation, they just didn’t take us to the police station. We were assigned a police escort to escort us out of town. Only when we got back to the main road did they return our passports. We had to drive towards the capital. They drove behind us for a while. They managed to prevent a piece of life returning to the city at least for a moment. The city remains dead. Even though the projection failed, the silence of the city will continue to tell us its story. And this one will never be forgotten.
TEXT by Miha Mohorič
TRANSLATED by Ana Žekar & Ema Odra Raščan
GALLERY by Nina Behek
“SELF” PROJECTION NO.6 and forgotten in time //Avetaranoc, Nagorno Karabakh//
We are still driving around Nagorno Karabach. We do not seem to be making progress as we drive along serpentine roads that wind between mountains and hinder the lives of locals. The capital Stepanakert looks new and stands out from the surrounding towns, villages that look forgotten in time. Stepanakert is the only town in Nagorno-Karabach that has been completely rebuilt since 1994 when the war ended. Huge patriotic posters are displayed everywhere in the city depicting the victory, might and invincibility of their army. The place looks artificial, soulless. We head towards Sushi, a location that tourists are allowed to visit. It is not long before the outlined path, awakens in us the rebellious spirit and leads us from the main road to a macadam path leading to an unknown destination. The road is really bad, but we still encounter quite a few cars along the way, which skilfully avoids the scars of the route. We’ve been driving for quite a while, but the miles on the meter just don’t want to move. It seems like the counter broke down or the time just stopped. After all, we finally see a few houses. Looking ahead we see a village, it looks forgotten. We are surprised by the number of people on the street, while we slowly drive through. The locals are staring at us. They don’t seem to be used to strangers. There is no end to their curiosity. We arrive at the end of the village and in front of us stands a lonely damaged building on which is in Cyrillic written – Cultural Centre. Broken windows, cracked, bullet-punched facades and locks on old wooden doors let us know that it has not been in operation for a long time. Yet it looks mighty. It is evident that it survived many things that marked it and at the same time gave it a sense of existence. Through the windows, one can see the remains of art that gave the villagers hope and meaning in the worst times. On the floor are harmonics, guitars and flags from different periods, which indicate the transformation of the country, the village and the people. In the corner of the room, light falls on an old piano, silently waiting for someone to play it again, but the dust mercilessly covers tunes that should echo. Through the broken window we see a large wall covered with pictures of soldiers who lost their lives in the war between 1989 and 1994. The fallen soldiers are decorated with plastic flowers. The Cultural Centre was damaged during the war. It has not opened its doors since. People remained in the village and life somehow didn’t move on. They look forgotten. Even though most of the village men fought in the war for independence, as they call it, they do not appear to have any benefits from it today. The village of Avetaranoc is only 20 km away from Stepanakert. The self-proclaimed state does not even take care of basic things like roads, health care, basic infrastructure for a seriously damaged village. If only they would be willing to revive the Cultural Centre and bring some joy back to the village, for the villagers, for at least a day, the troublesome and monotonous peasant lives would be enriched. The renovation is only visible in the capital and in places where tourists are allowed. For the rest of the country, they don’t seem to care. We visited an elementary school attended by more than 150 village children. The hallways are full of paintings, statues of war heroes surrounded by flowers. The flowers probably haven’t been watered for quite some time. Our visit is the event of the year. In a moment it gets so crowded around us that we cannot continue to move around the school. No one speaks English, and communication in broken Russian does not get us very far. Fortunately, an English teacher comes by, to whom we explain that we would like to organize a movie theater in front of the Cultural Centre in the evening. What they cannot believe is that something will be happening at the Cultural Centre again after many years. Before leaving school, we promised to visit English lessons. Due to the excitement and screaming of children, communication in the English language, desired by the teacher, wasn’t possible. Immediately after the end of school, children are already curious about what we are doing in front of the Cultural Centre.It is still more than 4 hours until the screening. They seem to have nothing better to do than watch each our step carefully. In the evening, an unexpected large number of people attended the screening.
Much to our surprise, a lady with a huge bunch of keys came and opened the heavy, rusty main door of the Cultural Centre. The light in the lobby lights up and the Cultural Centre comes to life. Even though the screening is in front of the Centre, it looks as if you are back at an event at the Cultural Centre that villagers have been waiting for. The lady offers us electricity and kindly shows us two wires protruding from the wall in the lobby. There are no sockets left. Despite the “sparkling” electricity, we somehow manage to connect the cables and the cinema can begin. We were showing animations for the kids, but it was nice to see that the adults also joined. The village was gathered next to the Cultural Centre. Forgotten in time, they again felt that this time was only theirs, a time that no one could take. But we have realized that it is not good to be stuck in time, to cling to the moments that pass quickly and are quickly forgotten. So let’s go ahead with/in time, the moments will remain in our hearts for quite some time. At least until the next “only” projection, if not longer.
TEXT by Miha Mohorič
TRANSLATED by Ana Žekar
GALLERY by Nina Behek
“SELF” PROJECTION #7 AND BANANAS AND CHOCOLATE //AGARAK, ARMENIA//
We are slowly leaving Nagorno-Karabakh and Armenia. The traces and remains of the former Soviet Union are fading. There are only nostalgic memories that tell us that the path we are trying so hard to avoid is going the wrong way. For the last time, we drive through the gray, dark villages and settlements that provide a home for those whose future still lies somewhere in the past. Maybe just where it should be, maybe just where it should stay, to think about where it got off track. The road ascends to an altitude of 3500 meters. At the top of the pass, we find ourselves in the middle of a cloud. The lines on the road are no longer visible and there is a huge void around us. It seems that all the cargo we have brought with us, and everything we have picked up along the way, fades more and more until it disappears into the void of nothing. We are left alone and the world around us is gone. Like a blank sheet of paper, it is waiting to be re-drawn. We descend from the pass into the unknown. We descend to where they tell us not to go. They say it’s dangerous, that this place is not safe for us. Woe to them who cross from the cloud into the world we fear. A world where this cloud does not offer us shelter, especially from ourselves. The more we descend, the better the visibility. The cloud remains at the top of the mountain and patiently saves all the ballast of those who dare through. The valley is getting narrower. There is no option to change direction. The landscape is suddenly changing. The colors are turning brown and our imagination begins to paint on a blank sheet of paper. We are only five kilometers away from the Iranian border. Everything we have heard about Iran at home and on the road is flashing before our eyes and trying to convince us not to cross the border. We are coming to Agarak village, the last village in Armenia. We are only a few hundred meters away from the border, which gives us fear. At first glance, the village of Agarak acts as a military base surrounded by mountains. Everywhere are high wire fences, military observatories, and soldiers. But what if they were right when they advised us not to travel to Iran? But what if that place is really as unfriendly as they say? Everything will be clear tomorrow. We set out to find a place to spend the night. We drive through the village and look for a suitable place. At every turn, we come across a wall or entrance to the Armenian military bases, so we prefer to turn into a settlement, which for the most part provides a home for soldiers and their families. We park the van. We are surrounded by curious faces, which seem very surprised that something is finally happening in front of their homes. The bravest approach. They are especially interested in what the hell we came to sell. We smile and explain that we are not selling anything, we just want to organize a children’s cinema on their platform, which serves as the roof for car garages. It takes a while to explain our purpose, but we don’t have to do anything to spread the news to children. News appear to travel at light speed among children. People start gathering and courious children don’t run out of questions in really incomprehensible English. It’s really nice to hear them talk while using a few English words they learned in school. Given that we travel through unknown countries to learn about them, learn about their way of life, we feel obliged to share the good and the bad about the place we come from. Most of these children do not have the opportunity to travel. By telling them about our hometown, we take them on a journey, even if only for a moment. Just as they are curious about who we are and where we come from, so are we curious about their lives. When we quell their curiosity, we seize the opportunity, and given that they live far from the cloud that creates empty ideas, prejudices and fears, we ask them how they see the world on the other side of the mountain. Accustomed primarily to warnings and criticism about Iran, the Agarak children were the first to surprise us with the answer. Their opinions are only influenced by their experience and the frequent crossings of the border into the land of “fear and trembling”, where Agarak locals love to go shopping. It’s great in Iran, they say. They have the best bananas and chocolate in the world, they tell us enthusiastically when they point their finger toward the mountain. The people there are nice and good, they add. First time, that someone shared something positive about Iran, without prejudices, fears, and misconceptions created by the media and those who draw conclusions out of fear of the unknown. This does not interest children. Children are focused on beautiful and positive things. It is the children who dispel our doubts. The previously fear-inspiring border becomes a formality that leads to a land of friendly people, where great bananas and chocolate await us. With these thoughts, enthusiastically and most of all without fear, we look forward to the next day. Children, however, laugh at cartoons on our humble canvas. Let us also draw something beautiful in their lives and imprint on them a moment that may give them a positive idea of us and the country we come from. They taught us an important lesson. Sharing good and positive is liberating. It frees the fears that children are not infected with, and the ability to recognize the good creates the ability to share good. To those who have mistaken their freedom for the opinions of others and to those who have forgotten what the true taste of bananas and chocolate is. But we’ll be back from the other side soon. And we’ll be happy to share if bananas and chocolate are really as good as the kids say.
TRANSLATION by Ana Žekar
TEXT by Miha Mohorič
GALLERY by Nina Behek
“SELF” PROJECTION NO.8 //SOORK, IRAN//
“SELF” PROJECTION NO.9 //BOOR BOOR, IRAN//
