In 2018, filmmaker Emily Mkrtichian began work on what she envisioned as a quiet, contemplative documentary—a portrait of women in Artsakh, the ethnically Armenian region nestled in the South Caucasus, long disputed between Armenia and Azerbaijan. Her camera followed four extraordinary women: a minesweeper clearing remnants of past wars, a young judo champion pushing past gender expectations, a determined women’s rights activist, and a politician-in-the-making challenging deeply rooted traditions.
But in 2020, that vision was upended. When Azerbaijan launched a surprise attack and war erupted once again, Mkrtichian was already there, filming as bombs fell around her and her subjects’ lives were thrown into sudden uncertainty. The documentary she had been making transformed overnight—from an observational study of strength and community to an urgent chronicle of survival and cultural erasure.
The result is “There Was, There Was Not,” a stunning debut feature that has captivated audiences and critics alike. Shot, directed, and produced by Mkrtichian, with producing support from Brock Williams (“On Her Shoulders“) and executive production by Alexandria Bombach and D.D. Wigley. The documentary features Siranush Sargsyan, Svetlana Harutunyan, Gayane Hambardzumyan, and Sosè Balasanyan as its main subjects.“There Was, There Was Not“ is now rolling out in theaters across the U.S. and the UK, with filmmaker Q&As scheduled in select cities.
In this conversation, Mkrtichian reflects on the evolution of the film, the ethics of documenting trauma, and the power of storytelling to preserve a disappearing homeland.
Let’s begin at the start. When did this project begin, and what originally drew you to the stories of these four women?
It actually began in 2016, but it had been building for a while. Back in 2014 or 2015, I made a short film where I embedded with the first team of women allowed to go out into minefields and remove landmines with the Halo Trust, this international organization. I went into it thinking, “These women are amazing — they’re badass, feminist, powerful.” But as I spent more time with them, I realized the story was more complex. They were all single mothers who had taken the job to support their children. Their strength, their humor, their personalities — it all really drew me in.
That experience made me start wondering about other women in Artsakh. This is a territory that’s been unrecognized for decades, and they were 25 years out from a major conflict following the fall of the Soviet Union. I started thinking more broadly about women in post-conflict societies — how they hold communities together in these quiet, powerful ways.
And then when the conflict broke out, the direction of the film changed dramatically. Can you describe what it was like to shift from a story about daily life to one about survival?
Yeah, I had a lot of anger about it at first. What was happening wasn’t the story I set out to tell — and I never imagined myself being in the position to tell a war story. I wanted to make a quiet film about strength through observation. And I think, years later, I still managed to do that in a way. But it took a long time to understand what had happened.
It was completely unexpected. I ended up witnessing things I wasn’t prepared to see. I’m grateful I had those four years before the war broke out, because they allowed me to build real trust with these women. I understood them, and that relationship helped me carry the ethos of the original film into a story that had been ruptured by violence and displacement.
Let’s talk about the title — There Was, There Was Not. It feels rooted in both myth and loss. What does that phrase mean to you personally, and how did it come to define the film?
Yeah, There was, there was not — lino machin loom — is something that’s said in Armenian, Persian, Arabic… it’s the way traditional stories begin. It’s our version of “once upon a time.” And for me, it reflects the tension between myth and memory, between presence and erasure.
That phrase also really captures my connection to Armenia, as someone whose grandparents and great-grandparents were displaced. I grew up learning about this place through myth, and through a deep sense of loss — a loss that felt fundamental. So there’s a personal layer to it, but also a broader one: in a region shaped by the rise and fall of empires, storytelling becomes this way of keeping history alive while recognizing that the ground is always shifting.
You’ve described your work as exploring radically personal and alternative archives. How did that perspective influence your approach to documenting these women’s lives?
Making this film helped me see what I’m truly obsessed with as an artist. Before this, I might’ve said I was interested in quiet strength or subtle power. But in making this film — which became a finite archive of a place that no longer exists as it once did — I realized I was documenting something irreplaceable. And that led me to question: Who gets to make the archive? Who decides what gets remembered?
That’s why being radically personal, and creating alternative archives, feels like a political act to me. This film became that kind of archive.
The film feels both deeply local and emotionally universal. How did you think about that balance while making it?
Yeah — I worked really hard on that. There’s truth in the phrase “the personal is universal,” but it’s not always automatic. What I wanted to do was give audiences time in this place — to experience the joy, the beauty, the humor, the ordinariness. And I wanted the individuality of these women to come through in really subtle, complex ways.
Sometimes, by not directly engaging the political context, you can actually create more emotional access. Even if people have never heard of Artsakh, I hoped they could still feel a connection through the personal storytelling.
What ethical considerations guided your representation of trauma and resilience, especially in such vulnerable moments?
So many. And they changed over time. From the beginning, I knew that even though I’m Armenian and speak the language, I’m from the diaspora — I didn’t grow up in Artsakh. That guided how I interacted with everyone. I never assumed I knew anything. I let the women lead the story. They were the authority on their lives.
When the war started, I had no training in covering conflict. I was scared and confused, like everyone else. But I realized that was actually my strength. Hundreds of journalists were parachuting in for a couple of days, grabbing what they could. But I stayed. I wasn’t interested in showing the frontlines or the bombs. I felt like my job was to document this emotional rupture, this shift in the interior lives of four women. That felt like the ethical choice — to show what no one else was even looking for.
Were there moments when the women challenged or shifted your perspective as a filmmaker?
Absolutely. One of the most important things was how different the four of them are. Spending time with each of them made it impossible to draw any single conclusion about what it means to be a woman in this place. That diversity of experience always kept me in conversation with the work — it forced me to resist simplifying anything.
Especially during the conflict, it became about presence. I learned not to give advice, not to try to fix anything. People were making decisions that could change — or end — their lives. All I could do was be there, witness, and follow whatever path they chose.
You shot, directed, and produced this film yourself. How did wearing all those hats affect the film’s tone and intimacy?
It shaped everything. For me, filming became an extension of directing. In observational filmmaking, where you point the camera is where the viewer’s eye goes — so holding the camera became this magnifying glass for empathy. It taught me how to look. How to be in relation.
Producing was also very relational. It wasn’t scheduled. I’d call Sosé in the morning and ask, “Hey, what are you up to today?” Maybe I’d come by with the camera. It was about trust and intimacy. And having authorship over how the story was told was really important to me.
You worked with editor Alexandria Bombeck — how did that collaboration shape the final film?
Alexandria was absolutely essential to how the film came out. They were involved even before the war began — one of the first people I called when the conflict broke out. They told me, “Don’t run toward the bombs. Someone else will do that. Stay with the women.”
In the edit, they brought this deep clarity. They kept asking, “What’s honest?” What’s honest about my experience, and what’s honest for these four women? That became our compass. Their guidance helped us make a film that feels intimate, grounded, and real.
What role did sound, texture, and landscape play in shaping the emotional atmosphere of the film?
Sound was really important — it helped evoke myth and memory, this sense of inner space. There are parts of the film where we enter a kind of dreamlike soundscape, where you feel like you’re inside the women’s imagination or emotional world. That was very intentional.
Ruben De Gheselle, our composer, created such beautiful music. He used natural sounds from the footage — ambient noise, small details — and worked them into the score. In moments where time moves backward, he played string instruments in reverse to build tension. It created this dissonance that feels like history folding in on itself. It was beautiful and haunting.
What do you hope people take away from this film?
Honestly, I want to resist answering that, in a way. Everyone will see something different, and that’s part of the beauty. As the film has gone out into the world, I’ve had to let go of expectations.
There’s this tension — it’s a nonfiction film, it’s a record, but the real lives of these four women continue. I was listening to an interview with Arundhati Roy recently. Someone said, “You’ve been so successful,” and she responded, “I’d argue I’m a huge failure. None of my work has changed the world in the ways I hoped.” That really hit me.
This film hasn’t changed the world. It hasn’t brought back this land. But maybe it offers something else — a meditation on what art, imagination
Film website with release info: https://www.therewastherewasnot.com
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/therewastherewasnotfilm
Theatrical Release Info – THERE WAS, THERE WAS NOTNew York: DCTV Firehouse Cinema – from Oct. 10*
Pleasantville, NY: Jacob Burns Film Center – Oct. 14*
Los Angeles: Laemmle Glendale – from Oct. 17*
Columbia, MO: Ragtag Cinema – from Oct. 24
San Francisco: Roxie Cinema – Nov. 1*
Boston, MA: West Newton Cinema – Nov. 7*
Hartford, CT: Cinestudio – Nov. 8*
[*Filmmaker Q&As & Events in Select Cities]
[UK] London: Bertha DocHouse – Nov. 7
