I’ll never forget that summer afternoon of 1992. I was six years old, my brother was four. It was so hot in my hometown of Kapan – in the far south of Armenia in Syunik province, on the border with Azerbaijan – that the heat particles seemed to form an invisible curtain across the sky.
My father was in our neighbours’ garden, making mulberry vodka. My mother was serving up her cream of chicken soup. The sound of our laughter made her smile. Our happiness was contagious and spreading up towards the nearby Khustup-Katar mountains, along with the smell of the barbecue and the fragrant vodka.
Moments later, the table started to shake and the shot glasses that my grandmother had poured vodka into fell over.
