Armenia is rearming. Following the catastrophic losses of the 2020 Nagorno-Karabakh War and the complete collapse of Russian reliability as a security guarantor, Yerevan has undertaken one of the most consequential military modernization programs in its post-independence history. The centerpiece of that effort is a procurement relationship with India, covering Pinaka 214mm multiple-launch rocket systems, Akash-1S surface-to-air missiles (with the next-generation Akash-NG on order), ATAGS 155mm towed howitzers, ZADS counter-drone systems, Swathi counter-battery radars, and Konkurs anti-tank missiles. By 2022-2024, India had become the source of 43 percent of Armenia’s total weapons imports. Armenia is now India’s largest single arms export customer by value.

Has Armenia complied with its obligation, under Article 36 of Additional Protocol I (AP I), to review these weapons before acquiring them? That question exposes an underappreciated doctrinal problem about who bears the Article 36 obligation when weapons cross borders: the manufacturer, the buyer, or both, and under what conditions. It also requires examining whether the weapons Armenia has acquired are “new” within the meaning of the provision, a question with a less obvious answer than it might seem. And most structurally, Armenia’s situation is paradigmatic of a large class of AP I States Parties for whom Article 36 exists in theory but has never been operationalized in practice.

The Obligation

Article 36 of AP I, to which Armenia has been a party since 2007, provides:

In the study, development, acquisition or adoption of a new weapon, means or method of warfare, a High Contracting Party is under an obligation to determine whether its employment would, in some or all circumstances, be prohibited by this Protocol or by any other rule of international law applicable to the High Contracting Party.

The text is notably broad. It does not confine the obligation to weapons developed by the State Party itself. It reaches any “acquisition,” the operative term for Armenia’s situation as a buyer rather than a developer. An International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) commentary confirms that “acquisition” was deliberately included to capture exactly this scenario: a State that procures from abroad must conduct its own legal review before or upon incorporation of the weapon into its arsenal (para. 1469). The obligation is independent, non-transferable, and does not evaporate because another State may have conducted its own legal assessment before export approval.

Article 36 addresses only High Contracting Parties and their own weapons decisions. This creates a threshold question: does India bear an Article 36 obligation in respect of its exports to Armenia, does Armenia bear it in respect of its acquisitions, or do both? Both bear independent obligations, but with different content, and the distinction matters.

The legal question Article 36 poses is always relational: not whether this weapon is lawful in the abstract, but whether this State’s employment of it would be. The drafting history of Article 36 indicates that it was crafted with arms-producing States in mind. In that context, review integrates naturally into the procurement cycle: legal assessment accompanies development, and the same entity that makes the weapon decides whether it is lawful. The contemporary arms trade is dominated by a division between States that develop and sell on the one hand, and States that buy and use, on the other. For purchasing States, which constitute the large majority of AP I’s 174 States Parties, Article 36 asks for something their procurement architecture was never designed to provide.

The applicable rules bind Armenia, including its treaty commitments, its customary obligations, its rules of engagement, and the factual circumstances of its likely use. An Indian review, conducted against Indian doctrine, Indian treaty exposure, and Indian operational parameters, addresses none of this. The two obligations share a common framework, the substantive rules of international humanitarian law (IHL), but their content diverges at the point that matters most.

There is a further dimension. India is not a party to AP I. Its obligations arise, if at all, from customary international law, and the customary status of Article 36 remains contested (skeptical: here, p. 94; here, p. 285; contrary view, p. 342-43). Armenia, by contrast, is unambiguously bound by AP I as a treaty party. Armenia’s obligation is therefore more secure legally than India’s, not less.

While no formal Article 36 review mechanism has ever been publicly documented in Armenia, this is not unusual. ICRC guidance on Article 36 implementation identified fewer than twenty States worldwide that had established formal review procedures; they were predominantly NATO members and a handful of other active arms-producing nations.

This structural gap does not dissolve the obligation. But it does explain why the obligation goes systematically unmet. The ICRC has long recognized this and offered technical assistance to States seeking to develop Article 36 review procedures. A 2006 ICRC Guide, updated in 2016, provides a workable template that is not contingent on having a domestic arms industry: an interagency body drawing on the Ministry of Defense legal directorate, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and external expert input. Several small States with no arms production have adopted variants of this model. Armenia has not.

There is also a role for supplier States, though it does not substitute for the buyer’s independent obligation. India could, as a matter of export policy, require recipient States to document Article 36 compliance as a condition of sale, or provide its own review documentation to facilitate the buyer’s assessment. Whether India does so is not publicly known. The SIPRI Arms Transfers Database records the flow of weapons but not the legal reviews, or their absence, that accompany them. The international community tracks what weapons go where with considerable precision, while remaining entirely blind to whether the legal obligations governing those weapons’ acquisition are being met.

Are These “New” Weapons?

Article 36 does not define “new weapon.” If read relationally, the term encompasses any weapon newly entering a State’s arsenal, regardless of how long other States have fielded it. In that sense, Armenia’s acquisition of the Pinaka system is an acquisition of a new weapon, regardless of India’s decades of operational experience with it. This interpretation aligns naturally with the text, “acquisition” is used without qualification, and with the purpose of Article 36, which is to ensure that every State Party takes responsibility for the weapons it employs, not merely those it invents.

If read as requiring novelty, as State practice has tended to suggest by concentrating review resources on technologically novel systems, the obligation is triggered only where genuinely novel legal questions arise that existing IHL does not clearly resolve. On this reading, a 155mm howitzer acquired today does not trigger Article 36 because artillery has been governed by settled IHL principles and rules for over a century. Yet this approach creates a serious accountability gap: “conventional” weapon types can raise entirely unconventional legal questions when combined with new delivery platforms, new targeting technologies, or new operational doctrines specific to the acquiring State’s context. The Article 36 review is precisely the mechanism for catching those combinations.

For instance, Akash-NG is India’s next-generation surface-to-air missile system, currently in development. Armenia is among the first prospective foreign operators of a platform whose full capabilities and effects have not yet been publicly established.

What a Sufficient Review Would Require

Article 36 does not prescribe a procedural template, but the substantive questions a legally adequate review must address are not difficult to identify. Article 36 requires, at a minimum, a genuine legal assessment, conducted in good faith by a competent authority, examining the weapon against the applicable rules of IHL and any other relevant rules of international law in the context of the acquiring State’s anticipated employment. This is a due diligence standard. The State must turn its mind to the question, bring appropriate legal expertise to bear, and reach a reasoned determination. Acquiring weapons without legal assessment, or treating the question as answered by default, falls short regardless of whether the weapons turn out to be lawful.

Applied to Armenia, the answers are less comfortable. The most straightforward questions concern superfluous injury and unnecessary suffering under Article 35(2). None of the systems Armenia has acquired appears designed to cause effects exceeding military necessity, but that conclusion must be reached through documented legal assessment, not merely assumed. Harder questions arise under the principles of distinction and the prohibition on indiscriminate weapons. The Pinaka raises a related but distinct set of questions. Area-effect weapons are not inherently unlawful, but their use in circumstances where distinction cannot be exercised is prohibited, and review should establish what operational constraints that entails for Armenia’s specific geographic and tactical context, a question that becomes more acute the closer one looks at Armenia’s border terrain.

Treaty exposure shapes the legal framework within which these questions are answered. Armenia is neither a party to the Convention on the Prohibition of the Use, Stockpiling, Production and Transfer of Anti-Personnel Mines and on their Destruction, nor to the Convention on Cluster Munitions. India is likewise outside both instruments. That non-party status means Armenia is not prohibited from acquiring systems that incorporate submunition technology. But it does not mean those systems escape legal scrutiny; it means the scrutiny runs through AP I. Whatever munitions Armenia acquires and however it employs them, the obligations of distinction (arts. 48, 51(4)(b)), proportionality (art. 51(5)(b)), precautions in attack (art. 57), and the prohibition on indiscriminate weapons (art. 51(4)) apply in full. Article 36 is precisely the mechanism that links this procedural obligation to that substantive one: the review must determine whether the weapon, as Armenia intends to use it, would comply with those rules. The absence of a treaty prohibition on acquisition makes the Article 36 review more important, not less.

All of this analysis, however, must ultimately be conducted not in the abstract but against the specific circumstances of Armenia’s anticipated employment, including the theaters of likely conflict, adversary countermeasures, terrain, and applicable rules of engagement. This is the deepest reason why a review by the purchasing State cannot be outsourced to the seller. India’s review, if any, was conducted against different strategic and operational parameters. Armenia’s review must answer Armenia’s question. No one else can.

Concluding Thoughts

Armenia’s obligations under Article 36 were triggered when it entered into its first Indian defense contract. The absence of any publicly documented review process is not a minor procedural deficiency. It is a gap in the State’s compliance with a treaty obligation that goes to the heart of how wars are fought and, in Armenia’s case, may soon need to be fought again.

The buyer-State problem is a systemic feature of the Article 36 regime, and Armenia is a notable instance. But that systemic framing should not obscure the individual legal responsibility at stake. Article 36 does not ask whether a State has the institutional infrastructure to conduct a review. It asks whether the State has determined that its weapons are lawful. The obligation existed before the infrastructure did, and it continues in its absence.

A State that has recently experienced the consequences of operating under-equipped and under-prepared, legally as much as militarily, has particular reason to take seriously an obligation designed to ensure that its new weapons are not only effective, but lawful. The capacity to do so exists. The legal expertise is present. What is missing is the institutional decision to treat Article 36 not as an abstract treaty commitment, but as a practical requirement of responsible rearmament.

***

Davit Khachatryan is an international law expert and researcher with a focus on operational law, international criminal law, alternative dispute resolution, and the intersection of various legal disciplines.

The views expressed are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect the official position of the United States Military Academy, Department of the Army, or Department of Defense.

Articles of War is a forum for professionals to share opinions and cultivate ideas. Articles of War does not screen articles to fit a particular editorial agenda, nor endorse or advocate material that is published. Authorship does not indicate affiliation with Articles of War, the Lieber Institute, or the United States Military Academy West Point.

 https://lieber.westpoint.edu/armenias-military-procurement-india-article-36-additional-protocol-i/

Iran’s Northern Neighbors Are Facing Fallout From the War, Too

It could determine whether the country turns west, or back to Moscow

Armenia is historically recognized as the first nation to adopt Christianity as its official state religion, traditionally dated to 301 AD. However, a part of the ancient Armenian Christian heritage is currently facing extinction in the South Caucasus. 

Approximately 150,000 indigenous Armenians—the creators and bearers of an ancient civilization—were forcibly displaced from their ancestral homeland of Artsakh/Nagorno-Karabakh following the 44-day war in 2020, a subsequent 10-month blockade, and a renewed military offensive by Azerbaijan. 

The Armenian cultural heritage which they were forced to abandon has been extensively documented. It was built by the Armenian inhabitants’ own hands—and passed on through millennia. 

In recent years, many of these sites have been distorted or repurposed, while others face imminent threats to their existence, as part of Azerbaijan’s—and its ally Turkey’s—goal of Turkification and Islamization of the wider region.

The organization “Spiritual Artsakh” announced on February 11 the release of The Tangible Cultural Monuments of the Republic of Artsakh, a comprehensive, two-volume ethnographic publication detailing endangered, millennia-old, Armenian religious and cultural heritage sites across Nagorno-Karabakh/Artsakh. 

The 1,088-page publication authenticates 5,658 diverse monuments in 308 indigenous Armenian settlements across eight regions of Artsakh. These monuments are at risk following the large-scale and complete displacement of the Armenian population from Artsakh in 2023. The publication is available for free download in both English and Armenian. 

The publication offers a comprehensive inventory of cultural heritage monuments, including monasteries, churches, khachkars (cross-stones), and cemeteries. It authenticates each site by detailing its location, type, period, function, architectural style, artistry, historical context, and current state of preservation. 

While raising global awareness of the urgency to protect these cultural monuments, this evidence-based repository supports academic research on Artsakh’s long-standing historical, ethnographic, cultural, and religious Armenian traditions. 

In 2021, during an interview standing near the church in the village of Tsakuri in Hadrut (which was broadcast and widely circulated online), President of Azerbaijan Ilham Aliyev personally ordered the scrapping of all Armenian inscriptions on Armenian churches. Therefore, it is quite obvious that a pronounced policy of destruction and desecration of Armenian cultural heritage is currently being implemented by a state actor at scale.

To date, Azerbaijan’s destruction of historical monuments and various structures of Armenian origin in Artsakh has been numerous. At present, the free entry of journalists and experts into the territory of Artsakh is generally prohibited. 

According to satellite imagery and information received through various channels, some settlements have been completely razed to the ground. This includes all of the monuments, including graves, in the villages of Karin Tak, Mokhrenis, and Sghnakh.

The 19th-century district of Stepanakert, built in the Armenian architectural style, was completely destroyed, as were the buildings of the National Assembly, the government, the Ministry of Defense, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Union of Freedom Fighters, and several other buildings built in Stepanakert during the independence years. Throughout Artsakh, monuments and memorial complexes dedicated to the Artsakh Liberation War have been completely destroyed. 

Armenian churches have also been targeted. The Ghazanchetsots Amenaprkich Cathedral in Shushi was bombed during the war, and immediately after the war. The famous Hovhannes Mkrtich (St. John the Baptist church) or Kanach Zham (Green Church) in Shushi, as well as those in Berdzor,  Mekhakavan, and several other churches, have been completely razed to the ground.

Ali Mozaffari, an Iranian academic of Azerbaijani descent who is a senior research fellow at Australia’s Deakin University, says the latest apparent drive to wipe out physical traces of Armenian heritage in Nagorno-Karabakh is an issue that may extend beyond a conflict between Azerbaijan and Armenia. “There is a strong push, led by Turkey, for realizing the idea of a unified and connected Turkic World, and extending eastward to the Chinese border,” Mozaffari told RFE/RL. “Heritage is very important to justifying this geostrategic vision,” he said.

Lori Khatchadourian, an associate professor at Cornell University and the co-founder of Caucasus Heritage Watch, pointed to the precedent of the virtually complete erasure of Armenian heritage in the Azerbaijani-controlled exclave of Nakhijevan as an example of what may lie ahead in Nagorno-Karabakh.

“One of the important lessons learned from the Nakhijevan case is that total cultural erasure takes time,” Khatchadourian told RFE/RL. “The demolition of the Armenian cultural landscape in that region unfolded over a decade, beginning in 1997 and continuing until at least 2009, and possibly as late as 2011.” 

The Tangible Cultural Monuments of the Republic of Artsakh is co-authored by several notable Artsakh historians, including Dr. Vahram Balayan, Melanya Balayan, Lernik Hovhannisyan, and Slava Sargsyan.

The co-authors of the book said:

Our book’s comprehensive documentation of Nagorno-Karabakh/Artsakh’s endangered, millennia-old, Armenian religious and cultural heritage sites is part of our collective civilization’s rich history, not only that of Armenians.

Every ancient cultural heritage site deserves recognition and preservation, regardless of religion or culture. Each site documented around the world, and those in our book, authenticates and validates the existence of a nation and its cultural heritage. It highlights and proves where they lived, thrived, and how they contributed to our world. 

Also, many of the sites documented in our book are of great significance as early and first Christian sites, since Armenia was the first nation to adopt Christianity as its national religion. 

Amidst the current situation in Artsakh, we hope our research will prevent the further destruction or desecration of the settlements, monasteries, churches, khachkars (cross-stones), and cemeteries. Our evidence-based repository confirms, beyond doubt, the existence of these sites and their exact locations. Current and future world historians, archaeologists, sociologists, and academic researchers can use our two-volume book to gain a comprehensive understanding of Artsakh’s long-standing historical, ethnographic, cultural, and religious Armenian traditions–even if someday these are destroyed.

Parallels are striking between the destruction of the Armenian cultural heritage in Artsakh and the destruction of the cultural heritage of other communities in the Middle East and North Africa region (such as Greeks, Yazidis, Jews, the Druze, the Copts, Mandaeans, Samaritans, Maronites, Assyrians, Baha’i, and others). This type of cultural erasure is the systematic removal or suppression of a group’s cultural identity, practices, religious beliefs, language, heritage, and history, often employed by Islamic supremacists in the region. Targeted destruction of monuments, places of worship, cemeteries, and schools, amongst others, serves to break the transmission of culture between generations and erase evidence of historical rights to land or sovereignty. 

The authors of the book noted:

We know that evidence and actual historical references to cultural sites survive by the mere fact of documentation. This invaluable gift provides future generations with undeniable proof of what existed even if it no longer exists today or may in coming years. Even if ruling powers destroy cultural heritage sites, the documented evidence of what once existed cannot be erased and far surpasses that of those in power.

We hope that our book will remain as a permanent, valued proof and evidence of Artsakh’s rich Armenian cultural sites. Our undertaking to document 5,658 diverse monuments includes many religious edifices that have already been destroyed, while others fell into disrepair or disappeared altogether during the Soviet era in Azerbaijan. 

In compiling the enduring testimonies of our history, culture, and the spiritual and material heritage of our lost homeland, we hope to create a lasting record, even with the forced expulsion of the entire indigenous Artsakh Armenian population from our ancestral lands. As authors who were born, lived, and spent our lives in Artsakh, we have a duty as historians to preserve and safeguard the rich cultural tapestry of our ancestors so that it is never forgotten, especially amidst current attempts of on-going state-sponsored erasure.

With critics alleging democracy in Armenia is under attack, is its status as the country’s strategic brand coming to an end?

In a controversial press briefing in August 2025, Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan re-iterated that his government would not continue the Karabakh movement.

‘If citizens disagree, I call on them to initiate a revolution․ I assume I am the first prime minister in history to call on citizens to launch a revolution against an official strategy they oppose’, he said.

Since the 2018 Velvet Revolution, through which he came to power, Pashinyan has consistently framed ‘democracy’ as Armenia’s brand and strategic choice.

Pashinyan has repeatedly described democracy as his government’s key achievement, arguing that the December 2018 parliamentary elections were the first in Armenia’s history whose results were not contested. Prior to 2018, however, elections were widely criticised for fraud, corruption, and political repression — claims Pashinyan himself articulated in parliament, describing systematic falsification through administrative pressure, intimidation, and vote-buying. Pashinyan was imprisoned in 2009–2011 over the 2008 post-election protests, a case later recognised by the European Court of Human Rights as politically motivated. International assessments from Human Rights Watch and Freedom House during this period similarly documented excessive force against protesters, restrictions on media, and Armenia’s classification as only partly free.

Speaking at the Armenian Forum for Democracy in 2023, Pashinyan reiterated that democracy was Armenia’s ‘brand and conscious political strategy, not a coincidence’. He also declared: ‘There is no internal threat to democracy in Armenia. All threats are external, linked to our security challenges’.

Pashinyan has also consistently emphasised that democracy should not depend solely on the will of individual leaders, but instead must be embedded in state institutions. He has linked this institutional approach to broader reforms, stating that democracy is closely connected to the quality and accessibility of education. Pashinyan has also tied it to economic growth, claiming that high growth rates were possible ‘because of democracy, free competition, and liberalisation’.

Pashinyan has taken pains to highlight Armenia’s progress under the EU’s Eastern Partnership programme — indeed, independent sources have recognised the country as a leader in areas such as establishing an independent judiciary, implementing anti-corruption measures, and safeguarding electoral rights and freedom of assembly — even under challenging conditions.

Yet, while Pashinyan continues to present democracy as Armenia’s strategic choice and ‘brand’, recent developments have fueled debates about whether democratic standards are genuinely safeguarded in practice. Controversies around what critics allege are political prosecutions, restrictions on media, and limitations on free speech have also raised questions about the country’s institutional resilience.

Rule of Law and the judiciary

Whether democracy truly remains Armenia’s ‘brand’ depends on how its core institutions function in practice, starting with the judiciary.

‘It is very important that democratic elections and democracy in turn lead to the establishment of democratic institutions. Without this, it is impossible to make democracy institutional’, Pashinyan stated at the 2023 Armenian Forum for Democracy. At the same time, he admitted that Armenia faces ‘very serious challenges with regard to the independence of the judiciary’, stressing that the rule of law remains a ‘fundamental condition’ for democracy to take root.

In its 2025 report, Freedom House noted that Armenia’s ongoing anti-corruption and judicial reforms made little progress. Successful prosecutions of high-ranking officials remained extremely rare, and law enforcement agencies largely failed to respond to media reports regarding officials’ declared assets. In November, the head of the Supreme Judicial Council (SJC) and five other senior officials resigned at the prime minister’s request, raising concerns about judicial independence.

The report further highlighted systemic political influence over the courts and pervasive corruption within judicial institutions. Judges reportedly face pressure to cooperate with prosecutors to secure convictions, and acquittal rates remain extremely low.

Artur Sakunts, head of the Vanadzor office of the Helsinki Citizens’ Assembly, told OC Media that the problem is systemic.

‘The judiciary in Armenia is not independent. The difference is that before 2018 it depended solely on 26 Baghramyan [the president’s residence], whereas now it is dependent on various centres — executive authorities, the opposition, and businesspersons’.

Elections and political freedom

Elections remain at the heart of Armenia’s political life, often revealing both the progress and the limits of its democratic institutions. Pashinyan has consistently underlined that Armenia’s democratic legitimacy rests on free and fair elections. In his words, the electoral system must be the foundation for ensuring ‘citizens’ sense of ownership of political power’.

Although these provisions should provide a solid foundation for democratic governance, Sakunts argues that in practice they do not function effectively.

‘This constitution is a single-party governance constitution’, Sakunts says. ‘Under the previous 2015 Constitution, 17 of the 19 direct powers granted to the president were transferred to the prime minister. But a parliamentary system assumes that the executive operates in coordination with and under the oversight of parliament. In Armenia, that oversight is effectively absent’.

Sakunts notes that, in practice, the political majority can operate without meaningful checks:

‘If the opposition boycotts sessions, it does not in any way prevent the majority from functioning. The minority has neither substantive nor decisive influence. Therefore, the principle of separation of powers and checks and balances does not function’.

Yet, as Armenia prepares for the 2026 parliamentary elections, questions arise not only about the integrity of the vote itself, but also about the broader political climate. Allegations of selective justice and politically motivated arrests have revived public debate around the notion of what constitutes ‘political prisoners’.

Nonetheless, the only case that has been officially recognised outside Armenia as explicitly being an example of politically motivated prosecution is that of Armen Ashotyan, deputy chair of the Republican Party of Armenia — in 2023, during the European People’s Party (EPP) Congress, Ashotyan was formally recognised as a political prisoner.

According to the Investigative Committee, investigations revealed that Ashotyan, while serving as Chair of the Board of Trustees of the Yerevan State Medical University (YSMU) Foundation and as Minister of Education and Science, prompted Rector Mikayel Narimanyan to abuse his official powers. As a result, the YSMU Foundation allegedly suffered damage amounting to ֏39 million ($102,000).

Another case widely referred to as political persecution is that of Russian-Armenian tycoon Samvel Karapetyan, who faces charges of public calls for the violent overthrow of the constitutional order and the usurpation of power. Republican Party figures, including Ashotyan himself, have described Karapetyan as ‘not only a political prisoner, but also a prisoner of conscience’, arguing that he has been deprived of liberty for his religious views and without advocating violence.

Similarly, Levon Kocharyan, a politician and former MP from the opposition Hayastan faction, described Karapetyan’s case as ‘extremely unjust’.

In an interview with Factor TV on 20 June, MP Arsen Torosyan, a leading figure within Civil Contract, stated that Karapetyan, although Armenian, keeps most of his capital in Russia and is ‘under the control of Russian authorities’. Torosyan expressed confidence that Karapetyan’s arrest, if not directed, was at least coordinated with Russian authorities, describing it as a ‘hybrid attack from Russia’ aimed at undermining democracy in Armenia ahead of upcoming elections.

In October, new charges were levelled against Karapetyan for allegedly failing to pay taxes or other mandatory fees, as well as money laundering.

Karapetyan announced the formation of the ‘Mer Dzevov’ (‘Our Way’) movement in August, while in custody. Alik Aleksanyan, a member of the movement’s coordinating council, told journalists that the initiative had grown significantly in recent months, gaining public influence and shaping a new agenda and eventually leading to the creation of a political party — ‘Strong Armenia’, with Karapetyan as the party’s candidate for prime minister. He also suggested that the amendment of Karapetyan’s charges was linked to the movement’s activity and success.

Unlike previous authorities, Sakunts stresses that this government was formed through free and fair elections, yet democracy cannot rely solely on will or enthusiasm․

Media freedom and free speech

Concerns over Armenia’s democratic trajectory also extend beyond political trials. On 22 March 2024, well-known media figures Narek Samsonyan and Vazgen Saghatelyan were detained and charged with hooliganism committed as a group using communication technologies following remarks they made about Pashinyan on their talk show Imnemnimi. The decision to treat critical commentary in a satirical programme as criminal hooliganism drew condemnation from media and opposition circles, who argued that the arrests amounted to a clear infringement of free speech.

The case of the independent daily Aravot has also drawn attention. Since its founding in 1994, the paper has been based in Yerevan’s Press House, but in 2024, the State Property Management Committee ordered it to vacate its office space, citing the termination of a long-standing lease agreement. Aravot, which frequently criticises the government, had sought to renew the contract but was denied.

Freedom House argued that while small, independent, and investigative outlets continue to operate and provide in-depth reporting online, most print and broadcast outlets remain tied to political or commercial interests. Restrictions introduced in 2021, such as limiting journalists’ movement in parliament and border areas, were flagged as steps backward in the reform process. Cases such as the asset freeze against fip.am in 2023, following its reporting on alleged misuse of administrative resources by the ruling party, were seen as troubling indicators of political pressure on independent journalism.

The Reporters Without Borders (RSF) Press Freedom Index 2025 ranked Armenia 34th out of 180 countries. While the ranking places Armenia ahead of many post-Soviet states, RSF stressed that ‘despite a pluralistic environment, the media remain polarised’. The report further warned of ‘an unprecedented level of disinformation and hate speech’, fueled by domestic political tensions, security threats at Armenia’s borders, and the country’s precarious geopolitical position between Russia and the EU.

Shushan Doydoyan, founder and director of Armenia’s Freedom of Information Centre, emphasises that media freedom in Armenia today faces serious challenges across financial, political, and legal domains.

‘Independent media outlets, which are not affiliated with any political party or oligarch, are forced to find ways to continue their operations without sufficient financial resources, Doydoyan tells OC Media.

She stresses that political pressure remains constant:

‘No government likes independent media and constantly tries to exert influence, shaping negative public opinion about their work. Even after the [Velvet] Revolution, this government is no exception; the methods may differ, but the goal is the same — to create an unfavorable environment for independent media’.

Legal regulations on defamation and insults also pose serious challenges.

‘Defamation and insult laws create significant problems for independent media, because the high compensation amounts set by legislation, combined with the not-so-positive judicial practice that continues to develop, put media outlets in very difficult financial situations. A single allegedly defamatory or insulting statement can result in compensation ranging from ֏2 million–֏6 million ($5,000–$15,000) which is extremely burdensome’, she explains.

Under article 1087.1 of the civil code of Armenia, in cases of defamation or insults, a person may seek a public retraction, compensation (up to 2,000 times the minimum wage (֏1,000, or $2.60)  for defamation and up to 1,000 times for insults), or a public apology, depending on the specifics of the case.

Doydoyan notes that high-ranking officials often use lawsuits to pressure or silence media outlets, filing multiple cases to suppress critical speech and encourage self-censorship. ‘As members of the political elite, they should not be using judicial retaliation to resolve their issues with the press’, she says.

The frequency of lawsuits filed by high-ranking officials against media outlets is also evident in the Datalex judicial information system. According to data from the Datalex system, since 2020, parliamentary speaker Alen Simonyan has filed a total of 32 civil lawsuits. Seven of these were directed against media organisations, including MediHab LLC, the editorial team of Zhoghovurd daily, and Iravunk Media LLC. In 2025 alone, Simonyan filed seven lawsuits, three of which specifically targeted media outlets. In these cases, the courts awarded compensation of ֏1 million ($2,600) for allegedly defamatory factual claims.

Recently, these lawsuits have targeted not only media outlets but also environmental activists and environmental journalists who attempt to highlight issues in the mining sector. ‘We even see major mining companies regularly filing lawsuits, demanding fines against the same individuals, which shows a growing pattern of legal pressure used to intimidate and control voices raising public interest concerns’, Doydoyan concludes.

Overall, Armenia presents a mixed picture of democracy. While electoral processes exist and some institutional reforms have been implemented, persistent challenges remain. Judicial independence is fragile, and political influence continues to shape legal outcomes. Allegations of political persecution and restrictions on media and civil society indicate that the space for dissent is limited. As Sakunts emphasises: ‘only electoral democracy exists’.

‘Democracy cannot be maintained by will or enthusiasm alone; mechanisms and institutional oversight are necessary.’