Fragile peace in Nagorno-Karabakh
By Steven Eke
BBC regional analyst
Wednesday, 12 May, 2004
I sit in a vineyard on the outskirts of Nagorno-Karabakh’s main
town, Stepanakert, the evening mist rolling down from the lush,
surrounding hills.
Everything is peaceful, the only sounds being those of farm animals
and the occasional passing car.
It is difficult to imagine this place at war, especially a conflict
such as that fought by Armenia and Azerbaijan, which saw both sides
commit appalling acts of cruelty against each other’s civilian
population.
The two South Caucasus nations of Armenia and Azerbaijan, as well as
the unrecognised Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh, saw ethnic cleansing
long before it would again appear in the former Yugoslavia.
But while some of those who committed the worst atrocities there are
now facing justice, Nagorno-Karabakh has not moved on. The wounds,
Armenian and Azeri, are still raw. And who, really, in the West
actually remembers the first signs of unrest here in 1988?
On one of the hills to my east, I can see the town of Shusha. From
there, Azeri forces relentlessly shelled Stepanakert. The town’s
people could only have been sitting ducks.
I know that the antipathy between Armenians and Azeris is very real,
and has existed for centuries. At every step, I hear anti-Azeri
statements, usually mixed with anti-Turkish sentiments.
Venom
Most Armenians still seem unable to distinguish Azeris from Turks. Yet
it seems strange to me that people who had lived together during the
Soviet period could have secretly harboured such venom.
In Stepanakert, it is easy to think you are in Armenia proper. The
Armenian national flag is everywhere – on lamp-posts, hanging
above shop doors. The telephone codes are the same as Armenia’s
On Wednesday, Nagorno-Karabakh is marking a decade of peace. Ten
years have passed since the end of war, but peace is fragile.
Even now, ordinary civilians and soldiers alike die in mine accidents
on the no man’s land separating Nagorno-Karabakh from Azerbaijan. There
is no peace settlement, and I cannot help but feel it would take the
smallest of sparks to ignite the region once again.
The military situation means it is only possible to enter
Nagorno-Karabakh from Armenia, along a highway leading directly
from Yerevan.
There are no border controls with Armenia, and nothing to suggest you
are entering Nagorno-Karabakh. Indeed, part of the highway leading to
Stepanakert has been rebuilt, largely using money from the Armenian
diaspora, most of which is in the United States.
I was aware as I drove to Stepanakert, surrounded by untouched forests,
awe-inspiring mountains and fertile fields, that I was in what is
legally Azerbaijan. For the self-styled Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh
has not been recognised by a single other country on earth. Even
Armenia.
Sympathy
Yet in Stepanakert, it is easy to think you are in Armenia proper. The
Armenian national flag is everywhere – on lamp-posts, hanging above
shop doors. The telephone codes are the same as those in Armenia.
The people speak Armenian – admittedly with an accent. They have
restored the town, which is an attractive, green, relaxed place. There
is tradition – with farm animals wandering the streets. There is also
modernity – the ubiquitous mobile phone.
The people I spoke to made it abundantly clear: “We are Armenians”.
“Either we live as part of Armenia, or in an independent state,”
said others.
“But we don’t want to live in Azerbaijan, and we don’t want the Azeris
living among us”.
The most positive assessment I found was that Armenians and Azeris
could be “good neighbours”. Nothing more.
What surprises me most is the local people’s profound interest in
the outside world. They want the world to remember their troubled
republic. They believe that, whatever the territorial claims from
oil-rich Azerbaijan, the international community will somehow be more
sympathetic to their cause.