White Bim, Black Ear

This story was prepared as part of a project implemented by “Stepanakert” Media Club. The original was published in Russian on Step1.am.

After the loss of Artsakh, every family carries a taboo topic—words that are never uttered. It’s not because of any explicit agreements or decisions but because everyone knows that a single word could break them. People have barely managed to pull themselves back together after shattering into a thousand pieces. They live with a lump in their throat, avoiding painful thoughts and idle talk.

One of those unspoken topics in our family is Bim.

After a 10-month blockade, in September 2023, it became clear that people had to leave Artsakh, and they began packing. Some were searching for fuel, others were gathering clothes and photo albums. Some visited the graves of loved ones, while others bid farewell to family members they couldn’t take with them—including pets. Dogs, cats, and other animals couldn’t understand what was happening. They only knew they were suddenly alone, left behind in houses and streets where people used to live. Nobody knew what awaited them on the road, how long the journey would take, or if they would make it to the end. Many didn’t have cars, fuel, or room in the vehicle to take their pets.

But in our family, the problem wasn’t the car or the space in it.

We found Bim in 2014, on a rainy day, by the roadside just outside of town. It was dark, cold, and damp, and he was completely alone. Of course, we couldn’t leave him there. It felt like the universe had blessed us by bringing him into our lives… He was tiny, like a little piglet, and after just a few days, his belly grew so big that he could barely stand on his paws—he was hardly 20 days old. We loved him a lot. He was a mongrel, a crossbreed, but he knew commands and, more importantly, he understood us. He didn’t perform tricks, but he could comprehend everything we said. Most of all, he knew how to love. He sensed when we were unwell, coming close to rest his head on our shoulders when we needed it most. He understood us when we spoke to him—he was truly a member of the family. We even gave him toys that passed from one child in the family to the next. He became, in every way, the fourth child in our family.

During the blockade, Mum would stand in line for food, and when she finally got something, it was often for Bim and our cats. Many times, my parents didn’t eat themselves but made sure Bim was never left malnourished.

Every dog has a favorite person, someone they feel closest to or spend the most time with. In our family, that person was my Dad. He named Bim after the dog in the movie White Bim, Black Ear[1]. Bim didn’t have a black ear, but to my Dad, he resembled the movie’s protagonist.

In September 2020, the war started in Artsakh. Bim, like us, was terrified by the sound of the blasts. He would run and hide under the bed. We lived in a private house—what we in Artsakh call “our own house”—on the first floor, while my grandfather lived on the ground floor. During the war, we spent our nights on the ground floor, though it wasn’t a bunker and wouldn’t have saved anybody if a drone had hit the house.

I didn’t spend the war at home; I was with other journalists at the information center in a bunker beneath one of the schools. My mum, a nurse, worked nights at the hospital. My brother was mobilized to the army on the first day of the war. My younger sister was the only one we sent to Yerevan after the first two weeks of fighting.

At home were my dad (a disabled veteran of the Karabakh war in the ’90s), my grandfather, and Bim. Our district, known as the “Zavodskoj” or “Factory area” of Stepanakert, had a bunker in the basement of the sewing factory. When the bombings of Stepanakert became more frequent and intense, my grandfather joined others in that bunker.

My dad, however, stayed behind because the bunker didn’t allow pets, and he refused to leave Bim alone. This is how they—my dad and Bim—spent the war: outside, in the yard. Bim distinguished himself by bringing new dogs and cats from around the yard each day, as many pet owners had fled Stepanakert, leaving their pets behind.

When the entire town had to evacuate on September 7, 2020, my parents naturally took Bim with them. They didn’t know if they would find accommodation that allowed pets—something any pet owner would understand. This time, there was no other outcome expected. Before the blockade…

Before the blockade my sister and me stayed in Yerevan for different reasons. When the last war broke out, we were freaking and were worrying for everyone. This time I was in Yerevan and wasn’t able to console those on the other side. Then we learned that the road is blocked and immediately asked about Bim. “Mum, you will bring him, won’t you? I know you should bring a lot of people in our car, but Bim won’t disturb anyone”. They somehow gave somewhat evasive answers, saying that they are busy. But we actually never doubted that they would bring him. Any other outcome was hardly expected.

It was only when they arrived that we learned Bim had passed away. He was nine years old. This time, he didn’t survive the war. When the bombing started on September 19, Bim had an epileptic seizure. His heart stopped from fear. Our parents didn’t have the heart to tell us.

Till now we do not talk about Bim, don’t call his name, because it is extremely painful. Nine years we shared bread with him. Sometimes I am ashamed to grief over pet loss, as I see so many people who are bereaved. Nothing could be worse than family loss. But I think that me, my family and many people who lost their pets have a modest right to quietly mourn over it within our personal boundaries.

During the 44-day war, film director Karin Hovhannisyan came to Artsakh and filmed a documentary about the war, seen through the lens of my diary. Just before the blockade, the film premiered in the US. Bim was also in the movie. Today, I feel a sense of comfort knowing that Bim is part of this film about Artsakh and the war, a piece of history that will be remembered. I’m so grateful for the years I spent with Bim, for the joy he brought me, and for the way he lifted my spirits when I was down.

Instead of an epilogue

My dad was probably the most devastated. My parents settled in Gyumri, in a house where the landlord had recently passed away. He had a large, beautiful dog named Kostya. Before my parents moved in, Kostya barely ate. Then, two grieving souls met—my dad, a dog owner without his dog, and Kostya, a dog without his master. Both had sad eyes, both mourning their best friends. It seems it was meant to be. Now, they live together, trying to heal and bring each other back to life.

Аnzhelika Zakharyan

[1] A 1977 Soviet film, in which a white Gordon Setter with a black ear who becomes homeless because of his master’s illness (editor’s note)