Diary of Armenia
Things seen, words heard
An opinion column by Patrice Franceschi
Editor’s introduction. Armenia is threatened with a military invasion despite ongoing negotiations which do nothing to hide the constant aggression of President IIlham Aliyev’s Azerbaijan. Armenia is proposing a peace and cooperation agreement that this region of the South Caucasus needs. We are publishing this article by Patrice Franceschi, who is preparing a forthcoming book on Armenia from which he has just returned, and who has written here for our readers.
Bent in two, Hovic and I make our way along the trench that winds its way towards the Armenian army’s last redoubt on the Azeri front line running along the northern border of Syunik province. I know of no harsher region in Armenia than this frontier at the end of the world – and none poorer. But from here, you can almost touch the land of Nagorno-Karabakh that was lost nearly two years ago.
In this month of February, the winter is biting, the cold relentless, the snowstorms frequent; sometimes you can’t see two steps ahead. The mountains around us are a dizzying tangle of peaks, ravines and sharp ridges, with only the rarest groves of trees. Snow is everywhere on these mountains, mud everywhere in the trenches; slimy, nasty mud. We were wading. The sentries we passed, bundled up in fleece jackets, their helmets tucked into woollen chapkas, scanned the enemy positions whose defensive network seemed almost embedded in their own, so close was it. If it weren’t for the flags flying over each position, you’d get lost… The Azeri defence network also stretches from ridge to ridge over considerable distances, but seems much better fortified and more modern too. From where I’m standing, you’d think you were in a trench on the Somme in 1915.
Hovik and I made further progress. Then the last redoubt appeared in front of us, protected by wooden planks, tyres, sheet metal and sandbags. Very basic protection – like all the other posts, in fact. I point this out to my comrade, who approves with a shrug of the shoulders, before adding in a whisper: ‘What’s more, you can’t get any closer to the Azeris. Here, they’re less than thirty metres away. Attention…. ’ I straighten up and put my eye to the slit in the armour plate in front of me: on the other side, in the middle of the enemy’s fortification wall, I can clearly see a slit similar to mine – and behind it, the eye of a soldier watching me silently…
I’ll never forget that exchange of glances in the ‘Tartar Desert’ atmosphere that grips everything around us.
Back in a less exposed casemate, we take a moment to rest. The soldiers on guard duty were warming themselves around a wood-burning stove, shoulder to shoulder. One of them was boiling water on a gas stove to make coffee, while another was opening a bottle of vodka to pass the time. Comfort was basic, the iron beds overloaded with weapons, fatigues, tin cans and other belongings. The boredom is palpable, even in the air we breathe. I tell myself that it must be the same with the Azeris.
On the front line of this ‘phoney war’, forgotten by the rest of the world, all we do is wait.
Most of the soldiers around me belong to the ‘popular defence units’ responsible for relieving the army by manning hundreds of posts similar to the one we’re in now. They are between fifty and sixty years old, with one or two wars behind them, the rugged faces of peasants from another era, massive bodies, unfailing motivation, but outdated weaponry. Among them, a few women. And even a sixty-year-old grandmother playing Lara Kroft with her Kalashnikov, refusing to take off her heavy helmet – just in case…
The orders are simple,’ says the leader of this small, disparate troop, a veteran with shoulders wider than he is tall. When the Azeris attack, we have to hold out until the army arrives – that’s all.
– The army is far away, I say. And by the time it gets here…. You don’t even have a second line of defence.
The soldiers looked at each other without a word: ‘Well, we’ll hold out anyway,’ said one sergeant eventually. In the meantime, the Azeris keep provoking us. They shoot over our heads or at the shepherds if they get too close with their sheep; and when the wind blows towards us, they burn the vegetation to smoke us out. But we have orders not to shoot back
– That’s why we go round in circles,’ says a corporal. But when they insult us from their trenches, we certainly respond – and you don’t have to raise your voice much, given the distance…’ I ask.
I ask: ‘And what are their insults?
– Oh, it’s always the same. They say they’re going to come and slit our throats in our villages, that our wives and children will be killed, and so on and so forth.
One of the soldiers stands up, clearly overexcited. He’s a braggart. He says emphatically: ‘The last time they insulted us like that, I replied that I was going to go to Baku in person to slit Alyev’s throat; that really got on their nerves….’.
His comrades laugh and agree.
I laugh at these childish jokes, but I don’t think any less of them: my friends are in trouble. It’s true that they have a fierce yet serene determination to defend their land, but in Yerevan, where a third of Armenians live, it’s a different story. The capital’s gilded youth will flee at the first shot. And they’re not afraid to admit it. The only positive note in all this is the proliferation of ‘military-patriotic associations’ sprouting up all over the countryside to defend the country. The pattern is always the same: former soldiers set up associations in villages or small towns to train young people for war, they find funding here and there in the diaspora, and the young people flock to them. No doubt they now outnumber the official army, which is skeletally small – only 30,000 men, including 20,000 conscripts.
In the meantime, I ask the old peasant soldiers around me how they see the future. The same answer comes out of every mouth: sooner or later the Azeris will attack. When, why and how, they don’t really know. It’s part and parcel of being these people and that’s that.
In turn, they ask me how I, the foreign friend, see things. I tell them what I think: Alyev’s policy, in other words the ‘final state’ that he and his Turkish allies want, is for Armenia to disappear from the map because its geographical position makes it difficult for the Turks to achieve their expansionist aims. It’s as simple as that. But, to achieve this final state, there is no question of a new genocide. This is not 1915. We can’t afford anything. Ethnic cleansing as used in Nagorno-Karabakh is far more effective. It has proved its worth. And it does not provoke any disproportionate international reaction. It is therefore likely that in the relatively near future the Azeri army will attack Armenia on the pretext that the latter is denying it sovereignty over a corridor linking it to Turkey via Nakhichevan. This attack is certain to take place in Syunik, the narrowest part of the country – just a few dozen kilometres – to cut Armenia in two. The matter would be settled in 48 hours, given the size of the military gap. The Armenians would have no way of resisting effectively. Of course, the Azeris would leave a narrow passage free so that the population of Syunik – barely 75,000 – could flee to the rest of Armenia – and that would be that. It would be a repeat of what happened with Nagorno-Karabakh.
This worst-case scenario is haunting the enlightened minds in Yerevan and the Western chancelleries, which refuse to delude themselves. For the latter, the only way to avoid the worst-case scenario is to let Alyev know that the political, economic and diplomatic cost of his action is still too high for him to embark on the adventure. In this respect, the Americans seem to have revised their position very recently, exerting unequivocal pressure on Baku – notably for the release of Armenian prisoners of war. France is not to be outdone and remains a reliable ally for Pachinian. There is a glimmer of hope there.
As for the peace treaty, the signing of which has just been announced, it is undoubtedly a Munich-style smoke and mirrors. Given the balance of power, Pachinian had no choice but to go before Alyev and sign whatever he wanted, but there is nothing in this treaty. There is even reason to fear that its content actually represents an opportunity for war for Alyev. Since the announcement of this treaty, provocations have redoubled in the trenches of the Syunik front line.
What tomorrow will bring, no one can say with any certainty. But as things stand, it’s best not to delude ourselves. And to remain vigilant. Considering once and for all that the pessimism of observation – necessary – must lead to the optimism of combat – even more necessary…
Patrice Franceschi.
Writer and political philosopher, winner of the 2015 Goncourt short story prize, Patrice Franceschi is also an aviator, sailor and parachutist. He has always divided his life between writing, adventure and commitment. He has led numerous expeditions around the world, on land, at sea and in the air. He also spent many years in the ranks of the Afghan resistance fighting the Soviet army and, since the start of the war in Syria, has been actively involved in the Kurdish revolution against the Islamic State and the regime in Damascus.
His novels, stories, poetry and essays are inseparable from a committed, free and tumultuous existence in which he tries to ‘exhaust the field of the possible’. He is also commander of the three-masted schooner La Boudeuse and a member of the marine writers’ group.
I invite you to read these interviews and articles published in the edition :