By David Ignatius
Karabakh is one of the world’s least-discussed and most
intractable quarrels. The mostly Armenian population violently seceded from
Azerbaijan in a two-year war. Since then, Russia, France and the United States
have sponsored a mediation effort, but it has been fruitless: Azerbaijan
demands that land once inside its borders be returned; the Armenians insist
they aren’t leaving. Rather than softening over time, anger seems to be
hardening on both sides.
The military commander of this breakaway Armenian republic
predicted in an interview here Monday that a fragile cease-fire could collapse
within days. By that night, Azerbaijani shelling had killed
two Armenian soldiers in a
northern border town, amid accusations by each side that the other had violated
the truce.
The “frozen conflict” here, stalemated for 22 years,
exploded on April 2, when Azerbaijani forces attacked across the
200-kilometer front line. The Azerbaijanis seized ground for the first time
since the previous war ended in 1994. Russia negotiated a quick truce that
began April 5, but as Monday’s fighting showed, another all-out conflict
seems perilously close.
Russia is opportunistically in the middle. Moscow says it
wants to broker a lasting peace deal, but it has also been arming both sides.
The United States also hopes to prevent a wider conflict but has little
diplomatic leverage. The Azerbaijanis, judging by their strident social media,
feel emboldened by their recent offensive; the Armenians feel isolated and
increasingly reconciled to what one former peace activist here described to me
as a state of “permanent war.”
I visited Karabakh with several other foreign journalists
and a member of the European Parliament on a trip organized by the Armenian
government. The 90-minute helicopter flight took us over stunning mountainous
terrain to this lush, isolated enclave whose name means “black garden.” During
my brief visit, the place seemed a bit like Switzerland in the Caucasus — not
just the mountains but also the tidy streets, hillside farms and fiercely
independent people.
Lt. Gen. Levon
Mnatsakanyan, the defense minister of this self-declared republic, said his
forces hadn’t expected the broad attack on April 2. But he said there had
been warning signs: Since August, 21 Armenian soldiers had been killed and 113
wounded in attacks along the so-called “line of control.” And Azerbaijan had
been restocking its arsenal with new Russian tanks, Israeli drones and Turkish
missiles. The Armenian side, reassured by a supposed “strategic alliance” with
Russia, didn’t expect a big Azerbaijani offensive.
“Tactically, maybe they have registered some successes,”
Mnatsakanyan conceded. “But I would say that considering all the force they
used, it’s rather a defeat for them.” He claims the Azerbaijanis had lost
24 tanks in the four-day battle in early April. The two sides have
radically different casualty counts, and it’s impossible to independently verify
the numbers. But Azerbaijani commentary has treated the campaign as a major
victory after the smoldering defeat of the 1992-1994 war.
Mnatsakanyan insisted that Armenian troops could defend
the enclave, without Russian help: “The result of the four-day war shows that
the equipment we have and our combat readiness is okay for stopping any
adversaries.” If the war resumes, he says, “we will not only repel them but
advance ourselves.”
Talking to Armenian residents of Karabakh, I came away
with a sense of growing militancy here, as in Azerbaijan.
Garen Ohanjanyan, the
former peace activist, says this latest war has changed his view about the
possibility for reconciliation. After the last war ended, he helped foster
dialogue with Azerbaijanis. Now, he says, he has given up on peace and wants
Armenian forces to destroy Azerbaijani economic targets. In the past month, he
explains, “our nation lost its illusions.”
“Maybe my generation became too relaxed in these past
years,” says Ashot Sarkissyan, a 27-year-old who works with a local
nongovernmental organization and also serves in an antiaircraft defense unit.
“Why didn’t we use this time to become strong enough to deter them from a war?”
Anahit Danielyan, who heads
the Stepanakert Press Club, says she used to try to stay in touch online with
Azerbaijani journalists. Now, she says, “I’m starting to feel this hatred from
my colleagues in Azerbaijan. . . . This new war has somehow changed our
perceptions of each other.”
On the road to the airport, a
visitor can see the national
monument, a huge stone statue of an old man and woman — heads only,
the bodies seemingly buried in the hillside. The official name is “We Are Our
Mountains.” The implicit message is: We aren’t moving. What seems ahead is a
long, unyielding conflict.
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