Azerbaijan turns landmines into grapevines after war

My hand shook, hesitantly, as I held the pen, slowly writing the letters “AB-positive” on the visitor's log—each movement a nod to the unspoken dissonance. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, drowning out the expected grunt of the engines of two nearby idling ambulances.

That's exactly what I did.

It has only been a month since I met Heidi Kühn, winner of the 2023 World Food Prize and the visionary behind the NGO Roots of Peace. For 25 years, the organization has turned the scars of war into seeds of hope and worked tirelessly to turn minefields into fertile farmland. Guided by a simple yet profound formula (Demining, Replanting, Regenerating), Roots of Peace works with demining groups around the world to restore irrigation, infrastructure and arable land to farmers in war-torn areas. The mission is to reclaim not just the soil, but the dignity and future of entire communities.

Heidi and I met at the Borlaug Dialogue—the World Food Prize Foundation’s annual food security conference in Iowa—and within minutes of our introductions, we established An unshakable bond.

When we found out we would be attending the United Nations Climate Conference (COP 29) in Azerbaijan in a few weeks, Heidi extended an invitation with a level of audacity that left me breathless. “Join me,” she said, her voice full of purpose, “walking the minefield of Nagorno-Karabakh.”

Nagorno-Karabakh, ravaged by the decades-long territorial conflict between Armenia and Azerbaijan, was once known for its verdant agricultural landscape. Its fertile soil and unique climate once supported a thriving agricultural sector, famous for its viticulture, with annual grape production of up to 160,000 tons, a testament to the region's rich potential.

Heidi describes a vision in which mined fields will be replaced by vast vineyards. “From mines to vines,” she calls it, with the passion of a dreamer and the faith of a mother, imagining where there are now only dangerous places with lush vines, imagining places of despair There is hope.

“The vine is an ancient symbol of peace,” she said. “The fruit of the vine, which produces grapes, raisins, and wine, represents the seeds that we have in common, not those that separate us.”

And so, a month later, we piled into the back of a black International Eurasian Press Fund (IEPF) SUV and rumbled down the four-hour road trip from Baku to Aghdam. The seriousness of what we were about to do was tempered by our shared laughter and murmured confessions. We held each other's hands tightly. Two mothers who tell our children's stories with faith in their hearts – our shared humanity laid bare in the shadow of the dangers to come.

In the front passenger seat sat IEPF President Umud Mirzayev, who set the stage for our journey with his quiet strength and humble determination. He is not just the head of an NGO who works tirelessly to advance demining efforts and advocates for a safer Azerbaijan, he is the son of Karabakh, born into a family of grape growers. His connection with Heidi, forged through shared goals and a deep belief in restoration, has grown into a lasting friendship, as has their shared desire to see the land restored.

On one of her previous visits, they knelt together in the soil at IEPF's offices in Tatar, symbolically planting a vine in soil that had long suffered the shadow of war. This act is simple yet profound, a silent promise that even after destruction, life can begin again. As our SUV heads toward the treacherous fields of Agdam, Mirzayev's steady presence carries the weight of that promise.

Before us, the once vibrant urban center of Agdam lay bare the ugly scars of war. Six years of brutal fighting that began in 1988 allowed the Armenian army to take control of the situation, and another 44 days of fighting broke out in 2020, with Azerbaijan regaining most of its land. The area's wrecked homes, wrecked vehicles and desolate fields have become haunting testaments to the devastation of war.

But beneath this ravaged site lies a cradle of history, where the roots of Azerbaijan’s ancient winemaking tradition run deep. Archaeological excavations near the city of Agdam have uncovered 3,500-year-old grape seeds and petrified clay jars. Once home to vineyards that gave birth to indigenous grape varieties unique to Azerbaijan, the land is a poignant reminder of what has been lost, but also of what may bloom again.

My discussion with President Ilham Aliyev’s special envoy Elchin Amirbayov outlined the staggering toll of the war. Azerbaijan is one of the five most mined countries in the world; more than 1.5 million landmines and unexploded ordnance laid since the 1990s have contaminated 12,000 square kilometers of land – 13% of Azerbaijan’s territory. The cumulative number of landmine victims in Azerbaijan over the past 30 years has reached thousands, with 382 deaths since 2020.

“This is not just about landmines,” he said solemnly, “but also about the innocent lives lost to this scourge.”

A devastating blow to Azerbaijan's economy and food security lies in the vast swathes of idle land – 60 percent of which is flat, fertile farmland – now considered unusable due to the lingering scars of the conflict. According to a Ministry of Foreign Affairs report, “The presence of landmines and other unexploded ordnance has severely damaged land, vegetation cover, water infiltration and water flow, and rendered large swaths of valuable farmland inaccessible.”

At the ANAMA base in the village of Saricali, Khalid Zulfugarov, head of the region's demining department of the Azerbaijan National Mine Action Agency (ANAMA), and Shahin Allahverdiyev, operations manager of IEPF, described ongoing efforts to rebuild the city and restore it to a center for the region development and resettlement.

By mid-2024, more than 145,700 hectares of land had been cleared and more than 122,000 explosives neutralized, including 32,581 anti-personnel mines and 19,666 anti-tank mines. Despite this progress, less than 13% of contaminated areas have been removed, underscoring the scale of the challenge.

“Demining clearance is expensive and requires advanced technology, skilled labor and continued international support,” Mirzaev said. “Without urgent investment, current environmental degradation will continue to escalate, threatening biodiversity, natural ecosystems and the livelihoods of communities that rely on these resources. Accelerating the pace of landmine clearance is not only a humanitarian imperative, but also necessary to prevent further damage to the Earth's biosphere ecological needs.

In June 2021, a landmine map of Armenia showed that there were a staggering 97,000 landmines in Agdam alone. In 2023, under the coordination of ANAMA, UNDP, in partnership with IEPF, the Mine Advisory Group (MAG) and APOPO, launched a program to mitigate the mine threat and assist with resettlement in the area. In 2024, this joint effort supported the deactivation of nearly 3,000 mines in Agdam alone.

Passing through the desolate Agdam, we arrived at a roped-off clearing in the village of Nanalli. Here we give our blood types, pass by ambulances on standby, and stand in front of wooden boxes filled with recovered remnants of the conflict. It was here that we met 14 male deminers at work. Later, at the IEPF offices, we met nine female deminers – who quietly but powerfully testified to their resilience and shared determination to transform a place of danger into a place of hope.

In the village of Namirli, under a small makeshift tent, as we held scalding cups of tea to thaw our cold fingers, MAG's Ramin Gadimli shared his story. As a translator and eyewitness, Lamin recounted the severe impact of the six-week war in 2020. Witnessed the brutal toll. “I lost a lot of friends, and a lot of people were seriously injured,” he said, his voice steady but heavy with the tragedy. “The news during that time was heartbreaking and heartless.” His words hung in the air, as heavy as the work being done just steps away.

Laming told me that much of the land cleared by MAG around the world is agricultural, reminding us that demining is not just about safety and survival, but also about livelihoods. Once freed from the constraints of concealed explosives, these fields can once again nourish communities and restore their livelihoods with dignity. The cleared land allows farmers to grow crops, rebuild irrigation systems and revitalize the local economy. Every landmine cleared is a step towards increasing food security, unlocking the potential for sustainable development and restoration of food systems in conflict-traumatized areas.

One-third of all cases of agricultural abandonment in the post-Soviet Caucasus are war-related, partly due to landmines, according to a study reported in the journal Global Environmental Change.

In the preface to Heidi's memoir, Breaking Ground: From Landmines to Grapevines, One Woman's Mission to Heal the WorldQueen Noor calls landmines “slow-motion weapons of mass destruction.” They continue to destroy lives and livestock and seize valuable farmland long after the conflict has ceased.

This is the legacy of the war in Nagorno-Karabakh.

A year and a half before Heidi and I walked back on what she called “the steps of peace,” she stood in Alfred Nobel's private residence in Baku, Azerbaijan, to receive her award for the 2023 World Food Prize official news. Just two days ago, she detonated six anti-tank mines in Nagorno-Karabakh using Nobel's invention – dynamite – not to destroy but to revive. In that moment, history and purpose merged: a symbol of war became a tool for restoring life.

In 2023, Azerbaijan announced “building a world without landmines” as its 18th national sustainable development goal, integrating this bold vision with the United Nations 2030 Agenda. They are barriers to life itself, rendering fertile lands inaccessible and cutting off the lifeline of national and community food security.

However, the scale of the challenge requires global action. Elchin Amirbayov said that since 2020, foreign aid has accounted for only 5% of resources for large-scale demining efforts. home.

In Aghdam, across Nagorno-Karabakh, and in countless areas around the world—as many as 110 million landmines remain buried in 60 countries—the promise of renewal is etched in the soil, waiting to be healed.

Heidi and I are bound by an unspoken vow: to stand bravely together, forge safe paths where others fear to tread, and lift up the voices of those silenced by conflict.

It's a raw and immediate connection – fueled by the hope of two mothers. Hope for land. Hope for our children. Hopefully one day the vines will be lush, strong and indomitable where the mines are.