Price of Truth: tribute to Azerbaijan’s martyred media heroes

The world sees war through numbers, bulletins, and the names of generals. But the real face of war is pain, destruction, and human loss — and it’s journalists who dare to reveal it. They are the eyes and ears of the world, their pens and cameras serving as weapons in the fight for truth.

In this article presented by Azernews with reference to Baku Network, each of the stories each of their stories holds the weight of a nation’s grief, dignity, and defiance.

This is a tribute to those who chose the hard path — who risked everything to show the world what was unfolding on their soil. It’s a story of journalists killed in the Garabagh war. What binds them is an unwavering loyalty to their craft and their homeland.

But do we remember those who gave their lives for the truth? And more importantly, are we willing to carry their torch, bringing light to the darkest corners of our world?

The First to the Front: Salatyn Asgarova

Born in Baku in 1961, Salatyn Asgarova was the embodiment of fearless journalism. With a degree in journalism and a job at the newspaper Youth of Azerbaijan, she could have stayed behind a desk. But when conflict erupted between Armenians and Azerbaijanis, she stepped into the fire. Voluntarily.

She became one of the first female war correspondents in the Karabakh conflict, known for her fierce patriotism and deeply human reporting. Her work captured not just the crumbling villages and frontline chaos but the dignity and resilience of civilians caught in the crossfire.

On January 9, 1991, at just 29 years old, Salatyn was killed in an ambush. Her car, en route to the Lachin region, was attacked and set ablaze by Armenian armed groups. Everyone on board was killed.

The words most often attributed to her — “If I don’t tell the story, who will?” — became a rallying cry for a generation of young reporters. Posthumously awarded the title of National Hero of Azerbaijan, her name now graces streets, schools, and even a naval ship.

The Garakand Tragedy: When the Truth Fell from the Sky

November 20, 1991. A black day in the annals of Azerbaijani journalism. A Mi-8 helicopter carrying a government delegation, foreign observers, and a film crew was shot down near the village of Garakand. Among the dead were four prominent media figures: Ali Mustafayev, Osman Mirzayev, Fakhraddin Shahbazov, and Arif Huseynzadeh.

Ali Mustafayev: The People’s Voice

Born in 1952, Ali Mustafayev was a parliamentary correspondent for AzTV, Azerbaijan’s state broadcasting network. His reports were known for their accuracy, moral clarity, and bold perspective. He was one of the first to take journalism out of the studio and into the trenches — becoming the voice of a nation in turmoil.

Mustafayev didn’t just report on events — he lived them. He bore witness to atrocities, to resistance, and to heartbreak. Through his lens, the world saw not just war, but the soul of a nation under siege.

His death in the helicopter — downed deliberately by Armenian militants — was more than an act of war. It was a targeted strike against truth, an attempt to silence a generation of honest storytelling. Posthumously declared a National Hero, his colleagues remember him with a single line: “He didn’t report the war — he walked it with his voice, his feet, and his heart.”

Osman Mirzayev: A Life Devoted to Free Speech

Osman Mirzayev, born in 1937, was a towering figure in Soviet and post-Soviet Azerbaijani journalism. From Youth of Azerbaijan to Bakinskiy Rabochiy, and eventually television, he became a trusted voice for a nation struggling to find its footing. His broadcasts didn’t just inform — they stirred hearts and minds.

In September 1990, he was appointed the first press secretary to the President of Azerbaijan. In a time of upheaval, Mirzayev insisted that government must speak the truth. And he led by example.

His death aboard the downed helicopter dealt a devastating blow not just to Azerbaijani media, but to any hope of peace. He, too, was posthumously honored as a National Hero. Those who knew him say: “He wrote as if freedom had already come — and in doing so, he helped bring it closer.”

These journalists didn’t carry weapons. Their only armor was truth, and their only offense — courage. But they knew the risks. And still, they pressed forward.

We owe them more than memory. We owe them the will to tell hard stories, to ask difficult questions, to step into the line of fire — so that truth may never be buried.

Fire Behind the Scenes: Unsung Heroes of a Conflict

Fakhraddin Shahbazov, born in 1950, was more than just an operator for AzTV—his camera was his calling, a tool to capture reality and defend the truth. He ventured voluntarily into the heart of the conflict, documenting events as they unfolded without any sense of staging. His footage became a testament, an unfiltered record of the harsh realities of war. With the camera still in his grasp at the time of his death, his legacy was sealed in the memories of a nation. Posthumously honored as a National Hero of Azerbaijan, his work continues to inspire those who believe in the power of truthful storytelling.

Arif Huseynzade, born in 1970, served as a lighting technician for AzTV—a role that, while rarely in the spotlight, is indispensable for any production. In his hands, the unsung art of lighting became the backbone of every shot, creating the conditions in which the truth could be seen. Only 21 years old when he perished in the Garakand tragedy, Arif’s death is a stark reminder that behind every great image, there is a person willing to risk everything so that the truth might come to light. He, too, was posthumously named a National Hero of Azerbaijan.

Chingiz Mustafayev, born in 1960 in Baku, was an independent journalist and military correspondent whose commitment to the truth saw him forgo the comforts of a career on stage. His camera became his shield, and every frame he captured was a challenge to injustice. In February 1992, he broke through Armenian lines to document the aftermath of a mass killing in Khojaly—images that sent shockwaves around the globe and became the backbone of reports by human rights organizations. On June 15, 1992, while covering the raging battles in Nakhchivanik, an artillery shell exploded near the frontline, claiming his life with the camera still in hand. Awarded posthumously as a National Hero of Azerbaijan, his name now stands as a symbol of independent journalism, courage, and honor. His legacy is even commemorated with a national journalistic award, a fitting tribute to a man who didn’t just report history—he became a part of it.

The cruelty of war does not relent with the ceasefire; its toll continues to rise. This harsh truth was again underlined by the tragedy of June 4, 2021, in the Kelbajar district, where journalists Maharram Ibragimov and Siraj Abishov were killed by an anti-tank mine, and by the loss of Zibeyda Adilzade in November 2020.

Maharram Ibragimov, born in 1982, was a seasoned correspondent for Azertaj, whose mission began not amid the flames of conflict but in the ashes of rebuilding. He told the story of reconstructed roads, reopened schools, and communities slowly coming back home—a narrative rich with humanism. On June 4, 2021, while traveling with his crew to the Kelbajar district, his vehicle struck an anti-tank mine planted by Armenian forces. Along with AzTV operator Siraj Abishov and an accompanying official, Maharram lost his life. The mine had been placed outside designated danger zones, and with Armenia refusing to hand over detailed minefield maps to Azerbaijan, his death stands as a somber indictment of reckless disregard. In the wake of his passing, he was honored with the Order “For Service to the Motherland” III degree.

Siraj Abishov, born in 1985, was a television operator for AzTV whose contributions often went unnoticed by the general public, though he was always at the center of every crucial shot. After the Second Karabakh War, he emerged as a chronicler of the Return, capturing images of rebuilt schools and reopened roads. He too was killed on June 4, 2021, alongside Maharram Ibragimov. His death has served as a grave reminder that peace is unattainable without truth and without safeguarding those who deliver it. Posthumously, Siraj was awarded the Order “For Service to the Motherland” III degree.

Zibeyda Adilzade—known by her pen name Zibeyda Shakir—was born in 1982 in the Fizulin district and made her mark as the editor of the newspapers Araz and Kay?dysh. Her impassioned, patriotic writing quickly earned her a reputation as a dedicated professional. Often declaring, “For life and for death, the Motherland is the best place,” she harbored the dream of being the first woman to step onto the liberated lands of Fizuli. That dream was realized, but at the cost of her life. On November 28, 2020, while dutifully pursuing her journalistic mission, she, along with her father and other relatives, lost everything when their vehicle hit an anti-tank mine, killing everyone on board.

The price of truth is not paid solely by those holding cameras or microphones. Sound operators and editors—whose names may never grace the headlines—are just as integral to the quest for truth, their contributions invaluable despite the anonymity in which they labor.

Elnur Allahverdiyev, born in 1995, was a talented sound operator whose work lent depth and realism to countless TV shows, films, and commercials. When the Second Karabakh War broke out, Elnur answered the call. Drafted into service, he served as an artilleryman. His comrades recalled that when he manned the cannon, he was the epitome of heroism and courage—undaunted, inspiring his fellow soldiers to stay strong and united. Elnur was killed on November 7, 2020, in the area around the village of Giyameddinli in the Agjabedi district, and posthumously awarded the “For the Motherland” medal. His sacrifice epitomizes the spirit of those who leave behind peaceful professions, only to rise courageously in defense of their land.

Davud Kurbanov, born in 1996 in Baku, was an accomplished editor whose skilled hands pieced together narratives from scattered footage, conveying stories that resonated with the public. From the very start of the Patriotic War on September 27, 2020, Davud joined the fight to liberate occupied territories. His bravery was evident in the battles for Sugovushan. He lost his life on October 3, 2020, during fierce clashes to reclaim the settlement. Posthumously decorated with the “For the Motherland” and “For the Liberation of Sugovushan” medals, Davud’s story is a poignant reminder that heroism is not confined to the front lines but is found in every citizen ready to defend their people and their homeland.

War in Karabakh has claimed the lives not only of Azerbaijani journalists, but also of foreign correspondents drawn to cover the conflict. Their sacrifices serve as a tragic reminder that truth knows no borders, and the pursuit of it always comes with a hefty price.

Journalists in the Crosshairs: The Deadly Toll of Truth in Karabakh

Leonid Lazarevich: A Moscow Reporter in the Line of Fire
Leonid Pavlovich Lazarevich, born in 1943 in Moscow, was a veteran commentator with the Soviet radio station Mayak. In late 1991, he traveled to the front lines of the Karabakh conflict to produce firsthand reports from one of the region’s most volatile flashpoints.

While on assignment in the village of Karkijahan, near Khankendi, Lazarevich came under fire from Armenian armed groups. He sustained a severe gunshot wound and died from his injuries the next day, December 28, 1991. His death marked one of the earliest journalistic casualties in the conflict—a brutal reminder of the price paid for seeking and reporting the truth. Lazarevich’s name remains etched in memory as a symbol of professional bravery and journalistic integrity.

Valery Dementyev: A Reporter from Perm Who Died for the Truth
Valery Ivanovich Dementyev, born in 1967 in Perm, Russia, was a rising journalist for the newspaper Young Guard. In 1991, he was dispatched to Karabakh to cover the escalating violence and document the conflict on the ground.

While traveling the Terter–Kalbajar road on assignment, he fell into an ambush and was seriously wounded by gunfire from Armenian forces. Despite receiving medical attention, Dementyev died from his injuries at a hospital in Baku on August 13, 1991. His name joins the grim list of the first Russian journalists killed in Azerbaijan while fulfilling their duty. His death was not just a personal tragedy—it was a stark illustration of the extreme risks journalists take to report from war zones and the critical importance of honoring their work.

Not Just Tragedies — War Crimes

The killings of journalists in the Karabakh conflict are not isolated footnotes in Azerbaijan’s wartime history. These are serious violations of international humanitarian and criminal law. In many cases, they meet the threshold for classification as war crimes, crimes against humanity, and acts of terrorism. These crimes demand not only remembrance but also impartial international investigation and accountability for those responsible.

Under the 1949 Geneva Conventions and their 1977 Additional Protocol I, journalists operating in conflict zones are legally recognized as civilians and entitled to protection. Article 79 of Protocol I is unambiguous: “Journalists engaged in dangerous professional missions in areas of armed conflict shall be considered as civilians... and shall be protected as such.”

By this standard, the targeted killings of journalists like Salatyn Asgarova, Ali Mustafayev, Chingiz Mustafayev, and Osman Mirzayev, as well as deaths resulting from deliberate actions—such as placing mines in civilian areas—represent flagrant violations of international humanitarian law. These acts fall squarely under Article 8 of the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court, which defines such offenses as war crimes.

Furthermore, systematic attacks on members of the press, patterns of persecution, and the continued refusal by Armenian forces to provide Azerbaijan with detailed minefield maps—which led to civilian deaths long after active combat ended—suggest a broader and more sinister objective: to suppress truth, erase evidence, and instill fear.

According to the Rome Statute, crimes against humanity include “any of the following acts when committed as part of a widespread or systematic attack directed against any civilian population.” The pattern is clear: persistent targeting of journalists, mass fatalities among media personnel, and calculated silence surrounding landmine placements are not random accidents — they are part of a deliberate effort to control the narrative through violence and intimidation.

The Ultimate Silencing of Truth

In modern warfare, the truth is a target. And journalists, especially those who refuse to look away, are often the first in the crosshairs. From Soviet-era commentators to local correspondents and international reporters, the Karabakh conflict has claimed voices who believed the world deserved to know.

What unites them all — whether they held a microphone, a camera, a light meter, or an editor’s mouse — is a shared defiance of fear. They stepped into fire so the rest of us could see.

Their deaths are not only human losses. They are legal markers, moral indictments, and undeniable evidence of crimes that the world must not ignore. Justice for these journalists is not only about honoring their memory — it’s about defending the very principle that truth must never be silenced.

Armenia’s Mine Policy: Criminal Negligence Turned Into a Weapon

For years, Armenia has refused to hand over complete and accurate maps of minefields to Azerbaijan, defying calls from international organizations and humanitarian bodies. This refusal isn’t just a moral failure — it’s a direct violation of the Ottawa Convention on the Prohibition of Anti-Personnel Mines and a blatant breach of the core principles of international humanitarian law, which are meant to safeguard civilian populations in post-conflict zones.

The deaths of Maharram Ibrahimov, Siraj Abishov, and Zibeyda Adilzadeh were not random accidents. They were foreseeable consequences of a calculated, criminal inertia — a continuation of hybrid warfare by other means. Under international law, such acts are classified as lethal negligence and, within the context of armed conflict, rise to the level of crimes committed with intent to harm civilians.

Azerbaijan has both the legal standing and the moral authority to demand urgent action from the international community:

• An immediate and transparent investigation into the targeted killings of journalists in Karabakh, including proceedings through the International Criminal Court (ICC), the UN Human Rights Council, the Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, UNESCO, the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), Reporters Without Borders (RSF), and the OSCE.
• Recognition of these acts as international crimes within the jurisdiction of global tribunals.
• The creation of an international fact-finding commission under the auspices of the United Nations or the International Federation of Journalists to document crimes against members of the press in Karabakh.
• Holding Armenia accountable for war crimes against journalists — including by initiating proceedings at the International Court of Justice in The Hague.

Every uninvestigated journalist’s death in Karabakh is not just Azerbaijan’s grief. It’s a challenge to the entire civilized world. The silence of global institutions in the face of these atrocities isn’t neutrality — it’s complicity. And impunity, once tolerated, becomes an open invitation to repeat the crime.

We call on:

• Michael O’Flaherty, Commissioner for Human Rights of the Council of Europe, to provide a formal legal assessment of these killings and the failure of Armenia to act;
• UNESCO to recognize fallen Azerbaijani journalists as martyrs for press freedom and include their names in international memorials honoring journalists killed in conflict;
• The International Federation of Journalists (IFJ) to pass a resolution condemning the killings and demanding justice;
• The European Court of Human Rights to admit cases related to the intentional killing of journalists and violations of the right to life and freedom of expression under Articles 2 and 10 of the European Convention;
• The International Criminal Court to categorize these acts under Article 8 (war crimes) and Article 7 (crimes against humanity) of the Rome Statute.

Azerbaijan isn’t pleading. Azerbaijan is demanding justice — and that demand rests not on emotion, but on law. International law. Until the perpetrators are named, until the global community delivers a verdict, journalists will continue to die — shrouded in the darkness of indifference and diplomatic cowardice.

We refuse to let the light from their lenses be swallowed by the black hole of impunity.

They’re Gone — But Their Light Remains: A Chronicle Carved from Courage

When a journalist dies, more than a voice is lost. The camera falls silent. The pen freezes mid-sentence. The thread between the world and the truth snaps. But some deaths become beginnings. Some silences thunder louder than a thousand editorials — a truth etched in blood, pain, and courage.

These aren’t just tragedies. They are chapters in Azerbaijan’s great and painful chronicle — written by the light of those who walked toward gunfire armed with nothing but a microphone and a moral compass.

They were different. Men and women. Believers and skeptics. Some who smiled rarely, others who laughed even in the face of death. Their names aren’t buried in archives — they live in the names of our streets, in the tears of our mothers, in the solemn respect of fellow reporters who know that truth isn’t an ideal — it’s a responsibility.

Their legacy isn’t nostalgia. It’s a mission. Their stories aren’t history. They are unfinished dispatches waiting for justice to be done.

And we will keep telling their stories — until the world listens.

"If I Don’t Tell the Story, Who Will?": The Sacred Legacy of Karabakh’s Fallen Journalists

Salatyn Asgarova didn’t just die in a warzone — she shattered indifference. The first female journalist to be killed on the frontlines of the Karabakh conflict, Salatyn gave her life for the truth. Her eyes are forever frozen in black-and-white stills; her voice echoes through the archives — a voice we must listen to like a prayer.

Ali Mustafayev spoke with those no one else dared approach. Soldiers, generals — they trusted him. He understood the weight of every word and paid for them with his life. Ali wasn’t chasing glory — he was simply doing his job, the way the devout pray: quietly, earnestly, with faith in salvation.

Osman Mirzayev wasn’t just a reporter. He was a chronicler of tragedy and hope. He could have stayed in the shadows, but chose the searing light — the blinding light of truth he believed the world needed to see. Osman didn’t write news — he wrote testaments for future generations. And they must remember.

Fakhraddin Shahbazov was modest, soft-spoken, almost invisible in life — but monumental in death. He held his camera like a shield and kept filming as the sky collapsed. His footage wasn’t just documentation — it was grief in motion. His sacrifice is a defiant rebuke to anyone who thinks truth comes cheap.

Arif Huseynzadeh never raised his voice — but his words thundered. Each sentence carried the pulse of a nation — its unease, its yearning, its dignity. Arif left behind not silence, but strength.

Chingiz Mustafayev filmed what the world didn’t want to see. He recorded what others looked away from. Khojaly. His footage became an indictment of silence. Chingiz didn’t die from shrapnel — he died from the betrayal of a civilization that pretended nothing happened.

Maharram Ibrahimov and Siraj Abishov were the last, for now, to die for a story. Just recently. They knew exactly where they were going — and still, they went. Because homeland isn’t a word stamped on a passport — it’s a feeling you die for. Their bodies were pulled from the wreckage of a mined road, but their souls rose into the sky of truth.

Zibeyda Adilzadeh. Elnur Allahverdi-zadeh. Davud Kurbanov. Leonid Lazarevich. Valery Dementyev. People who believed journalism wasn’t a job — it was a calling. They weren’t famous. They were known only in newsrooms and on front lines. Now, their names are spoken with reverence — like saints of a brutal modern age.

Each of them became more than a person. They became a symbol. A symbol that truth can outlive death. That words can be armor. That a camera can be a sword.

And yet, one question refuses to fade:

What have we done with their sacrifice?

If we forget — they died in vain.
If we stay silent — their voices are lost.
If we’re indifferent — then darkness has won.

But if even one young journalist, gripping a microphone, remembers Salatyn, Chingiz, or Ali and asks, “If not me, then who?” — then they live on. Then their deaths were seeds, and conscience is the harvest.

We do not have the right to betray them.
We do not have the right to reduce their stories to dates and names.

Because this is not a roll call — it’s a love story for a homeland, written in blood.
It’s a prayer we’re duty-bound to recite.

Because, as each of them would have said before stepping into the fire: “If I don’t tell the story, who will?”