Life and Freedom. The autobiography of the former president of Armenia and Nagorno-Karabakh

Life and Freedom. The autobiography of the former president of Armenia and Nagorno-Karabakh
Robert Kocharyan

The book by the former president of Armenia and the unrecognized Nagorno-Karabakh Republic, Robert Kocharyan, sheds light on one of the most complex and controversial pages in the history of the Armenian people. As an organizer and participant of key events in Armenia and Karabakh, Kocharyan presents his account of this period.

The book contains previously unpublished information and once-classified documents, along with historical photos from his personal archives.

The Armenian-Azerbaijani conflict over Nagorno-Karabakh became one of the first precursors of the USSR’s demise. The weakening central power was evidently unable to cope with the economic challenges, while «perestroika» and «glasnost» were swiftly and dramatically undermining the nation’s system of governance. The authorities proved ineffective in proposing anything innovative, appealing, and capable of mobilizing society. The country, anchored in absolute centralization and held together by a uniform ideology, was rapidly losing its bearings. But despite all of this, the threat to the Soviet Union’s integrity became real and even inevitable only when cracks appeared along its most vulnerable fault line – the ethnic divide.

This book is about

• the collapse of the Soviet Union and its aftermath for the former national republics

• the most important matters in the newest history of Nagorno-Karabach and Armenia

• how small unrecognized country won the outnumbered opponent

• many attempts to solve the Karabach conflict

• how the personality of a leader influences the politics of the country

• how the years, spent at the top of the powers, reflect in the soul of a human.

During these turbulent times, I found myself at the epicenter of the Armenian-Azerbaijani conflict, emerging as one of the key figures. Whenever protest rallies, strikes, states of emergency, martial law, armed militias, ethnic clashes, confrontations with the military, or war took place in the Soviet Union, they first happened in or around Karabakh.

Robert Kocharyan

Life and Freedom. The autobiography of the former president of Armenia and Nagorno-Karabakh

Project Consultant: Mark Rozin

Editors: Vasily Podobed and Marina Kostromina

Editor (English version): Logan Cull

Все права защищены. Данная электронная книга предназначена исключительно для частного использования в личных (некоммерческих) целях. Электронная книга, ее части, фрагменты и элементы, включая текст, изображения и иное, не подлежат копированию и любому другому использованию без разрешения правообладателя. В частности, запрещено такое использование, в результате которого электронная книга, ее часть, фрагмент или элемент станут доступными ограниченному или неопределенному кругу лиц, в том числе посредством сети интернет, независимо от того, будет предоставляться доступ за плату или безвозмездно.

Копирование, воспроизведение и иное использование электронной книги, ее частей, фрагментов и элементов, выходящее за пределы частного использования в личных (некоммерческих) целях, без согласия правообладателя является незаконным и влечет уголовную, административную и гражданскую ответственность.

© Robert Kocharyan, 2019

© Alpina PRO, 2023

* * *

FOREWORD

The Armenian-Azerbaijani conflict over Nagorno-Karabakh became one of the first precursors of the USSR's demise. The weakening central power was evidently unable to cope with the economic challenges, while "perestroika" and "glasnost" were swiftly and dramatically undermining the nation's system of governance. The authorities proved ineffective in proposing anything innovative, appealing, and capable of mobilizing society. The country, anchored in absolute centralization and held together by a uniform ideology, was rapidly losing its bearings. But despite all of this, the threat to the Soviet Union's integrity became real and even inevitable only when cracks appeared along its most vulnerable fault line – the ethnic divide.

During these turbulent times, I found myself at the epicenter of the Armenian-Azerbaijani conflict, emerging as one of the key figures. Whenever protest rallies, strikes, states of emergency, martial law, armed militias, ethnic clashes, confrontations with the military, or war took place in the Soviet Union, they first happened in or around Karabakh. Ensuing events revealed that we didn't have a choice in Nagorno-Karabakh: we were desperately defending our right to live on the land of our ancestors. As a Communist Party official, I quickly became one of the leaders of the Karabakh Movement. I was in charge of its political component and led the creation of the underground armed resistance – the foundation of the future NKR Defense Army. The summer of 1992 was a particularly tragic period – Azerbaijani armed forces occupied half of Karabakh. In this perilous situation, I suggested an emergency crisis management model suitable for responding to the threat of losing Karabakh. I assumed responsibility, creating and leading the highest governing body of the Republic vested with extraordinary authority – the State Defense Committee. Its success was spectacular! In less than two years, we not only regained full control of Karabakh, we also managed to create a reliable security buffer around it.

Immediately after the war, I was elected as the first president of Nagorno-Karabakh. However, due to unforeseen events, I became prime minister and, later, president of Armenia during a critical period of its development. Conflict with the then-sitting president, which led to his resignation, the snap elections, the shocking terrorist act in the parliament… These were exceptionally challenging years, both for overcoming crises and for carrying out constructive work and successful reforms, that significantly changed the face of Armenia. Armenia's gross domestic product (GDP) multiplied five-fold during my presidency. I had the honor of serving as prime minister and president of two countries – one recognized and the other unrecognized – during the most volatile period of their establishment. So there is, indeed, a lot to tell…

Initially, I had no intention of writing a book, despite realizing that my biography was unique and might be of interest to others. I simply didn't think I could bring myself to tell my life story. I didn't have the habit of keeping a diary, I didn't like to immerse myself in memories, and I didn't flip through old photo albums. Simply put, I wasn't stuck in the past. I was always busy, always looking ahead, and planning for the future. Immediately after my term ended, many tried to convince me to start writing memoirs, but I didn't see the need. I seriously contemplated it for the first time after two meetings abroad, where I was invited as a guest speaker. The audience's keen interest in the events I described pleasantly surprised and inspired me. Many asked me why I hadn't written a book, saying they would read it. But my final decision came during AFK Sistema's strategic session in Altai, Russia, where I met Mark Rozin[1 - Rozin, Mark – Managing partner at ECOPSY Consulting.]. After he interviewed me in my capacity as an independent member of Sistema's Board of Directors, Mark spoke about the importance of a book and insisted that I write one. At that point, I finally agreed.

Once I started working on the book, I admit I seriously regretted the decision. But it was too late to back down, as I'd never left anything unfinished in my life. Revisiting the past, especially the Karabakh period, turned out to be a difficult task. It seemed like a great deal had been hopelessly forgotten. I had to reread all my old interviews, watch surviving video materials, and talk to many participants of the events during those years. Amazingly, vivid memories from long ago began to resurface – even the faces of people I'd almost forgotten, their names, and the emotions associated with them. Throughout my life, I had trained myself to control my emotions. Writing this book, I learned to set them free. It also became a mechanism for liberating the images buried in the depths of my memory.

My aim for the book was not merely to describe historical events in which I participated, but to make it engaging. I wanted to depict the intricate tapestry of history and the thread we wove into it – to explore why we made certain decisions, what concerned us, what obstacles we faced, and what elements both facilitated our journey and served as our inspiration. For the first time, I wanted to reveal the behind-the-scenes details of the most dramatic chapters of our recent history.

At first, I thought of writing about everything that transpired during those captivating years, as well as naming everyone we traversed the arduous journey with, both in Karabakh and Armenia. But the multitude of facts disrupted the flow of the book, making it heavy, academic, and hard to read. As a result, I decided to focus strictly on the most significant events that I personally participated in.

I am grateful to all my colleagues, associates, and friends. I apologize to all those whose names are not mentioned in this book.

PART I

PEACEFUL LIFE

CHAPTER 1

CHILDHOOD

I was born and raised in Stepanakert – a small town at the center of Nagorno-Karabakh, or Artsakh, as our people call it. I remember a cozy, green, and pristine town tucked away in the mountains when I think of my childhood.

They say that a person forgets much of what happened to him within two years, except for the very best and very worst events. The only childhood tragedy that I remember is the death of our dog Julbars, who was hit by a car. All other childhood memories are enveloped in a fairytale-like warmth, a collection of many bright and happy images.

I remember very well the first time I swam on my own. I was about six years old. My brother and I were at a small lake not too far away from home. I waded in the water a little and then, accidentally, went in too deep, where my feet couldn't reach the bottom. I suddenly felt the water raise me up and hold me as I made hand movements to stay afloat – doggy paddle, of course – but I swam! During the same summer, I learned how to ride a bicycle. It came easy to me, naturally: with a single try, I was off, racing along the dusty road with the other boys. This ability to keep my balance and my passion for speed have stayed with me throughout my life.

I still remember our first family road trip to the Black Sea in our Moskvitch[2 - Soviet car brand named after the Russian term for a resident of Moscow.] car in great detail. We camped overnight in tents right on the beach. The sea, of course, left the strongest impression. Unlike our mountain creeks, it was so warm that our parents couldn't lure us out of the water. It was there that I learned how to snorkel pretty well, too.

Children spent most of their time in the streets back then. In the summer, we woke up early, raced to the river, and spent entire days there swimming, fishing, and playing. No one remembers most of our games nowadays; they are long forgotten. I loved to hike and often took a tent to the mountains with my brother or friends. I explored our famous canyon in Shushi far and wide. I knew all the trails and secluded places, climbed in all the caves, and could easily spend the night in the mountains, without a tent even.

In the winter, we entertained ourselves primarily with ice skating and skiing. Oh, how we loved when it snowed! Of course, no one had mountain skis back then, so we would take wide soldier's skis, install homemade heel holders, climb to the highest hill and zoom down the slope.

It snowed a lot, and the snow stayed. In those days, they didn't spray salt to melt the ice, so all the streets would practically turn into ice rinks. City buses had to use tire chains to keep from skidding on the ice. As the buses sputtered slowly up the hills to the upper part of town, we, on our ice skates, would cling to their backs to hitch a ride, then rush back down once they had reached the top. Our ice skates, snegourkey[3 - After 'Snegurochka,' a character in Russian folklore; the name itself translates to 'Snow Maiden' or 'Snow Girl'.] as we called them, were very different from those of today: nothing more than two steel blades tied to the soles of our snow boots with shoelaces.

Our family lived in a stone house that my grandfather built back in his day. I remember how we would apply a coat of red lead paint to the roof every summer to keep it from rusting. The house was rebuilt several times: initially, there was only one room, but over time two more rooms as well as a veranda and a basement were added. I can still clearly see the old photographs of my grandfather, grandmother, and great-grandfather hanging on the walls. To me, as a child, the house seemed enormous. Many years later, I was surprised to see how small it was in reality. The house survived the war, but it was demolished later; I discovered a construction site there not long ago. The orchard that my grandfather started had disappeared too.

That orchard was my father's pride and joy. A prominent agronomist, he loved his profession. Three immense mulberry trees hugged our house, and we, as children, climbed them all the time and ate their sweet, ripe mulberries. The grownups made mulberry molasses. And vodka, of course. To this day, if I do have vodka, it tends to be mulberry vodka.

There were six of us living together: my parents, my grandmother, my brother Valera, me, and our sister Ivetta – my stepsister from my father's first marriage – who was a college student. After finishing her studies, she continued to work in Armenia, but later moved to Moscow where she got married.

Valera and I shared a room. Being only two years apart, we used to fight a lot as kids – over unimportant stuff, of course. As the younger brother, I was feisty and didn't want to give in on anything. And then, suddenly, Valera grew up and became big and strong; he matured, and at that point, our relationship had transformed. The fights stopped, and a friendship that would span our entire lives began.

We also had family secrets. One of them – my father's story – I found out only as an adult.

My grandfather lived in Baku. When the Turks entered Baku in 1918, and the Armenian pogroms began, my eight-year-old father was separated from his parents. In a crowd of escapees, he ended up on a ferry across the Caspian Sea to Central Asia. Despite the chaos of a revolution, civil war, absence of government, and civil unrest everywhere, my grandparents and their daughters survived and finally reached Karabakh. My father, wandering around for a long time as a homeless child, somehow ended up in Tashkent. He got lucky – he and many other homeless children were taken in by a wealthy Armenian. The children worked for him, and in exchange, he fed them, even sent them to school, effectively saving them.

My grandmother didn't lose hope of finding her child all those years. Order was gradually restored in the country, and the regular mail service began working again. My grandmother's brother, who had gained an influential position in the local police force – he headed its anti-banditry division – was able to find my father, who had been lost six years earlier, and return him to Stepanakert. My father was already 14 years old at that time. My grandmother was ashamed that she had lost her child and forbade my father to talk about it. And we didn't know. We did, however, notice things here and there. For instance, my father's close friend from Tashkent visited us every year. "Who is this friend of yours? Why do you have a friend in Tashkent?" we asked, but our father never answered. Later, we found out that they worked together for that rich Armenian in Tashkent.

Another secret was about my grandfather.