Martyrs' Lane

The first thing you notice is the quiet. Below you, Baku moves and hums. Car horns rise faintly from the seafront, and wind comes up off the Caspian. But here, on this long avenue of dark stone, people lower their voices without being asked. Footsteps sound softer. Even children seem to slow down. Take a moment before you start walking. Let your eyes adjust to the rows of polished black granite, and to the red of the flowers laid along them.

You are standing on Martyrs' Lane. In Azerbaijani it is called Shahidlar Khiyabani, which means the Alley of Martyrs. It is a cemetery and a national memorial at the same time. It sits on the high ground above the city, in the upland park that rises behind the seafront boulevard. For Azerbaijanis, this is not a sight to tick off. It is a place of mourning, of family visits, and of national memory. Visitors are welcome, and the best way to visit is slowly, and with respect.

To understand the graves, you need one night in Baku's history — the night of 19 to 20 January 1990. The Soviet Union was weakening. In Azerbaijan, a national movement was growing, and tensions with neighbouring Armenia were rising over the Karabakh region. That night, Soviet troops and tanks entered Baku. They opened fire in the streets. More than a hundred civilians were killed, and many more were wounded. Azerbaijanis remember it as Black January.

The people killed that night were buried here, on this hillside, in the days that followed. Accounts from the time describe huge crowds carrying the dead up to the park. For many families, the funerals became an act of defiance as well as grief. That is why this place carries such weight. It marks the moment when many Azerbaijanis stopped seeing Soviet power as their own. Less than two years later, Azerbaijan declared its independence.

Now look closely at the headstones. Many of them carry a portrait of the person buried there, etched directly into the black stone. The faces are detailed and lifelike. You will see young men in shirts and jackets, older men, women, and some who were barely more than children. Under each portrait you will usually find a name and dates. Walk a few steps and read some of those dates. Many lives here ended in their teens or twenties.

This is the first surprise for many visitors. Martyrs' Lane is not only about one night in 1990. Soldiers and volunteers who died in the First Karabakh War, fought in the early 1990s, also lie here. So the alley holds two layers of loss. One is the violence in the city streets. The other is the war that followed, in the mountains and plains to the west. Families of both groups still come here to tend the graves.

As you walk, notice the flowers. Red carnations appear again and again. In Azerbaijan, the red carnation became a symbol of Black January. People lay them here on ordinary days, and in great numbers on each anniversary. Every year on 20 January, thousands of people walk up this hill. Many carry a single carnation. Officials come, and so do ordinary families, students, and workers. The alley fills with people moving slowly in one direction.

At the end of the avenue stands the Eternal Flame memorial. It was added in the late 1990s. It is a tall, open structure that shelters a flame burning at its centre. On a calm day the flame moves gently. On a windy day it bends and flickers. The structure frames the sky above it, and from inside you can look up through it. Visiting heads of state often lay wreaths here, which is why you may see large formal arrangements of flowers near the flame.

Here is a second surprise. This hill has served as a burial place before. Historical accounts describe older cemeteries on this upland long before 1990. In the Soviet period, the ground was cleared and turned into a public park. So the graves you see today returned the hillside, in a way, to an earlier use. It is a quiet reminder that the same piece of land can hold very different meanings across one century.

Nearby you will also find memorials linked to an earlier conflict. In 1918, during the turmoil after the First World War, fighting took place around Baku. Ottoman Turkish soldiers died in those battles. A memorial to them stands close to this alley, along with a mosque built with Turkish support. The connection matters to many visitors from Turkey, who come here to honour both stories at once.

Now turn around and look the other way. The view is one of the widest in the city. Below you spreads the curve of Baku Bay, the long seafront boulevard, and the old walled city with its stone towers. On clear days the Caspian Sea stretches out in grey and blue. Above and behind you rise the Flame Towers, three glass towers shaped like tongues of fire. At night they glow with moving light, and their reflection seems to sit right over the memorial.

That contrast is part of the experience. Behind you is modern Baku, with its glass and lights and new money from oil and gas. In front of you are rows of young faces cut into stone. The city chose to place its national memory on the highest and most visible ground. Anyone who walks along this ridge, for a view or for a photo, must also pass the graves. Many people stop and stand for a moment before they move on.

Before you leave, walk back along the avenue one more time. Look again at the portraits, and notice how the light changes on the polished stone as you move. Listen to the wind, and to the low voices around you. If you came up by the funicular, you can ride it down to the seafront in a few minutes. As the city noise returns, you may still have one face in mind — someone whose name you read here.