YouTube video by Lady Izolde

Tout commence il y a 30 ans, en août 1996, par un de ces jeux de chaises musicales dont le monde lyrique est coutumier. Engagé pour chanter Corradino dans Matilde di Shabran, Bruce Ford jette l’éponge...

Thanks for joining me! Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton Photo by Shabran Niami on Pexels.com

Prosecutor General Kamran Aliyev held a reception for citizens from the Guba, Gusar, Khachmaz, Shabran, Siyazan, and Khizi districts at the administrative

Prof Shatar Shabran memuji perkembangan UMSU hingga kini.

Journalist Aysel Umudova, arrested in the “Meydan TV case,” writes from the Baku Pre-trial Detention Center where she is held: “In the morning, completely unaware of what was to come, I was heading to the ‘Qalaaltı’ recreation center in Shabran. I had planned my day. Being arrested was not on my schedule for that day. But in an authoritarian country, was it possible to work as an independent journalist and escape arrest? Of course not. Especially when nearly 20 of our colleagues are already behind bars. In short, as I left home, I waved to my cat, Mia, and told her, “Mom will be back in two days.” After arriving at ‘Qalaaltı’ and entering the room, I turned on my switched-off phone. The moment I turned it on, a call came through, and the first sentence from my trembling friend was: “I thought they got you too.” It turned out that the wave of repression against independent media, which began in 2023, had crashed down on Meydan TV. Aynur Elgunesh, Ramin Jabrayilzade (Deko), Khayala Aghayeva, Natig Javadli, and Aytaj Ahmadova (Tapdiq) were already in the government’s hands. Their homes had been raided on pretexts like ‘water leakage’ and similar excuses, and they had been turned into political prisoners of Ilham Aliyev. There was nothing to be done. I washed down the lump in my throat with water and took my phone to inform the families. Some families were already informed, but I had to notify others. After speaking with my mother, I changed out of my clothes into something more comfortable, like preparing for battle, and got ready to return to Baku. I was thinking to myself, “If they don’t pick me up on the way, I’ll go straight to the Baku City Main Police Department (BCMPD),” when the door to my room opened from the outside, and suddenly 6 plainclothes police officers appeared. Yes, the door was neither knocked on nor was I asked if it was convenient. My phone was immediately seized. They grabbed my arms and restricted my movement. To be honest, I didn’t resist either. It was meaningless. We traveled a three-hour journey to Baku with three men I didn’t know. It was raining terribly, a downpour. I later learned that our friends waited for us in front of the BCMPD until morning in that deluge. Halfway there, I had a panic attack. My breathing became difficult, my head felt heavy, my wrists went numb, and an uncontrollable trembling started in my hands and lips. I forced myself to be as composed as possible so they wouldn’t think I was afraid and try to gain a psychological advantage. I wasn’t in a state to explain that a panic attack is related to neurosis, not fear. After a while, seeing my condition worsen, I asked for water. There was no water in the car. They didn’t stop at a shop, thinking I might “get out and run away.” After driving a significant distance, they called someone and asked them to bring water to the road. The big, dark-skinned, graying man sitting to my left tried to provide first aid. Or so I thought. To stabilize my condition, he rubbed my wrist. When I felt the hand I’d felt on my wrist on my leg, I thought it was his elbow. I moved his hands away from my leg. Then, when he repeatedly put his hands on my knee and touched my leg, I quickly pulled my hand away and put it in my pocket. Understanding that I had caught on, he moved to the other end of the seat. He settled down to nap. After a while, the nap turned into deep sleep. Soon after, his snoring filled the car. It took me a whole year to process the harassment I experienced. A little before arriving, I asked them to call an ambulance to the department. We arrived at the department. There was no ambulance. In the room where I was held before going to the investigator’s office, a BCMPD employee demanded I unlock my phone, or rather, emphasizing the trembling caused by the panic attack, he threatened, “You can stand up now, but if you don’t unlock your phone, you won’t even be able to do that.” Seeing that I wouldn’t agree, he said, “We’ll open it ourselves,” and took me to the investigator’s office. I was now in the room for questioning. But there was neither a lawyer nor a doctor present. I told the investigator, Jeyhun Huseynov, that I would not give a statement without my lawyer and without medical intervention. Finally, they felt the need to call the Emergency Medical Service. The arriving doctor, after providing medical assistance, said, “Go, sleep, rest.” The investigator’s eyes nearly popped out of his head from frustration. Yes, the doctor had given me an injection of analgin and dimedrol, and we were supposed to finish the statement before I fell asleep. The document placed before me after the statement had “Imran Aliyev” written on it. When I looked at the paper in surprise, I said the names were wrong. The investigator had confused the people they were framing. After I was informed that I was being involved in the investigation as a suspect, I took a few personal belongings and was sent to the Khatai District Temporary Detention Facility. I was held for nearly 48 hours in a cold, unclean cell with dim, flickering lights. On December 8, I was brought before the Khatai District Court, and a pre-trial detention measure was chosen for me. After the two-day exhausting journey, I was brought to the Baku Pre-trial Detention Center. Walking tiredly through the corridor of the building where I was held, my eyes searched for my female colleagues. Then I learned that we were generally held in different buildings. The cell door opened, and I entered a bright room. Two smiling women greeted me in the room. They quickly poured me tea and prepared a bed for me to rest. I watched them moving back and forth in the room, and everything felt very strange to me. I now had to live in one room with these women whose names I didn’t know, eat together, talk, and share household chores. As time passed, I grew close to one of the women; we shared the books we read and sometimes discussed them. One day, when I finished and returned Khaled Hosseini’s book “A Thousand Splendid Suns,” she said, “As I read it, I felt like I was Mariam, and you were Laila.” Near the end of the book, Mariam was executed in prison. After sharing a cell for five months with this cheerful, kind, and fun-loving woman, she passed away in a hospital called “tubzon” (Tuberculosis hospital/ward), where she was sent. Only after she died did I truly understand how close we had become. Yes, exactly one year ago, I told my cat Mia I would be back in 2 days, but for a year now, I haven’t returned home, nor have I seen Mia. I am now charged under 7 articles and will soon appear before the judge at the Baku Court of Serious Crimes. I am eagerly awaiting that day with my optimistic smile that no one can take away from me. Because for 1 year, I have been alive as a result of my unwavering belief in my choice. Aysel Umudova Kurdakhani 08.12.2025

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