Courtesy of HAI Creative, Sister Productions, and Soilsiú Films
As a great-grandchild of Armenian genocide survivors uprooted from their indigenous lands, director Sareen Hairabedian carries a deeply personal connection to experiences of displacement and exile. This familial history of survival and loss has echoed through her work, informing her recent directorial focus on Nagorno-Karabakh, where ethnic Armenians continue to fight for their identity and self-determination amid a relentless cycle of conflict. In her assured debut feature, My Sweet Land, the filmmaker portrays this experience of limbo by turning her lens toward an 11-year-old ethnic Armenian boy named Vrej, who is growing up in a place teetering on the edge of war.
To learn more about the resulting coming-of-age documentary and its nuanced portrayal of the inherited wars weighing on Vrej, Documentary reached out to director Hairabedian, whose documentary will screen in the U.S. competition of this year’s DOC NYC. The feature was also recently shortlisted for Best Features at the 2024 IDA Documentary Awards. My Sweet Land was recently withdrawn as Jordan’s official entry for Best International Feature at the 97th Academy Awards, reportedly due to pressure from Azerbaijan. The Academy informed the filmmaking team that the film could be eligible for consideration as Best Documentary Feature with a qualifying U.S. theatrical run, which will start on November 29. The film plays this week at DOC NYC after a premiere at Sheffield DocFest. The interview with Hairabedian has been edited for length and clarity.
DOCUMENTARY: What drew you to Nagorno-Karabakh?
SAREEN HAIRABEDIAN: I knew there were still Armenians in Nagorno-Karabakh fighting for their identity, and that this was happening in the present day, over a century after the 1915 genocide. And the world didn’t know much about the region of Nagorno-Karabakh, also called Artsakh. It was important for me to go there and observe how the children of the region were growing up in a place that was essentially unrecognized by the world. I had seen a mass wedding photo from 2008, where 700 couples tied the knot on the same day. A big part of this initiative was to repopulate the region after the wars that befell it in the ’90s following the collapse of the Soviet Union. My access point to the story was the idea of going to Nagorno-Karabakh ten years after this mass wedding, as I wanted to meet the children born during that time and see what kind of lives they were living. So I came to Nagorno-Karabakh in 2018 to carry out my research and meet some of the families living in the region. We met around 30 families during the research process, and Vrej’s family was one of them. From early on, the camera gravitated towards Vrej. He captured my attention, and I decided to follow him.
D: Why is this coming-of-age story particularly pertinent in the context of the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict?
SH: Telling a coming-of-age story through the eyes of a child in Nagorno-Karabakh was a way to shut down the political noise that defines places of war like this and focus on the humanitarian and the humane aspects of what it means to grow up in a land that might not be yours tomorrow, which is what happened, unfortunately. Almost 100,000 people lost their homes and their indigenous lands. However, Nagorno-Karabakh barely made the news at the time. There were headlines for a few weeks, but the world has largely ignored the conflict.
I felt that the story of Artsakh was crisp through Vrej, as his family was part of the resistance in the ’90s and very dedicated to their land, whether by cultivating it or fighting for it as part of the defense effort. Obviously, there is so much nuance to each family’s story in the region, but to me, Vrej’s family was emblematic of what Artsakh means to the people of the region.
D: Let’s discuss your editing choices, particularly your use of sound. In some scenes, you use sounds, such as shots being fired as a connective tissue to link different timelines, for instance, the events of 1992 and the present day.
SH: A big part of sound design involves finding ways to tell the story concisely, as there is only a limited amount of time on screen. The sound creates a sort of auditory loop in the film—the sound heard in the prologue depicting the ’90s is identical to that heard later during the unfolding military action and bombing of 2020. These two mirror one another, suggesting—through the pattern of sound—that history repeats itself, and, sadly, that not much has changed.
Throughout the editing process, the question of sound was important to us because our film lives in very intimate spaces. Yes, the family is caught in the war, and Dad is fighting on the frontline, but Grandma is still cooking in the back, and the chickens are still there, even in displacement. I believe those who have lived through cycles of war know how to restore order in their lives because they need to raise their children. It's a survival mode. So we used sound to tangibly reflect the warmth of the family bond present in these spaces—from the sounds of the grandmother bustling around the kitchen and preparing food to the children playing and a TV running in the background.
I’d like to mention music, as we are discussing sound. We collaborated with Armenian composer Tigran Hamasyan on this film—he is a world-renowned musician who is deeply sensitive to the story of Artsakh. It was critical for both of us to use music with great care, choosing scrupulously where it should be placed, not to impose it but to allow it to emerge out of necessity. I believe that is why the music feels like it belongs to the film—it’s part of the land and its people.
D: In a classroom scene filmed in summer 2020, a teacher explains how the political map perpetually changes due to wars and unresolved territorial issues. The teacher then asks Vrej, “Now prove to me that we exist as a country.” To which the boy responds, “Because we exist. We live here.”
SH: That was a geography class. When the teacher asked the students about the land and politics of Artsakh, they knew the answers. It wasn’t the first time they had discussed it. This scene reminded me greatly of my Armenian school in Jordan, with its similar set up, color of the walls, and desks. As this scene unfolded, I realized that what these children are learning is what the world needs to understand about this region too. The film is told through the eyes of a child who is telling you the fundamental truth of humanity—their right to a place that is theirs and that is safe. We are witnessing the same tragic scenario not only in Nagorno-Karabakh but also now in Palestine, with more bloodshed.
D: Let’s discuss the military camp depicted in the film. In what ways do the scenes at the military camp reflect the broader reality of Nagorno-Karabakh?
SH: The military camp was an unexpected place. I knew there were military preparation classes in school and that kids as young as 13 start taking these classes, which you see in the film. However, I didn’t anticipate that the story would take that direction and that we would find ourselves at the military camp. It was eye-opening for me because the military camp turned out to be a space where play and guns co-existed, where peace and quiet somehow intertwined with kids learning how to operate these devices.
It was crucial for me to portray this space without sensationalizing what these children were experiencing. The setting was delicate and challenging to work with, especially during the editing process, because I understood the need [for their military preparation]. We stayed for a full seven days, and I spoke with the generals and teachers there. This is the next generation of people who will have to defend their land again because there is no other way. Of course, we know that violence perpetuates violence, so the big question for me here is how we can show this in a way that serves as a tool for healing and advancing different narratives that would allow us to raise our children to become peacemakers rather than soldiers.
Do we continue the cycle of violence, or do we strive to break it and find alternative ways to build and rebuild our lives and our communities? I think the film also questions the notion of home, a concept that I have grappled with as well. I am Palestinian, I am Jordanian, I am Armenian, and I am a U.S. citizen. What defines home? And where is home? I think the film is also a reflection of that question.
D: The film closes with Vrej contemplating what “will happen to the main hero of the film”—himself. Could you take us behind the scenes? Why was Vrej posing that question?
SH: We were able to reach this scene thanks to years of our work—years of trust and relationship building with Vrej and his family. And friendship. It is not like Vrej wanted to have deep conversations with me every time we filmed. He is a child, and he wants to play. There is a soccer game happening down the street, and he wants to go there. Continuing to spend time together and engaging in seemingly mundane activities really helped us have conversations where he could truly speak his mind. This happened mostly when we were alone, often in nature.
In this scene, I observed that his demeanor and body language—it all had changed. I mean of course, he is growing up and asking bigger questions, but his relationship with the camera has also shifted; it’s not as playful as it used to be. When Vrej was younger, we were very close, moving about together, which contributed to the intimacy you witness at the beginning of the film. As Vrej grew older, things calmed down and became more spacious. When he posed that question, I was behind the camera and in tears. I knew that this was the end of the film. I took it to the editing room, thinking, “This is it; we have it.” It’s hard to find an ending to a story that is so cyclical, and he gave it to us. Right after this scene, the blockade happened, and I couldn’t go back there anymore. So everything was encapsulated in that moment.
Sevara Pan is a freelance film critic, journalist, and curator, working in the documentary field with a special focus on human rights, social justice, and activism. She contributes to such industry publications as Documentary Magazine, Modern Times Review, and Cineuropa. She is on the Activist Film Committee of Movies that Matter, an annual human rights film festival taking place in The Hague.